Murder Under Cover

by Kate Carlisle

  With all the mixed signals, Robin had decided to let Austin make the next move. But if he didn’t move soon, he would lose her.

  Timing was everything, as they say.

  She looked like she could use a hug, so I jumped off the chair and wrapped my arms around her. “You know I love you, no matter what happens. So I hope you have a good time with Mr. Wonderful.”

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  We both jolted in surprise. I turned and saw my neighbors, Jeremy and Sergio, poking their heads through my open door. I guessed I hadn’t locked it earlier.

  “Hi, guys,” I said. “Come on in. You remember Robin, right?”

  “Of course,” Jeremy said, waving both of his hands at us as he walked in.

  Sergio gave me a hug, then said, “Hi, Robin.” Then he handed me a small white paper bag. “I brought you some cookies from the restaurant.”

  My eyes widened as I opened the bag. “You brought cookies? Did you make them yourself?”

  “Of course,” he said modestly. Sergio was a world-class chef whose pastries and desserts were the stuff of dreams.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, overcome by the sight of the half dozen tiny, chocolate-laden, delicate puff-pastry circles all bundled up in plastic wrap. In a separate packet were fragile pastel-colored macaroons. I opened it up and handed one to Robin, who reverently placed it on the tip of her tongue and closed her eyes.

  “We’re sorry to bug you,” Jeremy said, pacing around my workroom, staring at the shelves, “but I’m preparing for my performance-art debut at the Castro Street Fair in a couple weeks and I’m on the hunt for accessories. Do you have a boa or any girlie hats or big jewelry?”

  “Big jewelry isn’t really my style,” I said, “but I probably have a hat you could use.”

  “I have lots of pretty things at home,” Robin said, wiping a tiny cookie crumb from her lips.

  “Your stuff is probably too nice for what he wants,” Sergio said, then whispered, “He’s presenting an homage to the homeless.”

  “Yeah, the tackier, the better,” Jeremy said with a grin. “Ooh, what’s this?” He grabbed the funky Indian scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “Is it me?”

  “It’s totally you,” Robin said.

  “I love it,” he said, holding the material out and studying it. “It’s so scruffy.”

  Sergio nodded in approval. “Very ethnic, with a touch of grunge.”

  “It’s yours if you want it,” she said.

  “And I have other stuff you can look at,” I added.

  “No, this is perfect. Shabby but colorful.” Jeremy scurried over to the small mirror hanging near the front door and tossed the length of the scarf back and forth and over his head. “I love the sparkly beads.”

  “Take it,” Robin insisted. “Consider it an even trade for the cookies. Besides, I’ll never wear it. My mother is insane to think I would.”

  “Thank you,” Jeremy cried, and clapped his hands. “I want you both to be there. It’s two weeks from tomorrow. Write it in your calendar.”

  “I love the Castro Street Fair,” Robin said. “I go every year.”

  I got up and found a pencil, then wrote the event in my office calendar. In one of the cabinet drawers I found a clean white cotton cloth, and as I wrapped the Kama Sutra up to protect it, I asked, “Would you guys like a glass of wine?”

  The men exchanged a look; then Jeremy waved his hand with indifference. “Only if you insist.”

  “I’ll get the wine,” Robin said, laughing. “You show them your sexy new book.”

  “You have a sexy book?” Sergio said, moving closer to the worktable. He was fascinated with my bookbinding work. I unwrapped the cloth and pushed the book his way.

  “Is this it?” He touched the spine of the Kama Sutra.

  “Yes, and wait till you see it,” I said, excited all over again. I opened the book and turned to the page Robin and I had been peeking at earlier.

  Jeremy began to squeal and slapped my arm. “You naughty girl.”

  “This is fantastic,” Sergio said in awe, as he carefully ran a finger over the outer edges of the page.

  “I know. I can’t wait to take it apart.”

  “Ooh, that does sound exciting. Maybe I should sign up for that bookbinding class you teach after all.”

  Later that night, I read the letter of authorization from Shiva’s friend Rajiv Mizra. In the same envelope, he’d included the original sale document from the Mumbai bookseller who sold him the Kama Sutra. The document indicated that the book, though undated, was thought to have been made in France between 1840 and 1880. That would be easy enough to verify once I’d examined the ink and paper and gilding style. Rajiv had paid 1,801,200 rupees back in 1997. I had no idea how much that was in U.S. dollars. I would calculate it in the morning, but I had no doubt the book would be worth much more in today’s market.

