New Title 1

by Carol Davis Luce

  "Why haven't you slept in three days?"

  "What do you intend to do about Hawkins now that you know?"

  "I asked you a question."

  "I ask the questions, not you. Will you let him go?"

  "I'll tell you what I intend to do about Hawkins if you tell me what I want to know."

  "Madam, don't force me to handcuff you to the banister and twist your arm.”

  "Sergeant, don't force me to report you to the commissioner for police brutality.”

  They both smiled.

  His face became serious. "Let's talk. About important things. But first, did you make out that list I asked for?"

  "Yes. It's downstairs. I'll get it."

  Alex rose, went down to her bedroom, found the list, then returned upstairs.

  "Some are students. The art center will have their addresses and phone numbers. Will you be contacting these men?"

  Justin's head rested against the back of the couch. There was no response.

  "Justin?"

  She quietly moved around before him. Justin's eyes, under the lids, darted from side to side. He was dreaming, the vividly colorful, revealing dreams of the first stage of sleep.

  Alex backed up to the rocker and sat. She studied his face as he slept. He has a good face, she thought. Handsome in its simplicity. The stunning blue eyes, now hidden, gave his face its intensity, making it exceptional. In repose, he looked peaceful, angelic, younger than his thirty-eight or thirty-nine years.

  She was attracted to him; there was no doubt about it. Although the events of the night he had spent with her on the couch had been fuzzy at the time, she'd obviously been moved by his show of compassion. Compassion? What does that prove? she asked herself. Greg Ott is compassionate and, forever, just a good friend.

  The telephone rang. She picked it up quickly, shutting off the first ring. A woman, identifying herself as the assistant operator, asked if she had reached the residence of A. S. Carlson. Warily. Alex answered, "Yes."

  Lieutenant Kreps of the Reno Police Department was on the line, would she accept the call. Again she said, "Yes."

  "Mrs. Carlson, Lieutenant Kreps. If Detective Holmes is still there, I'd like to speak with him, please."

  "Yes, of course."

  She went to Justin's side and shook his shoulder gently. "Justin?"

  "Ummm?" With his eyes still closed, he snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her down across his lap. His stubbled jaw rubbed coarsely against her face. His lips moved across her cheek to her mouth. He kissed her. She pulled her head back.

  "Justin, there's a phone call for you. A Lieutenant Kreps."

  His eyes flew open. The pressure of his arms slackened. She stood up awkwardly.

  "Kreps? Where?" He looked around, confused.

  "On the phone."

  Fingers buried in his hair, he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I fell asleep.”

  She handed him the phone from the end table. She felt his gaze on her as she picked up his coffee cup and crossed the room to the breakfast counter. "Holmes speaking. Yes, Lieutenant." After a long pause, "On my way."

  He stood up, stretched, and looked at his watch. "I have to leave. Sorry to have fallen asleep on you." Tearing a sheet of paper from his notebook, he handed it to her along with a pen. "Phone number.”

  She wrote down the number and handed it back with the list. He stuffed the papers in his coat pocket as they walked to the front door.

  "You'd better get some rest," she said. "You look terrible.”

  "I'm flattered that you noticed." He lifted her hand, placed her house key on her palm, then went out the door.

  As Alex locked up, she stared reflectively at the grimy fingerprints on the door frame —a residue of Hawkins's presence. But it wasn't Hawkins she was thinking about. It was Justin. Justin asleep, pulling her down on his lap and kissing her. Justin obviously aroused — she'd felt his erection against her hip—by a dream figure. The look of confusion in his eyes when he had awakened to find her in his arms made her wonder just who it was he'd thought he'd been holding?

  Chapter 10

  Otis Hawkins lived within sniffing distance of the Lockwood dump. When Justin pulled the unmarked black Crown Victoria onto the vacant lot and up the rutted drive, Hawkins gave him a cursory glance before turning back to what he was doing—taping a sheet of clear plastic over the window of his ancient aluminum travel trailer. Justin pulled up alongside Hawkins's pickup truck.

