She didn’t move as he approached, giving the impression of someone without a care or any need to hurry. He strolled past her to a pay phone, checked the Yellow Pages, and called another cab.
Thirty long minutes later, the cabbie unloaded them and their luggage in front of Fast Eddie’s Used Cars, a dilapidated building on an unpaved lot on the town’s northeast side. A seedy salesman in a rumpled seersucker suit and white patent-leather shoes raised a cloud of dust in his haste to meet them.
“Welcome to Fast Eddie’s, folks,” he greeted them in an oily tone. “Home of the best used cars in the state.”
“I need a car guaranteed to take us as far as Jacksonville,” Jared said.
“Jacksonville?” the salesman sputtered in mock outrage. “Any one of these fine automobiles will take you across the country and back again without a problem, Mr.—?”
“Simpson, Bart Simpson,” Jared replied with a straight face.
The salesman didn’t blink. “What price range do you have in mind, Bart?”
“Fifteen hundred.”
“That’s too expensive,” Tyler murmured beside him, playing along as they’d planned in the cab, knowing they would draw suspicion if they seemed too eager.
“But I—” Jared began.
“We can’t afford that much. You see—” she turned her charm on the salesman “—we were on our way back from Disney World when someone ran us off the interstate and totaled our car. Bart has an important business appointment tomorrow morning in Jacksonville, so we have to hurry home.”
“Now, dear—” Jared objected, warming to his henpecked-husband role.
“But with our vacation expenses,” Tyler went on, “we just can’t afford more than a thousand.”
“Sweetheart, why don’t we just rent a car like I wanted to in the first place?” Jared suggested in a timid tone.
“Because that’s throwing away money,” she insisted in a whine. “If we buy a cheap car, we can get our money back by reselling it. You’ll never see rental fees again.”
“You’re so right, Mrs. Simpson,” the salesman crooned. “I have just the car for you. Follow me.”
Jared signaled Tyler to precede him, and they picked their way between rows of cars better suited for a junkyard than for sale. The salesman halted in front of a 1972 Plymouth Fury with faded green paint, rust spots, and a flaking vinyl roof. Large numerals across the windshield proclaimed a price of $1200.
“Oh, my, that’s too much,” Tyler protested in her Mrs. Simpson voice.
“For you, nine hundred.”
“Seven hundred cash,” Jared countered.
The salesman delayed all of one second. “Sold.”
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Jared approached Interstate 75 and turned south toward Tampa. Behind him, the Plymouth laid a trail of oily smoke.
“We’ll be lucky if this piece of junk makes it as far as Tampa,” he grumbled.
“Tampa? But that’s the wrong direction,” Tyler shouted over the rush of hot air through the open windows. The air-conditioning had failed two blocks from the lot.
“We’ll be less conspicuous at a large airport like TIA.” He kept an eye on the rearview mirror, alert for signs of the highway patrol, and prayed that Fast Eddie, if questioned, would point the authorities toward Jacksonville.
“Where do we go from Tampa?” she asked.
“Wherever we can find Detective Sam Witek, if he’s still alive.”
“Who’s Sam Witek?”
He eased off the gas. The last thing they needed was to be stopped for speeding. “Witek was Pete Stanwick’s partner on the Ozzie Anderson case, remember?”
“Why are we looking for him? You ruled out a connection between him and Stanwick and Molinsky.”
“Didn’t you hear the announcer this morning? Evelyn Granger’s maiden name was Witek. That connects her to Mary Stanwick and Veronica Molinsky. Maybe Sam Witek can tell us how.”
TYLER RECLINED AGAINST the plush seat of the limousine as it sped out of the Boston airport and breathed in the scent of fine leather and the faintest hint of cigar smoke. “Why go to all this expense when you can rent a car?”
“The same reason we didn’t rent a car in Gainesville. We’d have to show identification, and even this far north, it could lead the authorities to us. With a limo, all we need is cash.” Jared patted his bag on the seat beside him.
