Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  "Here. This will help."

  He fit a glass into her hand, and she sipped obediently. And he was right. When the glass was empty, the sharp shards of panic had eased from her nerves. After a long minute of silence, she slit her eyes open to see Frank squatting down in front of her, studying her intently.

  "What's going on here, Doc? What aren't you telling the police?"

  In her exhausted state, she couldn't come up with a good lie. “Not now, Frank. My mind's off line until morning."

  "You know something about the killer, don't you?” His hands clasped her knees in earnest. “I can't protect you if I don't know the score."

  Could he protect her, even if she told him everything? Frank Cobb was a methodical man, used to black and white situations where a well placed bullet could end a threat and the rules of engagement applied to all players. A man like her father had been at the top of his game. As good as Cobb probably was in his own arena, here, he was out of his league.

  "I'm going to bed."

  She put her hands over his, using the connection to boost herself upright. He rose, too. When her knees buckled, she swayed into him, the contact of her forehead and his chin brief, but telling. Frowning, he placed his palm to her cheek.

  "You're burning up, Doc."

  She brushed off his hand and his concern. “I'm fine. Nothing a little sleep won't cure."

  His unrelieved scowl said he didn't believe it for a minute, but he would take no guff from her as he slipped an arm about her waist to guide her to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, glancing about at all the antique dolls, frilly lace and pink ruffles.

  "Yikes,” he muttered, winning her quiet chuckle.

  "Not what you expected?"

  "Maybe for an eight-year-old.” Then his smile took the unintentional sting from his words. “I feel like a fish without a bicycle."

  "I'm working through some unresolved childhood fantasies."

  "Hmmm. My fantasies involve black leather, fur and handcuffs.” He steered her toward the little-girl bed, turning her to sit on the edge of the puffy comforter.

  "Glad I don't have any pets."

  He was smiling as he knelt to take off her shoes and socks. His hands were warm against her skin, the contact good, real and soothing. He didn't look up as he asked, “Where do you want me for the night?"

  "In here."

  His gaze flashed up, carefully neutral and requesting a clarification.

  "Not as a lover, as a friend.” She wasn't sure that was what he wanted to hear, but she couldn't give him any other answer.

  "Okay. I can do that."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Are you questioning my integrity and self-control? You aren't completely irresistible, you know."

  "I'm not?"

  Her tiny pout relaxed all the lines of his face. “Not completely. I'll just think cotton candy and hold onto one of these fuzzy bears in the tutus, and any thought of anything remotely adult will make me feel like a pervert."

  "I don't like you, Frank Cobb."

  He grinned. “Yes, you do.” He lifted her feet, encouraging her to lie back upon the canopy bed. After covering her with a crocheted afghan, he headed for the door. A flip of the light switch plunged the room into shadow. Anxiety tightened in Stacy's belly as her protector was silhouetted against the open door.

  "Frank?” She hated the pleading note that quivered in her voice.

  "I'm going to check the front door again, then I'll be right back. Close your eyes."

  But she couldn't. She lay stiff and anxious, listening to him moving about her living room. She heard a thump and his muttered curse. She was about to spring out of bed to check on him when he came limping into the bedroom grumbling something about an obstacle course. Smiling, she was able to close her eyes.

  The mattress dipped as he settled on the opposite side, stretching out full length atop the covers. A metallic sound made her turn toward him. He'd taken off only his coat and had set his gun on the night stand within easy reach. One of her collectible bears straddled his chest, and he was glowering at it fiercely. Not exactly what he was used to when it came to sharing a woman's bed, she was sure. Feeling safe to surrender to the strength-sapping fatigue, she lay back on her side with a sigh, hoping sleep would quickly take her.

  But the minute she shut her eyes, the image of Glenna's fear frozen features strobed through her thoughts. Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she found herself replaying those fateful few minutes, paying particular attention to the man's voice.

  Had they been Redman's accented tones? Even now, the memory of that sinister whisper brought gooseflesh up on her arms. She clutched at the blanket as if to offset the chill.

