by Joanna Wayne
“Well, Dallas didn’t offer to hold my purse, and the caller didn’t say Malcomb was committing adultery, just that he was a liar and a cheat.”
“Hello. What do you think that means?”
“Malcomb thinks it means he charges too much.”
“That figures. He’s so faithful, it doesn’t even cross his mind that anyone would think otherwise.”
“You’re wrong this time, Janice. Dallas is conducting a murder investigation. He wouldn’t lie about my name and phone number being found in the dead woman’s pocket.”
“He could. Like you said, it wasn’t an official visit. It could easily have been just another excuse to get you to talk to him. Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Nicole, but let’s face it. You’re naive. And Dallas still gets to you.”
“He most certainly does not.”
“Puh-leeze! I could feel the heat today from where I was standing. Look, I’m not throwing stones. Everybody has a soft spot for their first love, no matter what a louse they turn out to be.”
“There’s nothing between Dallas and me.”
“Good. Then stay away from him. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. And I don’t want you to blow it with Malcomb. He’s a dream husband, the real thing. Take it from me. Men like him don’t come along every day.”
“No one’s perfect. Certainly not Malcomb.” Nicole pushed back from the table. “I really need to go.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve said my piece. I’ll let up on you now.”
“I came because I knew you’d give me your honest opinion.”
“But you think I’m wrong this time?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Then just be careful.”
“And listen to my heart and conscience?”
“No. A woman can never trust her heart or her conscience where men are concerned, especially men like use ’em and lose ’em Dallas. If nothing else, remember that the man is not your friend, and you shouldn’t trust him as far as you can toss a raw pancake.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Thankfully, Janice changed the subject as Nicole retrieved her jacket. She complained of her neighbor’s noisy dog and raved about the new fall merchandise she’d just gotten in at the shop. Light talk that didn’t include murder.
There was a breeze blowing as Nicole stepped outside, but not enough to explain the cold chill that swept into her lungs and seeped deep into her soul. She’d always loved autumn, looked forward to the cool, brisk air following a torrid Louisiana summer. But it was only foreboding she felt now.
There was no real explanation for her fears, but she knew with a certainty bordering on the unnatural that the worst was yet to come.
DALLAS BENT OVER his desk, studying the photos of the murder. This time the crime scene had been bloody, whereas the other victims had been washed clean. But still it was less gruesome. The killer had severed Karen’s left carotid artery, but he hadn’t stripped her naked and arranged her body as if she were posing for some debased pornographic magazine. And there were no visual signs of torture before the murder.
“A cold-blooded bastard, isn’t he?” Corky said between bites of a stale donut. He propped his feet on the opposite side of Dallas’s desk and leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs.
As a partner, Corky Brown was as good as they came—unless you held his irreverence for protocol and his passion for junk food against him. Dallas didn’t.
“Cold-blooded and precise,” Dallas agreed. “One little slice at just the right spot.”
“He knows what he’s doing, right down to dirtying up the crime scene. Spreads his assortment of DNA around like confetti. Body fluids, blood, hair, liberally applied to their neatly folded clothes, and a sprinkling left on their washed bodies. From a dozen different donors. Probably none of them him.”
“Guess we’ll have to wait for the forensics report before we know if he kept to that part of his MO this time,” Dallas said. “But we know he altered his style a little. He didn’t clean up the body, didn’t undress her and apparently didn’t move her after she was dead. The blood splatter was all there.”
“Maybe it’s not the same man,” Corky said, picking up his can of root beer. “Could be a copycat case, especially since the information about the type of incision is the only information about the killer’s MO that’s been leaked to the media wolves so far. Then we’d have two killers on our hands. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I’m still leaning to the theory that it is the same man.”
“So how do you explain the changes in his MO?”
“Something may have happened to cause him to rush this one, or else he may be getting sloppy now that his success record is building.”
“Could be. I’m sure the profiler will have a take on that. I guess the results of her findings will be delayed a few days now while she scrutinizes the new data. I just hope she’s as good at her job as she is at filling out her sweater. And speaking of babes, tell me about Mrs. Malcomb Lancaster.”
“I told you. She said she didn’t know our victim.”
“I heard that. Now tell me the good stuff. How do you know a society sweetheart like her?”
“I worked on her dad’s campaign awhile back, when I was sowing my wild oats. Nicole helped out during her summer break from Tulane.”
“Ah, a summer fling with a hot, sweet coed. Did you do her?”
Dallas stretched the kinks from his neck. “Do you ever think of anything besides sex?”
“Sex, murder and food. What else is there?”
“The fax.” Dallas pointed to the machine in the corner of the room that had started whirring and spitting out paper. “Grab it. It might be something from the medical examiner or information on the victim’s phone records.”
Corky stood over the fax machine. “But there’s nothing between you and Mrs. Lancaster now, right?”
“She’s a married woman.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
“Okay. I’m just checking. I want to make sure you’re not going to get upset if this fax shows your high-society friend was lying to you this morning about getting a phone call from Karen Tucker.”