She studied him from behind her sunglasses. During the drive to Tampa and the flight to Boston, he may have appeared relaxed to the casual observer, but the twitch in the tiny muscle at the base of his jaw proved otherwise. As the limo cleared the outskirts of the city and headed into the country, his tension eased.
She inspected the fully-stocked bar, television, car phone and fax machine, and the glass panel that separated them from Enrico, the bull-necked, uniformed driver. “At this rate, you’ll run through Grandfather Slater’s trust fund in a week.”
At her words, the muscle in his jaw flexed again. “This shouldn’t take that long.”
He draped an arm around her shoulders and she snuggled into his embrace. Once they’d boarded the plane, they had avoided discussing their plans for fear of being overheard in the crowded cabin, but now she needed to know his strategy.
“How do you expect to find Sam Witek?” she asked.
His lips moved against her hair. “Police partners usually develop strong bonds. I’ll simply ask Pete Stanwick if he has kept up with his old partner over the years.”
Only the sanctuary of Jared’s embrace seemed real to Tyler. Her mind whirled as she tried to make sense of the rest. They were speeding along winding Massachusetts byways in a luxurious limo in pursuit of a killer Jared knew only from his dreams. Facing the comparative inactivity of research would be a challenge after these adventures—if she survived. A tremor shook her at the thought of Jared’s faceless killer stalking her.
“You okay?” His mellow baritone sounded in her ear.
“No,” she replied with more honesty than she’d intended.
He tilted her chin until their eyes met. “Then let me send you home where it’s safe.”
She stared into the depths of eyes as brown as dark chocolate. “The only place I feel safe is with you.”
With a strangled cry, he brought his mouth down and claimed hers.
She twined her arms around his neck and returned the sweet pressure of his lips, thankful she was sitting down as her knees weakened. The heat of his body seared the length of her, and his fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her closer as he consumed her with his fiery kiss. Passion exorcised her reason as she yielded to desire, forgetting everything but the man whose heart hammered against her breasts.
He drew back, his hands clasping her shoulders, and stared at her with a face contorted in agony. “You’re not safe, Tyler, especially not with me.”
“Then we’ll just have to catch this killer, won’t we?” she answered with a gravity that matched his.
He pulled her to him again, tucked her head beneath his chin, and they rode in silence through the afternoon shadows falling upon the rolling countryside and tiny farm villages.
The shadows had lengthened into dusk when the limo pulled to the curb in front of a neat brick bungalow. In the dim light, Tyler noted the bedraggled state of the flower beds that edged the walk. The gardening must have been Mary Stanwick’s responsibility.
While Enrico waited, she and Jared walked to the door and rang the bell. Lightless windows and dead quiet convinced her the house was empty. The jangle of the doorbell could be heard echoing throughout the house.
“Maybe Pete moved after Mary died,” she suggested.
“It’s possible.” Jared surveyed the nearby houses. “Maybe a neighbor could tell us.”
He had stepped off the porch when the front door opened. A young man, dressed in jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt, appraised them with bleary eyes.
“Mr. Stanwick, I’m Jared Slater and this is Tyler Harris.”
She nodded a
t the man who was too young to be Pete Stanwick. He had to be his son.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m a reporter,” Jared explained, “looking into the murder of your mother. May I speak with your father?”
Stanwick stared past them to the street. “Since when do reporters arrive in limousines?”
Jared placed an arm around Tyler’s shoulders and hugged her. “When they’re forced by a cruel editor to combine an assignment with their honeymoon. Is your father in?”
“He’s at his fishing cabin in New Hampshire. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
Picking up the lead from Jared, Tyler flashed Stanwick a smile. “Then maybe you could help us. The sooner my husband finishes this story, the sooner we can leave on our wedding trip.”
The young man raked long fingers through his tousled hair. “I’m studying for exams—”
“I promise,” Jared said, “this won’t take long.”
