Bad Blood

by Hugh Dutton

  Brady swung the borrowed pickup to the far curb to make the turn into his driveway, forced to go wide around a car parked along the curb out front. It looked like Lexy’s Jaguar, with a silhouetted figure in the passenger seat. The setting sun’s reflection off her tinted windows obscured any detail, though he saw no one on the driver’s side. Seemed an odd place for her to sit in her own car. Then he spotted her sitting on his stoop as he pulled up the drive. He hopped out and circled the truck, heart dropping. What had gone wrong? Was she unable to hold the check? Or, God forbid, had he added wrong and bounced the other one?

  “Hey, all right, Brady, nice bed,” she called out as he approached, flashing that mind-bending smile.

  Well, cool. Her greeting didn’t sound like he’d been evicted before he got in. Must be some minor glitch. He glanced back at the mattress set trussed up and riding high in the truck bed. Looked pretty redneck, but hey, it didn’t blow off during the trip.

  “Yeah, I hate that it looks like the hillbillies have come to town,” he said, grinning. “But as much as I like the hardwood floors, I didn’t think they’d be fun to sleep on.”

  “No, seriously, I mean it. Simmons is a good name, and that looks like a pretty deep pillow-top you’ve got there.” She stood and tugged down the hem of her shorts. Yellow ones today.

  So maybe she’d be willing to try out the mattress with him? Much as the mere thought of it set his blood humming, he had nowhere near the nerve to ask. “Ought to be, what they charge per night where I work,” he answered with a laugh, hoping his face hadn’t told on him. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, I just remembered you saying you were coming tonight, so I wanted to bring a little housewarming gift.” She reached behind her and held up a bottle of wine and a vase of pink and red flowers with petals like roses but a shape more like a daffodil. “Welcome to paradise.”

  He gathered in his loot, feeling shy and awkward. Not so much because of the gifts, more the weird sense of intimacy that came with them. “Thanks. My first time getting flowers from a, uh, lady.”

  “It’s okay, Brady.” She winked and patted his arm. “You can call me a girl. And I know guys, so I felt pretty confident you wouldn’t bring your own.”

  “Would you like to come in, help me with this?” He hoisted the wine. “Invite whoever that is waiting in your car.” Probably her boyfriend, with his luck, but might as well know now.

  “Thanks, but no, I’ve got to rush.” She patted him again and skipped down the steps, nimble as an alley cat. “We’ll see each other soon, okay? You’ve got my number. Call me for anything.”

  Brady set down the flowers to wave as she motored off. All right, I’ve scored some housewarming booze, he thought, maybe there’s room on a credit card for something to eat. He glanced at the vase. Leaded crystal, not from ye olde local supermarket. Pretty flowers, too, but he had no clue as to what kind they were. Pink and red whatevers. One thing for sure. This was the nicest place Brady had ever been, and he had only lived here an hour. Now if he could just get lucky on what her “call me for anything” might include. Because he couldn’t think of anything he had ever wanted as much as he wanted to hold that incredible body in his hands.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Pete Cully thumbed his phone off and leaned his head back, eyes shut against the sun’s glare. A private eye? Really? To “identify and apprehend” the Peeping Tom? Who the hell was Leo kidding? The old man had a habit of deciding what he wanted the truth to be and massaging the facts to fit, but this was a pip. And for a guy trying to duck anything connected to digging Nick out of the hole he’d made for himself, Pete wasn’t having much success. He finished spooling the new line onto his weed whacker and tossed it in the truck bed. Seemed his lawn wouldn’t get done today after all.

  What it meant was, Leo knew damned well that Nick was the one stalking these women and he figured to keep the cops out of it by a show of diligence. For Pete’s money, it was a bad move on Leo’s part because not everybody had a blind eye for sale. Which mattered as much as a gnat on an elephant’s ass—when Leo didn’t ask for an opinion, he didn’t want one, and he was the boss. And true, Pete did know a guy. He fired up the truck and nosed into traffic, headed downtown.