  Why had he killed Glenna? What had he to gain by that single brutal act except her alienation?

  She blinked back the burn of tears and concentrated on the sound of Frank's steady breathing. In some surprise, she realized that he was the first man to lie in this bed with her. She'd never wanted to soil the memories of her pristine past with the less than innocent habits of her adult nights.

  But she was glad he was here to keep monsters, both real and imagined, away.

  The mulling questions and shocks of intermittent memory made for a fitful rest. Stacy dozed on and off, jumbled dreams and hazy awareness of her surroundings blending into a surreal consciousness. She thought she smelled Louis Redman's distinctive cologne and later, heard the hum of her computer starting up. But, dragged down by the weight of her weariness, she was only an uninvolved witness, drifting through the hours until morning on a dark, drugging sea of exhaustion.

  She blinked her eyes open to the brightness of daybreak. She was alone. After a moment of disorientation, she was calmed by the sound of pans banging on the stove and teased by the scent of coffee brewing. No one made coffee as satisfyingly rich as Frank Cobb.

  Shrugging into her bulky pink chenille bathrobe, Stacy scuffled out of the bedroom and came to a stop. She was Dorothy opening the door into Oz, for she definitely wasn't in Kansas any more.

  Frank had been busy.

  All the empty take out boxes, all the discarded envelopes and junk mail, all the plant droppings had been gathered up and twist-tied inside three large garbage bags now standing sentinel at the front door. Her sink and countertops were gleaming, and she would probably never find a glass or coffee cup again. Her sofa was a rather ugly green plaid, she noted in some surprise now that the draping of coats and clutter had been removed. Even a generous space had been unearthed on the dining room table, where a place mat she couldn't remembering owning and inviting silverware were waiting.

  "Do you charge by the hour or the room?” she muttered in awe.

  He glanced up from the stove where he was herding scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Must be all that pink stirred up my nesting instincts."

  She plopped at the table and let him bring her breakfast and coffee. He looked temptingly rumpled, as if he'd gotten little or no sleep. Nervous energy, dedication to duty or their close proximity in the bed, she wasn't sure which.

  After a forkful of eggs, she sighed, “Maybe I'll reconsider that marriage proposal."

  He was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He paused in mid-motion. His expression was carefully bland as he smiled at her. “You'd better wait until you find out what my bad habits are.” His gaze dropped. “Don't let your eggs get cold."

  But it wasn't the eggs, it was her blood that suddenly grew chilled.

  She glanced into the living room at the tidy stacks he'd made of her papers and magazines. Her briefcase was on the floor, her purse beside it. In the middle of his cleaning frenzy, had he taken the time to open it? Or was the housekeeping a cover-up for more sinister doings?

  Had Frank been searching her apartment?

  Had she heard the computer running while he scanned and perhaps copied the research disks from her attache?

  Her stare flew up as he came to sit next to her at the table. He met it unblinkingly, his own gaze st
eady and unapologetic.

  You son-of-a-bitch! I trusted you!

  But as he nonchalantly sipped his coffee, the words to an old song taunted her.

  Silly woman, you knew I was a snake.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the heels of her weariness, Stacy knew a terrible sense of defeat.

  How much did Frank Cobb know and whom would he tell?

  She pretended to enjoy the rest of her breakfast, swallowing down eggs that seemed powder dry and coffee that was as bitter as Cobb's betrayal until the beeper went off on his watch. He checked the digital readout then carried his empty cup to the sink.

  "Would you like to ride in with me, or shall I just follow you?"

  His question would have aroused no particular suspicion if he'd asked it the night before, but today, Stacy was seeing Frank Cobb through a different light, and the picture wasn't particularly flattering.

  "Don't you have to go home and change?"

  He brushed down his shirt sleeves and fastened them at the cuff, the gesture implying casual intimacy that made her want to scream and strike out at him. But she could play the moment just as skillfully. She kept her expression purposefully bland as she waited for his answer.