“Okay,” Stanwick agreed. “Shoot.”
Tyler winced at his unfortunate choice of words.
Jared tugged a notebook from the pocket of his jeans, flipped it open, and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. “Have the local authorities come up with any leads on your mother’s killer?”
Young Stanwick’s face clouded. “Yeah, they’ve tried to blame it on my father.”
Tyler bit back an exclamation of surprise and left the comments to Jared. He was supposed to be the reporter, she the lovestruck bride.
“Your father?” Jared asked in a shocked tone. “Why blame him?”
“They discovered he and Mom had been arguing over Dad’s drinking for weeks before Mom died. They put that together with the fact she’d been killed by a .357, the same caliber as Dad’s service revolver.”
Jared scribbled some hasty notes. “Were the bullets a match?”
Stanwick shook his head. “The bullet that killed Mom was too distorted to match anything. Needless to say, the suspicions of his fellow officers hit Dad pretty hard. That’s why he spends so much time at his cabin. It’s the only place not filled with memories of Mom.”
Tyler strained to catch Jared’s reaction, but the twilight shadows obscured his face.
Jared flipped another page in his notebook. “Did your father keep in touch with Sam Witek, his former partner?”
“Uncle Sammie? Yeah, they’ve always been close.” Stanwick squinted at them in the darkness. “What’s Uncle Sammie got to do with this?”
“Maybe nothing,” Jared assured him. “We’d just like to talk with him.”
Stanwick flicked on the porch light. “Too late.”
Tyler’s hopes plummeted, and she forgot her declaration to keep silent. “He’s dead?”
Stanwick shrugged. “As close to it as you can get and still be breathing. He’s at the Roseland Nursing Home, on the west side of town on the main highway. They’ll be putting him to bed about now.”
“Thanks for your time.” Jared pocketed his notebook.
Tyler took his arm as he started down the walkway.
“Mr. Slater,” Stanwick called after them.
Jared paused and looked back. “Yeah?”
Silhouetted by the porch light, Stanwick stood on the top step, his hands in his pockets. “If you find the bastard that killed my mother, I’d like to know. I have a score to settle with him.”
ILLUMINATED STARKLY by the naked bulb of a goosenecked lamp, a grimace twisted the stranger’s lips as he adjusted the tiny wires of a contraption on the scarred desktop.
“You’re in for a big surprise, Jared Slater,” he muttered to himself. “The last one you’ll ever get.”
Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes as he completed the last step of his creation. He exerted all his willpower to keep his gloved hands from trembling. One false move and he would blow himself and everyone in the adjoining rooms to kingdom come.
After completing the final adjustment, he slid the carefully constructed apparatus into a priority envelope bearing Slater’s Lake Toxaway address. He secured the trip wire to the zippered opening, gingerly sealed the flap and affixed the stamps. He would deliver it to the post office tomorrow morning.
He sat back with a whoosh of relief, wiped his brow, and tried to relax his hands. They shook as if he were coming off a three-day drunk. He rose on unsteady legs, flexed the kinks from his cramped muscles, and poured a double whiskey into a smudged glass. He drank greedily before reclining on the sagging mattress of the hotel bed.
Things had a way of working out. He’d lost Slater and the woman after the screw-up on the interstate. He’d been delirious with fever, and if he hadn’t blacked out at the rest area, he could have finished off Slater’s girlfriend then.
When he’d awakened to find them leaving, he’d pursued, intending to shoot the girl as he passed their Volvo on the highway. But when he’d pulled even with them, dizziness had almost caused him to lose consciousness. Twice he’d lost control of his car, crashing it into theirs. In his rearview mirror, he’d watched the Volvo flip and roll before he took off for the next exit.
He’d ditched the Blazer and holed up in a fleabag motel until the next morning. By the time he’d discovered that Slater and his girl had survived the crash, their trail was cold.
No matter. The delay had created only a small blip in his timetable. No Rest For The Wicked.