  The odds said he would have to leave a message for Gerry Terence, but he got lucky. The man was in. A dingy little office in a shabby building smelling of crumbling paint and mildew, but from the movies Pete had seen, that was expected of a private detective. Gerry waved him in and shook his hand in an easy manner, as if he had been sitting and waiting for Pete, though they hadn’t even talked in over a year.

  They looked each other over as old high school pals do, checking hairlines and waistlines. Gerry was definitely the dumpier of the two, but dumpy the way a roll of chain link was dumpy, Pete knew. Twenty years as a street cop had only hardened the power of the undefeated collegiate wrestler’s body. Hard to believe it was five years since Gerry retired from the force.

  “So, Pete.” Gerry leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, eyeing Pete with the same relaxed, neutral expression that Pete had seen more than one of those wrestling opponents misjudge. “Personal or professional visit?”

  “I’d like to say personal, bro, and maybe it is, since you’re the only guy I can trust with this.” And the only private eye he knew, too. “But I’m here because my boss needs to hire you.”

  Gerry returned his chair to upright with a sproing, leaning forward with his forearms on the desktop. He picked up a pencil and slid it back and forth between his fingers, a brief glow showing in the mild eyes that maybe only a friend of almost forty years would notice. “Here for big Leo, eh? What does he need done?”

  “Ah, jeez, where to start.” Pete took his cap off and finger-combed his hat hair. Aw, quit dithering, he told himself, this is Gerry. Just lay it out. So he did, omitting his suspicions of Nick out of fairness to Leo.

  When he finished, Gerry sat without speaking for a minute, tapping the pencil and staring out the window. “I’m not quite clear yet,” he said finally. “Do you want to identify your stalker or are you trying to deter further incidents?”

  Pete scratched his head and put his cap back on, etiquette be damned. “Both, I think.” That depended on Leo’s purpose with this, which he really did not want to know.

  “Solving a Peeping Tom case is tough. It’s a nonstarter as a criminal offense without a witness who can identify the guy, a witness who’ll swear out a warrant and testify. For a deterrent, you just need a security guard.” Gerry held up a hand when Pete opened his mouth. “Which I’m not saying I won’t do. Glad of the work. But I charge the same to play rent-a-cop.”

  “That’s fine. Leo doesn’t want a security guard. He said two or three times that he wants his own detective on the case.” Pete frowned. Was it fair to his friend to not at least hint at what Leo’s “own detective” might mean? “But I guess I’d better know what it is you do charge.”

  “Six hundred a day. Plus expenses. Which, by the way, is not padding like gas or food, only job-specific expenses. And you get a real workday for that, not a gate-guard shift.”

  “I think he’ll go for that,” Pete said, nodding. He reluctantly decided it’d be just too unethical to spout off his suspicions of Leo’s motives while banking the man’s checks, but God a’mighty if he didn’t feel like the fellow who drops the flag between two cars to start a game of chicken. “Start Thursday night? Like I said, this guy seems to be a weekend warrior.”

  “Maybe he works weekdays, maybe he knows his targets and when they’re home.” Gerry shrugged. “We’ll see. How sure are you that you have a Peeping Tom and not just some guy out looking for his cat?”

  “Pretty sure.” Pretty damn sure another poor luckless girl would get raped, too, if something didn’t happen soon. “Susan Leland saw him one time, at a neighbor’s window, and she’s sharp. Got all the subtlety of a bullhorn, but I’d bank on her.”

  Gerry cocked his head to one side and sq
uinted. “Any description?”

  “Nah, it’s always in the dark.” Pete felt like an idiot for not providing any real help when he wanted to say two words: Nick Burgess. Whatever came out of this mess, he wanted to make sure it included that boy getting his. “Medium height, medium build, medium, medium, medium. They think he’s white. That’s the best I got.”

  Sara Zeletsky finished changing clothes, gooped herself with bug repellent, and slammed out of the house with twenty minutes of daylight left. Maybe if she gave up her lunch hour and ate at her desk at the Rosenguild law firm where she worked as an associate, she could get home at a decent hour, but there was just no way to shorten the commute. She had tried every route possible.

  She started at a mini-trot as she turned east on Palm Avenue on her way to the pedestrian path that ran along Shoreline Drive. She liked to wait until her lungs fully expanded and the sweat popped out before she kicked into full jogging speed.