  "I keep a change of clothes at work. Be prepared, my Scout master always told me."

  "You snooze, you lose, right?"

  He met her stare without the slightest wince of shame. “Right."

  How much had she lost, besides her faith in him? How long would it take for his superiors to figure out exactly what she was working on? Could she keep him from reporting what he'd learned?

  What would keep him quiet?

  If money was important, he wouldn't be in his profession. Bribery wouldn't work. Neither would feminine wiles. She couldn't imagine him giving in to a seduction. Begging, arguing, reasoning—all equally futile. He wasn't a man easily swayed by circumstance or compassion. He was driven by duty. Did she have anything in the bathroom cabinet that, added to his coffee, could incapacitate him? No. Could she bash him over the head, tie him up and make him wait, to pay for his treachery? Could she keep him here with her until nightfall, until she could call in Louis to suppress their secret permanently?

  If she couldn't convince him to be silent, could she allow him to be killed?

  She remembered the security of his arms about her in the aftermath of Glenna's discovery.

  No. She couldn't bring him harm for doing his job.

  But she didn't have to lie down and let him walk over her, either.

  "You go ahead, Frank. I'm still feeling a bit under the weather. I have some things to finish up here."

  "I can wait."

  "No. I'm sure you have more important things you have to do, too."

  After a brief stalemate, he nodded. “Yeah, I do.” He went to retrieve his coat where her tears had long since dried upon its shoulder. She saw the flash of his gun as he shrugged into it. Sheer folly to think she could snatch the revolver from him and hold him hostage. Where did he have the disk he'd copied? In his jacket, in his Dockers?

  She was staring into the bottom of her coffee mug when he set a card down on the place mat.

  "My beeper number. If you need me, for anything, just call me."

  "I'll do that, Frank. You don't know how much it means to me to be able to count on you."

  She said it flatly, without inflection. For a moment, he didn't move, and she almost believed he might confess the sins of a guilty conscience. But he was a professional. He wasn't allowed a conscience. And in the end, he left without another word.

  How could she have been so stupid, so trusting?

  She hurled her mug at the sink and was rewarded with the angry sound of shattering crockery. An appropriate echo for what she was feeling inside.

  Changing seats so the computer screen faced her, she switched it on and tried to trace his treachery. He was good. He left no footprints telling where he'd been snooping or what he'd done.

  How much time did that give her?

  Whether it was hours or minutes, she had to make the best of them.

  She worked tirelessly through the morning, entering data and charting probabilities. In the back of her mind, other possibilities provoked her. Frank Cobb's grin. The feral gleam in Louis Redman's gaze. Which would be her downfall? How was she to proceed when she couldn't turn her back on either of them? She was alone, playing a dangerous game where the rules didn't seem to apply in her favor. No rules of any kind applied to Louis.

  Apparently, her knowledge of what he was didn't have the proper leverage to keep him from misbehaving. What would? How could she gain the upper hand at least long enough to finish what she'd started? She plotted out Redman's vulnerabilities while rubbing her aching temples.

  Sunlight. A stake through the heart. Both too permanent. Silver, garlic, crosses. Were those fables or facts? She could only guess at his powers and, therefore, rightly feared to confront him. But there was a time when he was helpless, when he was easily subdued.

  And that time was now, during the daylight hours.

  * * * *

  Ken Fitzhugh would have been proud at how covertly she staked out the Easton Hotel. She had until nightfall to figure out a way inside past the security guard and Louis's ever-vigilant servant. According to the reports Fitzhugh had given her, Takeo, the servant, left the residence two hours before dusk to do errands and returned just in time to wake his master. Those stops included the investment firm, the import/export office and the market where he bought food for one. Stacy knew the direction of Redman's appetites, and that wasn't something easily purchased over the counter at a convenience store.

  Louis wouldn't be careless enough to trust his security to amateurs. She wouldn't be able to charm her way past the guard by saying she had a fictitious appointment with a man who never saw anyone until after dark. Paid well to overlook his eccentricities, the guard would also be very familiar with his personal patterns. He would not let her pass unless Louis left word himself.