His satisfied chuckle split the silence. It didn’t matter where Slater was. He had to go home sometime, and when he did, he’d have a booming reception waiting for him.
Chapter Nine
For the first time since he’d awakened that morning and learned Evelyn Granger had been killed, Jared allowed himself to relax.
The fire’s soft glow and twinkling candles on the tables provided the only light in the almost-deserted dining room of the Birch and Bottle Inn. Dark beams traversed the ceiling above timber-framed walls and formed the rough-hewn mantel above the huge fireplace. Pewter mugs and platters glimmered on the plate rails, and the floor sloped as it neared the base of the massive chimney, where it had settled over centuries.
At the far end of the room, past the bar, laughter sounded as Enrico and the innkeeper competed in a game of darts. Across the table, Tyler was dressed in her red sweater and jeans that would keep out the New England spring chill. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she sipped coffee.
He thought enviously of that other Jared Slater in an alternate universe, secluded in a quaint country inn with the woman of his dreams. Dreams. He silently cursed the word. His dreams caused nothing but misery. True, a dream had provided his first glimpse of Tyler, but it had also forecast her death. In that alternate universe, another carefree Jared would probably make love to her and propose marriage about now. But not in this world. Maybe not in this lifetime—unless he found the killer who threatened the woman he loved.
The woman he loved. The words jolted him from his daydreams as he acknowledged his feelings for the woman across the table. But he couldn’t tell her—not now, not until he was convinced she was safe.
“That was a magnificent meal.” She patted her lips with a damask napkin and leaned back with a smile of satisfaction. “Enrico knew what he was talking about when he recommended this place.”
Jared nodded toward the dart players. “Looks like our driver comes here often.”
Her gaze stole around the cozy room. “I don’t know how they stay in business with so few guests.”
“It’s early yet. The summer season doesn’t begin until after Memorial Day.” He gauged her troubled expression but doubted her concern for the inn’s profit-making. “What’s on your mind?”
She fidgeted with her napkin and avoided his eyes. “Nothing.”
“Don’t play games with me, Tyler. There’s too much at stake.”
“Sorry.” Even in the dim light, her blush was evident. “I’ve just been wondering why you identified yourself to Stanwick’s son, but when you registered here, you used a fake name and preten
ded we were married.”
“Stanwick has met me before, so I couldn’t risk making him suspicious by using another name,” he explained. “But Enrico thinks we’re Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, a honeymooning couple avoiding friends and family. If the Florida authorities have issued a national alert for us, I want to make it as difficult as possible for them to track us.”
He tore his attention from the hypnotizing honesty of her huge gray eyes. He hadn’t exactly lied, but there was no need to remind her a cold-blooded killer was searching for them, as well. The clerk at the registration desk had assured him their room had a sitting area. He would sleep on the sofa with his gun beneath his pillow, just in case his dreams weren’t as infallible as they seemed. If Tyler suffered so much as a scratch, he could never live with himself.
When they entered the cozy room with its blazing fire, canopied bed, and heavy curtains closed against the darkness outside, his resolve to keep his distance almost melted. He longed to draw her to him, wrap her in his embrace and hold her throughout the night. He squelched his desire with memories of the killer who stalked his dreams.
Losing control and kissing her in the limo had been a mistake. It was only one kiss, but the taste of her had created a hunger a lifetime of kisses couldn’t satisfy. If he kissed her again, he could never send her away.
But he had to keep his distance, so that when the time came, she would leave willingly, without regret. So that he would have the strength to make her go. Otherwise, her blood would be on his hands.
“We have a big day tomorrow. We’d better get some sleep.” His words came out more brusquely than he’d intended, and his heart wrenched at her bewildered expression.
He lifted a blanket from the foot of the bed, took one of its pillows and pitched them onto the sofa before removing the pistol from his suitcase. He tucked it beneath the pillow and sat to remove his shoes.
Dream Maker Page 12