  Running along a busy state route like Shoreline Drive made her nervous, especially at dusk. She worried about a drunk driver careening off the roadway, or a tourist who was unfamiliar with all the curves and lost sight of one in the twilight. But the path was easily the best around, and very picturesque as it wound through the palms along the water’s edge. She especially loved it at this time of year, when the invigorating ocean smell combined with the sweet scent of the wildflowers that bloomed after sunset.

  The solution she would not consider was skipping her jog. In less than three months of running a minimum of five evenings a week, she had seen tremendous improvement in her figure and particularly her hips and legs. She started this program back in May when the pool parties kicked off. Though she hadn’t developed a weight problem, knock on wood, her body was beginning to sag and lose definition. She had noticed her shape molding to her swimsuit instead of the other way around. Gross. Not ready for that at twenty-eight. And she had improved so much, so quickly, now all she could think about was having her butt look as good as Ginny Oslund’s. She’d always felt so insecure about bringing any of her dates anywhere near Ginny.

  She reached Shoreline and turned up the path, reassuring herself that after all, she was at least ten to twelve yards from the road in most places, and she was facing the traffic. She’d have time to see any danger and jump out of the way, even in the fading light. Besides, the sound of the gentle breakers was so soothing it always made the exercise seem effortless, and the way the shadows of the swaying palm fronds flitted across the phosphorescence of the surf looked romantic enough for a postcard. The thought popped into her head that this would be a gorgeous backdrop for a sunset wedding. She moved up to cruising speed as she followed the curve dipping down around a cluster of barrel palms near the water’s edge.

  A sudden rush of footsteps behind, and she glanced over her shoulder. A figure, no more than a looming outline in the dusk, closing in on her fast. She tried to accelerate in a spurt of panic, but a wrenching tug of her hair slammed her down on her back. The impact against the concrete sent a hot spasm of pain up her spine. Through a haze of semi-consciousness, she felt hands pulling her up to her knees and she sobbed with relief. Someone was here to help!

  Then a band circled her neck, tightening, tightening. Her clawing fingers identified it as leather, the size of a belt. She tried to scream before her air cut off, but a hand reeking of stale beer clamped over her mouth. She stifled the vomit that rose in her throat in response to the rank, callused palm pushing against her teeth, certain that this monster would let her choke on it. Hot breath in her ear.

  “Now hush up, bitch,” the hot breath said. “You’re gonna like this. I got exactly what you been thinking about when you got all fixed up for this party of ours. You look real nice, so I’m gonna give it to you.”

  A yank at the belt forced her head back, her neck arching in a desperate fight for air. She strained her eyes from side to side as far as she could without tightening the belt’s hold, looking for someone, anyone, to please help. How could there be no one on Shoreline Drive within hearing of their scuffling? Then she remembered the cluster of barrel palms and she knew no one was going to hear or see. Please, God, someone help.

  Hot Breath dragged her along by pulling the belt, Sara scrabbling frantically on all fours to keep some slack in her noose. Deeper into the trees and the beautiful shadows that now became the setting of her worst nightmare, down near the masking noise of the relentless surf. The nightmare man kept making a horrible chuckling sound, and Sara realized that rape might not be all he wanted; she was at the mercy of insanity. A shaft of shame pierced her terror when she realized with abrupt clarity that she so wanted to live she was willing to sacrifice her body, the source of all her pride just moments before.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ellie Macken was on her way to meet her lover. When J.D. called to tell her he would be working late, she wasted no time arranging the tryst, though she dreaded the painful yearning for more she’d feel when the clock struck and she turned back into a pumpkin.

  She detested the cheating aspect, wanted to tell J.D., wanted to shout out her new love to the whole world. But her lover wasn’t ready to go public, and Ellie understood they needed time for the bond to grow stronger. After all, the relationship was barely a month old. So even with the apprehension she felt about her mother’s condition, she was not going to miss what might be her last day of happiness for a week or more. That thought brought up a mental image of how mortified her mother would be by her affair. Ellie shoved it out of her mind and focused on the happiness.