  As he got out of the car, he saw the cloud of dust his tires had stirred up, envelop the stocky old man. Hawkins ignored it as he ripped off a piece of electrical tape from the roll with his teeth, and slapped it over one corner of the plastic.

  "You here 'bout the Carlson woman?" Hawkins asked without turning around.

  "That's right."

  "Yer wastin' yer time then. I got nothing to say."

  "Well, since I've come all the way out, how about I ask a few questions for the hell of it?"

  Hawkins shrugged his shoulders.

  "You know about the break-in, correct?"

  "Yeah. Miss Carlson told me 'bout it. She wanted to know had I seen anyone snooping around.”

  "Had you?"

  “Just that old biddy up the hill from her."

  "Klump?"

  "That's the one." He cleared his throat and then spat on the ground. "Like I tol' Miss Carlson yesterday, she was asking about the new building."

  "What new building?"

  "Miss Carlson's new paint room. The one she's gonna build on top the garage. The old lady was foaming at the mouth about it."

  "Why should she care?"

  "Says its gonna obstruct her view." Hawkins walked to the pickup, hiking up his pants as he went. He pulled out a smaller piece of plastic, brought it back to the trailer, and held it up to the next window, checking its size. "Maybe it will an' maybe it won't. But one thing's for sure, the ol' buzzard's a real pisser and moaner. One day last week the two of 'em were beefin' out by the driveway. I heard the old lady say somethin' 'bout a gun."

  "What sort of gun?"

  "Didn't hear what sort. Just heard gun."

  Justin made a note on his pad.

  "What's your opinion of Mrs. Carlson?" Justin asked. He had stepped forward, taken hold of the plastic, and held it while Hawkins ripped off a piece of tape and stuck it on.

  "She pays good, and she lets me do my work without buttin' in.”

  "What's your personal opinion of her?"

  "Hot stuff. Real hot stuff. But shit, I don't hafta tell you that."

  "Does she have a boyfriend? Someone steady?" Hawkins shrugged. "Woman like that mostly plays the field. Say, ya got a cigarette?"

  With a reflexive motion, Justin reached up. He patted his empty shirt pocket. "Sorry, I quit." Justin decided there was nothing more to gain by questioning Hawkins.

  As he drove back to town he pondered the information about Alex and her neighbor. They had squared off lately. The hassle over the construction was of little or no concern to him. But the gun was another matter.

  His next stop was the Rivercliff Complex—duplex office suites that were priced to sell at a mere half million. He pulled into a parking slot with a sign that read: Reserved for clients of Gregory D. Ott, attorney. Parked in the adjacent slot was a late model, white Mercedes, the big one, the one that cost as much as a middle-class townhouse. The personalized plate read GOTT ESQ.

  Inside the spacious, contemporary reception room a pretty secretary in her late twenties was saying goodbye to an elderly couple. She looked from them to Justin, the wide smile intact.

  "Hi. May I help you?"

  Justin identified himself and showed his shield. "I don't have an appointment, but I'd appreciate it if Mr. Ott could squeeze me in for a few minutes."

  The secretary lifted the receiver, buzzed, then spoke. "Greg, there's a Detective Holmes out here. He doesn't have an appointment. Can you talk to him?" She looked up at Justin and asked, "What does it pertain to?"


  "Alexandra Carlson," Justin said.

  "He said Alexan— Okay." She hung up. "Go right in." She pointed to a pair of sliding oak doors with stained glass inlays.

  Justin crossed the room. The carpet, thick and cushy under his feet, was bone white. He pulled open the door and stepped in.

  This room was twice the size of the reception area. Aside from the standard ceiling-to-floor bookshelves with their impressive leather and gilt law tomes, the entire north side of the room was windowed in French panes. A transom, with more stained-glass inlays, ran the length of the window. The desk, though massive as desks go, seemed dwarfed by the surroundings. The desk was unoccupied.

  "Well, I'm glad to see you've decided to take this thing with Alex seriously and do some investigating,” Greg said. He was standing to Justin's right, sprinkling food into the oceanic-sized aquarium. "You are conducting an investigation, are you not, Detective Holmes?"