  As she munched on cold bucket chicken, she watched the mobster, Jerome Petretti, the only other resident of the sixth floor, greet the doorman with a smile and a folded tip. The Yorkie he was walking sniffed its way around the guard's feet, earning a fleeting scowl of annoyance after the dapper gentleman had passed and he was left to step out of the cord tangling about his ankles. The dog yipped as a jerk of the leash coaxed it to follow.

  And Stacy had an idea.

  Hiking up her skirt and taking the sack of dinner rolls out of her pasteboard bucket, Stacy hurried across the street from where she'd parked a half block down. She held the bag out away from her as she approached the door. The guard made himself into a formidable barrier.

  "May I help you, Miss?"

  It was a different man than the night she'd gone up at Louis's invitation. Shifting her shoulders and twitching her hips impatiently, she said, “I'm with Jerry."

  Observing the long length of her black stockings and the plunging vee of her sweater, she knew what he assumed. For once, that was in her favor.

  "I'll have to call up and see if he's expecting you. If you'll wait here just a moment, please."

  "Well, I don't please,” she whined. “And after expecting me to trot along with him and that nasty little beast of his, picking up its business, I don't think I care to wait. Here.” She shoved the bag at the guard. “You can just take his doggie's business upstairs. And you can tell him no amount of money is worth—"

  The guard opened the door. “You may tell him yourself, Miss. Have a nice evening."

  She minced inside on her high heels. He followed, and as the elevator opened, pushed number six for her. Making a face at the paper sack, she simpered, “The things a girl will do in the name of love."

  The guard raised a brow, wisely saying nothing as the door slid shut between them.

  On six, she stood in the hall, looking between Louis's locked door and the entrance to Jerome Pettretti's suite. Tossing the bag of rolls into a metal asht
ray, she strode toward the mobster's residence. She wouldn't worry about the video cam. By the time Louis saw it, she hoped to have concluded her business.

  Petretti answered the tap on the door himself, with one of his associates at his elbow. Both swept her with appreciative stares.

  "Excuse me, boys, but I have an appointment with a Mr. Redman down the hall this evening. I was to meet his employee here about ten minutes ago, but I'm running late and must have missed him."

  "Do we look like a message service, lady?” the enforcer growled.

  She made a distressed face, pulling her lips into a full pout. “I can't afford to let the opportunity go, if you know what I mean,” she whispered in confidence, leaning just far enough forward to entice them with a glimpse down her cleavage. “It takes me some time to ... um, set things up, and Mr. Redman doesn't like to be kept waiting."

  The two men exchanged amused looks.

  "So what is it you'd like us to do?” Petretti asked.

  "I was hoping Mr. Redman might have left a spare key with you, you being his neighbor and all.” She batted her lashes expectantly."

  Petretti chuckled. “Well, no, he didn't. We're not that friendly. Phil, why don't you go on down the hall and let the lady into Redman's apartment."

  "But I thought you said—"

  "He has a master key,” Petretti confided to put her worries at ease. Then his gaze eased along the length of her legs. “And if you've got some time later in the week, you can leave your number with Phil."

  Stacy beamed. “You are just so sweet."

  She trotted down the hall at the side of Petretti's goon who expertly manipulated the lock with a thin tool taken out of a leather case in his inner coat pocket. She blew him a wet kiss and waved at Petretti before slipping inside and getting down to business.

  Where did Louis Redman sleep during the day?

  Time was not on her side. Kicking out of her heels, she hurried through the rooms, seeking any of the obvious hiding places in living, dining, bath and servant's bedroom. She paused before entering Louis's bed chamber, eying the big cannonball poster bed with voyeuristic curiosity. Nonsense, of course. Louis Redman didn't sleep in a bed. Focusing on that certainty, she made quick work of ransacking his room. Still, her hands had a tendency to linger over the fine material of his suits, inhaling the subtle scent of his cologne. That much fantasy she allowed herself.