“Nicole didn’t lie. She’d have no reason to.”
Corky reached for the fax, skimmed it, wrinkling his mouth and his nose as he did.
Dallas recognized the expression, hated the flash of dread that rocked around inside him. “What is it?”
“Karen Tucker’s phone records.”
Corky dropped the printout onto Dallas’s desk. It fluttered down like a paper airplane and landed beneath his nose. “Sorry, old pal, but it looks like even the rich and restless lie.”
Dallas scanned the record. The phone number he’d found in Karen’s pocket was not on the list. But another number, also registered to the Lancasters, was there.
Many times.
Chapter Five
Nicole woke from her nap slowly, hearing the phone ring but unable to drag herself to a stage where she could function. Slowly the dregs of sleep cleared and she reached for the receiver. “Hello.”
“Nicole?”
Apprehension finished the job of waking her. “This is Nicole. What is it, Dallas?”
“Another little problem.”
Damn. “Is this about Karen Tucker again?”
“Afraid so. We got her phone records back.”
“And my number is there?”
“Yeah.”
She felt as if she’d been caught tasting a grape from the grocer’s bin. It would have been much less awkward if she’d told him this morning about the prank call. Now she’d sound like she had something to hide. “I can explain.”
“You might not want to, Nicole, at least not yet.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Sometimes it’s best to talk to a lawyer first.”
“A lawyer?” Anger flared inside her. Janice was right
about one thing. Dallas was a cop, not a friend. But he was apparently more interested in incriminating her than seducing her. “I don’t need a lawyer, not if you’ll listen to my explanation.”
“Okay by me. Can we meet for coffee somewhere?”
“I can explain over the phone.”
“I’d rather we have this discussion in person.”
“When?”
“Now, if you can spare a few minutes. The sooner we get it all cleared up the better for all of us.”
She slung her feet over the side of the bed and glanced at the clock. Ten to three. She’d napped for over an hour, so soundly that she hadn’t even heard Malcomb return. “Malcomb will probably want to come with me.”
“In that case, I can come to your house if you like.”
She considered the offer. Dallas Mitchell sitting in the living room with her and Malcomb. Dallas, with his easy way of talking and laughing, his uncanny power to reach inside her and pull up the old hurts, the old longings. And then when he left, the image would linger to taunt her, slide right in there as a cozy companion to the marital problems she was already fighting.
“I think a coffee shop would be better. How’s four o’clock?”
“Works for me.”
She gave him directions to a small café a few blocks away, then hung up the phone. The house was silent as she made her way down the curving staircase. Malcomb was probably being quiet so as not to wake her, or more likely he’d escaped to his hobby area over the garage.
The kitchen was empty. So was the study and the living room. She opened the door to the garage. The space for his Porsche was empty. He’d had plenty of time to have lunch with Jim and drive home—if that’s what he’d wanted to do. Apparently, it hadn’t been. Once more he’d found more interesting things to do than spend his afternoon off with her.
She walked to the den and stared into the mirror over the mantel. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup mussed, probably smeared on the pillow. Her lipstick had worn off completely. Tiny creases framed her eyes, wrinkles that hadn’t been there as few as two years ago, before her father’s death had taken its toll, left her feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.
Alone, until Malcomb had dropped into her life. He’d been romantic and sweet, had made her feel cherished and needed. She’d finally accepted his proposal, a ring and a promise that his love for her would last forever. Who knew forever would have such a short shelf life?
The phone rang again. She walked to the kitchen, glanced at the caller ID and read Malcomb’s office number. A twinge of guilt twisted in her stomach. While she’d been lamenting the fact that Malcomb wasn’t home with her, he’d probably been called back to the hospital for an emergency. She cleared her throat, grabbed the phone and decided to make a stab at being positive in spite of her mood.
“Hi, Malcomb.”
“Hi, yourself. You sound much cheerier than you did at noon. You must have had a pleasant afternoon.”
“I snuggled down for a siesta. How did your visit with Jim go?”
“On and on. The guy knows nothing about photography. He’d be best served by a simple, fully automatic camera instead of the complex piece of equipment he wants.”
“Did he decide on something?”
“Not entirely. We were still talking when I got a page to come back to the hospital. My triple bypass patient from Keithville was experiencing chest pains. He’s all right now, but I’ll stay around a little longer.”
“Not too long, I hope.”
“I’ll be there by five if nothing else comes up. And hopefully we’ll have the rest of the night to ourselves. But you know what it’s like when I’m on call. Anything can happen.”
And usually did. She may as well tell him of the latest call from Dallas. “There’s a new development—”
“Wait, my pager is vibrating again. Mind if I call you back in a few minutes?”
“That’s okay. Just take care of your patients, and I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Okay, darling.”
And he was off. Which left Nicole to have coffee with Dallas without him. But it was her name found in the woman’s pocket. She was the one being questioned by the police. And it wasn’t as if Malcomb knew the woman or could shed any more light on the subject of the phone call.