  "I am."

  "I mean, you are here to investigate a crime and not to conduct a character check of --" he turned to Justin, the canister of fish food still poised over the tank “—the victim."

  "A little of both, perhaps," Justin said, undaunted by Ott's cynicism.

  "A little of both," Ott repeated sarcastically, nodding his head. He pulled a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit it. "Well, ask your questions. I'II decide whether they have relevance and if they're leading in the proper direction."

  "How long have you known Mrs. Carlson?"

  "Objection. Not relevant.”

  "Would Mrs. Carlson have reason to fabricate a crime?"

  "Contempt. You're, in contempt —"

  "Come on, damn it," Justin said, feeling his cornposure crumbling. "Knock off the theatrics, Ott. you know as well as I do that everyone is suspect. I have a job to do. My caseload is straining at the seams. If I'm chasing a phantom, I want to know out it."

  "I feel for you, Holmes."

  "Yeah, I know." Justin walked to the window and looked down. He watched the Truckee River, low at this time of year, coursing its way through town on its final leg to Lake Pyramid. "It's common knowledge you have no use for cops. The feeling is mutual. I'm not wholly convinced Alex Carlson is telling the truth. But I'll tell you this, Ott, if she is, then she could be in danger. Grave danger."

  There was a long pause. Justin felt the attorney was weighing his words, deciding if he should cooperate, and if so, how much.

  "Like you said, Holmes, you have a job to do. Do it. I'm not telling you shit about Alex. Her credibility, her character, is none of your fucking business. If anything happens to her because you were fucking around, looking behind the wrong bushes, you'll have me down on you so hard you'll wish you had gone into another line of work."

  Justin crossed the room to the door. He stopped, turned around to Ott and said, "Thanks for the help."

  "Anytime." Ott went back to feeding the fish.

  Justin sat in the car until his breathing evened and his hands were no longer tight fists. It's a good bet the lawyer is in love with Alex Carlson, he thought. Ott had had that pathetic, tormented look when he'd spoken of her.

  He scanned the list of men she had given him. Alongside the name Ott, Alex had written "friend." Justin ran a line through it. The next name on the list was David Sloane. She had written nothing alongside his name. Justin ran a line through that as well, but added a question mark.

  Other names had been lined out earlier. The housekeeper of Edward Scoggin had informed Justin her employer was presently on his honeymoon in Australia.

  That morning Justin had called Sergei Borodin, the owner of and mechanic at the service station Alex used on a regular basis. Despite the man's thirty-odd years in the U.S., he had managed to hang onto his charming, yet unintelligible Russian accent. Alex had said nothing about the person on the phone having an accent.

  Two other names had been scratched off the list. Robert Meacham, the husband of her best friend Margie, had told him Alex was a saint. Justin hadn't bothered to call Dr. Fields, Alex's gynecologist.

  Four names remained. They were bracketed: students.

  Justin drove to the Silver State Art Center.

  After introducing himself to Velda Lancaster, he inquired about Alex's classes. He was told she instructed three workshops a week. Fifteen students at ten dollars a head per class. She also held a space in the gallery.

  "Many men take her classes?"

  "No. Mostly women," the curator said. "Men sign up, take a few classes, then drop out. I think they feel uncomfortable around so many females. But Mr. Bodkin, that sweet old dear, loves being the rooster among all the hens. The widow ladies fuss over him something awful."

  "This Bodkin, he's an elderly man?"

  "Eighty-one and still going strong."

  Justin made a mental note to scratch Bodkin off the list. "Do you keep a list of her students — past and present?"

  "Why, yes. The names go on the Center's mailing list. We send out flyers of upcoming workshops."

  "May I see the list?"

  "The entire list?"

  "Just Mrs. Carlson's students, please.”

  She pulled a folder from the filing cabinet, handed it to him.

  Justin opened the file and began flipping through the paper. "There must be two hundred names here,” he said.

  "She's been teaching for three years. Summer workshops in addition to her regular classes. Would you like a photocopy of the list?"

  "Please."