  She turned down the radio, fiddled with the air conditioner, cracked her window, and tried to will the left turn signal to change. Had to be the longest light in Florida. Wading through traffic to get there was always the worst part. But also the best, she reminded herself with a smile. The prolonged anticipation was the most delicious part of sneaking around like teenagers.

  No, the worst part of her life was the weekend, when she worked thirty-two hours of double-shift nurse duty at the hospital. Going home to J.D. was no picnic either. She longed for the day when she would wipe that smirk off his face with her news. He might not really care, as she felt sure he too had a lover—probably some bimbo who matched up to his porn fantasies. But she knew J.D., and he was so vain that it would bruise his ego even if he didn’t want Ellie any longer.

  She’d believed herself so lucky to marry such a gorgeous guy, easily the best looking on the whole UVA campus, believed his cocky confidence held the promise of a romantic, worry-free life together. Ten years later, she knew she should’ve seen that J.D. just loved J.D. Now she sickened at the sight of him preening and brushing and cologning and prancing around in a towel for ages. Yes, he was a beautiful man, but her lover was way better looking, and without all the rigmarole. Just stepped out of the shower that way. Even rolled out of bed looking great. Ellie had discovered what real love felt like, the kind that was meant to be, her once-in-a-lifetime person, and that was something she would do anything to keep.

  Her skin still remembered the indelible erotic sensation from that first magical moment, when her lover had brushed a hand across Ellie’s blouse where her nipple pushed taut, stared deep into her startled eyes and whispered, “Don’t you think about doing this?” Seized by a reckless urge for something wild and dangerous to happen, Ellie had shocked herself by reaching up and unbuttoning her blouse. The gentle inquisitive hand slid in, the hungry mouth came down on hers and suddenly, the shy, theretofore-faithful Ellie Macken hadn’t been able to get her clothes off fast enough.

  The turn arrow glowed green at last. She shivered off her goose bumps, slammed down the gas pedal, and swung the Accord onto the highway. To hell with anticipation, she wanted to get there before her thighs went up in flames from all the wonderful dirty things she was thinking of doing.

  When he caught the news flash on the television at Spahn’s, Gerry Terence froze in mid-chew, oblivious to the half-eaten peanuts dribbling onto the bar. Not that one more rap
e assault shocked him, but having it happen near Heron Point the day he contracted for a job there sure did. He noticed his mess and scraped at it with a bar napkin while keeping his eyes on the report. No real information: this just in, reported moments ago, more details shortly, blah, blah, blah.

  “Brian, get me another,” he called, still watching as the news program cut to a commercial.

  “I’m afraid that would be against the house rules, sir.”

  Not believing his ears, Gerry turned to face the sly grin of the barman, who placed a fresh Chivas rocks down in front of him.

  “Only kidding, Mr. Terence. I’ve just never ever seen you have more than your one.” He struck the pose Gerry had noticed too often for it to be anything but that, leaning on the bar at an angle that accentuated the gym-rat pecs and biceps bulging against his black tee shirt, which fit tight enough for a tourniquet. Just in case any ladies in the joint had missed out on what could be theirs for a night, Gerry presumed.

  “Very cute, Brian. Glad to know somebody’s keeping their eye on me,” Gerry answered absently, his brain gnawing at the implications of what he had seen. “And easy on the Mr. Terence crap, okay? Just Gerry or just Terence is fine.” Like he hadn’t told Brian that at least a dozen times.

  “You got it. I’m just glad you’re gonna hang out with us a little.” Brian swiped the bar, picked up the empty, and slid away. Not very far though, since Spahn’s was a cozy ten-stool bar with only five or six tables scattered around it. Standard hotel lounge décor, deep sound-swallowing carpet, dim Tiffany chandeliers, and shelves of bottles arrayed across the mirrored back wall. Right next to Gerry’s office, too, and always clean, quiet, well kept.

  Gerry returned to the peanut bowl and television screen, sorting out what this development meant for him. His compassion for the victim and his outrage at the crime were there, to be sure, real and powerful, but automatically shunted to a corner by years of police work. Would this mean no job now? Start sooner than Thursday? Investigate the rape as well as the peeping? Should he call Pete, or Leo directly?