And yet the woman had called to talk about him, called on the last morning of her life to spread the word that Malcomb Lancaster was a liar and a cheat. The words echoed in Nicole’s head, a discordant chant that grew louder and louder, taunting her as she brushed her teeth, freshened her makeup and prepared for the meeting with Dallas.
DALLAS SAT IN THE CAFÉ, chewing the last bite of his sandwich, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper and trying to decide how he was going to keep this meeting professional when Nicole still got to him the way she did. He would have thought nine years was enough time to move on, to have completely forgotten the way she’d felt in his arms, the way her kisses had tasted, the way she’d made love. Youthful, exuberant, with total abandon. That was Nicole.
Only now it was Mrs. Malcomb Lancaster, a fact that he needed to brand into his brain. The only woman he should be thinking about now was the one whose body was in the morgue, undergoing a thorough autopsy, being picked apart as if she were road-kill left to the buzzards. Killed by a madman who might be already searching for his next victim. Someone young, pretty, with her whole life in front of her. Someone like Karen Tucker.
Or like Nicole.
The thought ground inside him like a jagged knife scraping across raw flesh. It wasn’t that far-fetched. She fit the victim mold almost perfectly.
Never let the murder case become personal. You do and you give the advantage to the killer. That adage had been hammered into his head ever since he’d made detective. This was the first time he’d seriously doubted his ability to heed it.
The front door of the café swung open and Nicole stepped inside, her hair tossed by the wind, a light blue sweater draped over her shoulders. She looked strong and fragile at the same time. And so desirable he felt the jolt clear down to his toes, along with a protective surge that defied reason.
“I’m early,” she said, sliding into the booth opposite him. “I didn’t expect you to be here yet.”
“I’d missed lunch, so I came in time to grab a BLT.” He pushed his empty plate to the side of the table as the waitress approached. “What about you? Are you hungry?”
“No. Just coffee for me.”
The waitress took her order. Dallas would have loved to make more small talk, or not to talk at all. Just sitting across the table and looking at her would have been a rare and sweet treat. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of his choices. “I hate to bother you with this twice in one day.”
“It’s my fault. I should have told you the truth this morning. I’m not sure why I didn’t, except that…” Nicole shifted her gaze to the saltshaker and ran her fingers along the edge of her water glass. “I guess I’m embarrassed by the situation.”
“What situation is that?”
She grimaced, then took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I received a prank call yesterday morning. It was early, just after Malcomb left for work.”
Dallas listened without interrupting as Nicole told him the gist of the caller’s message—basically, that her husband was playing doctor outside the office. Nicole either didn’t buy the accusation or else she was pretending not to. Dallas had his doubts. In his experience, where there was smoke there was usually at the very least a smoldering cigarette butt. As often as not, there was a five-alarm fire.
She stopped talking as the waitress approached, waited until the young woman had set a steaming mug in front of her and given Dallas a warm-up portion. “It was Karen Tucker who made that call, wasn’t it?” she asked, once the waitress was busy with the next diner.
“I don’t know.”
“But you said the phone records showed she’d called my house.”
“There was n
o record of a phone call made yesterday morning, either from her home number or her cell phone.”
“Then there must be some mistake. If the prank call wasn’t made by Karen Tucker, then I don’t know when she would have called.”
“There were more than a dozen calls made to your house over a three week period. The last one was a week ago.” He watched Nicole’s expression, saw the disbelief and confusion. It could be a ruse to hide the fact that she knew a lot more than she was admitting. His instincts said no, but he wasn’t certain his instincts could be trusted where Nicole was concerned.
She clasped her hands in front of her. “I don’t know how that could be. I never talked to her.”
“Maybe the calls were to your husband.”
“No. I asked Malcomb, and he doesn’t know anyone by that name. There must be some mistake, Dallas.”
“The number is a residential listing in your name.” He pulled out his notes and read the number out loud.
“That’s the phone number to Malcomb’s small study and hobby area. He needed a separate line for his computer and fax, so we added a second line.”
“That explains why you didn’t take the calls.”
“But not why Malcomb didn’t recognize the woman’s name. Did Karen work for a camera or photography supply shop?”
He shook his head. “She was a nurse.”
“Then she was probably faxing him medical records or calling about a patient.”
“Possibly, but not likely.”
Malcomb Lancaster and a dead woman, one that he’d lied about knowing. The plot was thickening fast and growing really ugly. Dallas hated this for Nicole’s sake, but he couldn’t back down. This could be important to his case.
“The calls were made from Ms. Tucker’s home phone,” he said, “mostly evenings and weekends. A few were placed past midnight, occasionally lasting more than an hour. Would you know if Malcomb received calls at those times?”
“He gets calls at all hours. He’s a heart surgeon. His patients’ problems don’t run on schedules.”
“But would he be in his hobby room at those hours?”
“On occasion. He’s really into his photography, says it releases the stress of his job. He takes black-and-white photos and develops them himself. He does great work. A gallery in New Orleans has sold several of them.”