  As the copier spat out sheets of paper, Velda pursed her lips, lowered her head to peer over the rim of her bifocals. "Sergeant Holmes, your interest in Alex, is it . . . I mean, has something happened to her?"

  "You'll have to ask her that.”

  "Oh. Yes, of course.” She handed the copies to Justin.

  "Did you happen to notice anyone hanging around the center? Maybe asking about Mrs. Carlson?"

  "Can't say that I have."

  "Thank you. You've been very helpful." Justin crossed the room.

  "Oh, Sergeant? I don't know if this is important or not. There was a young man—took one class of hers, dropped out like the others—but I recall one evening as Alex was going home, I saw her and this young man together in the parking lot. He seemed to be blocking her way. You know, trying to keep her from getting into her car."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Not more than a week ago."

  "What was his name?"

  Velda Lancaster pressed her lips together, shook her head slowly. "He signed up for the class sometime in September. His name would be on that list. Handsome fellow. Although much too young for Alex Carlson."

  Instead of going straight out the front exit, Justin found himself detouring into the gallery. The huge room was divided by partitions. He moved slowly from one group of paintings to another until he found her work. He stood back and stared, clearly impressed.

  What he had seen on the floor in her work area the night of the break-in had been only sketches. Displayed before him now were true works of art. Bursts of light exploding against shadows, luminosity, lacy shapes with various contrasts strongly defined. Each canvas or paper conveyed a personal statement of the artist. The paintings, though unmistakable in subject matter, appeared to have been established by mood— an array of moods.

  A small watercolor commanded his attention. It was a night landscape. Midnight blue and black. The heavens, so vast that all distance was lost, glimmered with stars. Justin stepped closer, read Depth, by A. S. Carlson. It was not for sale.

  He checked the prices of the other paintings and realized that if she sold only one or two a month, she'd have no trouble keeping the creditors from her doorstep. He took another long look at Depth, then left the gallery.

  As he drove back to the station, Justin mulled over the information he had gathered so far.

  Of the five men on the list who had been willing to talk to him, including last week's interview with David Sloane, each had offered a different profile of
her. From a gifted saint to a vindictive bitch. There was nothing cut and dried about Alexandra S. Carlson.

  Damn it. He was letting this woman get under his skin. Against his better judgment he had already made moves on her twice. The night she had gone to pieces, he had not intended to kiss her. It had just happened. With a beautiful, sexy woman curled up in his arms, her breast partially exposed through the opening of her kimono, he'd found himself thinking with his little head instead of his big head. And last night was an enigma to him. Exhausted, he had fallen asleep on her couch, and damned if he hadn't dreamed about her. She was in his arms, in his bed, naked. With rising passion, about to enter her, he had suddenly woken up. She was in his arms. Not naked. Not in his bed. But on her couch. He wished he knew under what circumstances she had come to be there.

  He wanted no part of her. He was footloose and fancy free. The last thing he needed was a teasing, spiteful woman complicating his life. She could be trouble —in more ways than one.

  Back at the station, Justin circled the male students on the list the curator had given him. He concerned himself with only the men who had signed up in the past year. There were five names. Four of those matched up with Alex's list. He crossed off Bodkin. He called the remaining three and made appointments for the next two hours.

  Gary Epson was gay—and proud of it. He lived with his mother and two sisters in a dilapidated old house on Second Street. He told Justin he had signed up for Alex Carlson's class hoping to meet someone who shared his artistic interests. Maybe, with any luck at all, he'd felt a meaningful relationship would ensue. "But," Epson said with a delicate snort, "the place was full of jabbering biddies and this one ol' fart." He had dropped out.

  The next student was a Vietnam veteran named Lester Calvado. In a shabby hotel room overlooking the railroad station, Calvado, left leg gone above the knee, had sat tall and straight in his wheelchair despite the irreparable damage to his spinal cord. Calvado had told Justin he'd signed up for the art class as a form of therapy. Mrs. Carlson had been a talented and extremely patient instructor, but his deteriorating health and frequent stays in the hospital had forced him to drop out.