  In his friendly note, Rajiv gave me full authority to do whatever it took to increase the book’s value. He also included his e-mail address in case I had any questions.

  I smiled as I tucked the letter and documentation back into the envelope. The only question I had at this point was, How soon could I get my hands on that incredible book?

  The following night, Derek returned from his Kuala Lumpur trip. Ever since he moved in, I’d been experimenting with cooking, so I made pasta with a creamy tomato vodka sauce, and we drank an Etude pinot noir I’d been saving for a special occasion. Our relationship was new enough that Derek’s coming home after a short trip definitely qualified as a special occasion.

  I guess he felt the same way, because he’d thought to bring me a gift from his travels. It was a stack of beautiful Asian fabric samples for me to use as book cloth in my bookbinding work. It was the loveliest and most thoughtful gift a bookbinder could dream of receiving.

  After dinner, we snuggled on the couch. In my wildest imagination, I never would’ve used the word snuggle in regard to the ruggedly masculine Derek Stone. But there we were, snuggled. And I felt completely satisfied with life.

  Naturally, I couldn’t allow that blissful feeling to just exist. My mind rushed to scrutinize and worry over it. Call it human nature, but if I was this happy with a man, I had to wonder why. After all, I’d made mistakes with men before. I wasn’t always the best judge of character. So now I forced myself to ponder some key questions: Was he the right man for me? Why were we together? How did it happen so fast? And there were follow-up questions: Where would we go wrong? How would I screw things up?

  The fact was, I’d never dated an ex-spy from another country. Were there issues I should be aware of? Was he a bad risk? Had he done things in his past that would come back to haunt him and, therefore, me? He seemed remarkably well-adjusted, and his level of self-esteem was the healthiest I’d ever encountered. But had he done things in the past that would someday cause him to hate himself? Would he have flashbacks? Would they develop into full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder?

  And speaking of his former lifestyle, what exactly had he done? I imagined he must’ve played many roles during his time in British intelligence, but he rarely spoke of them. He still worked in that world peripherally. Did his current job of providing security to his wealthy clients ever entail role-playing? Suppose a rich young widow required someone to play her lover in order to uncover a blackmailing scam. Would Derek play that role or would he send an associate? Did I have the right to ask? Should I trust him to be faithful? Was I being ridiculously naive?

  Or was I just imagining monsters in the closets?

  To be fair, he had every right to ask himself similar questions about me. I was raised in a commune. How weird was that? And let’s not forget that we’d met under the most bizarre circumstances: over a dead body. Since then, I’d been involved in several murder investigations in which I’d played the role of number one suspect. My strange connection to murder had caused some of my colleagues to wonder if they should risk being in the same room with me.

  N
evertheless, I had been relentless in my quest to find the true killer in each case. Derek had been right there beside me, and I was elated to know that we shared a passion for justice.

  Still, I wouldn’t blame him for harboring doubts about my own ability to sustain a healthy relationship. I figured there was no time like the present to discuss it.

  “Derek, I was wondering if you’ve-”

  He emitted a soft snore and I realized he was sound asleep. Jet lag had hit him hard.

  “Okay, we’ll talk later,” I murmured, then roused him enough to drag him off to bed, where he continued to sleep like a dead man.

  It was five o’clock in the morning when the pounding began.

  “What the hell is that?” Derek muttered.

  “I don’t know,” I said, sounding whiny as I punched my pillow. Were they cleaning the streets? Or digging holes through concrete? The pounding continued, so I finally tossed the covers back and sat up. Throwing on my flimsy robe, I stood on wobbly legs as the pounding grew louder. By standing, I had a better grasp of the direction the noise was coming from. It wasn’t outside the building, I realized. Someone was pounding on my front door.

  “I hope it’s not the little kids who just moved in,” I mumbled. “That won’t make anyone happy.”

  That was when the screaming began.

  Derek jumped out of bed and yanked on a pair of jeans. “Stay here.”

  Ignoring his command, I raced after him down the hall, through the living room, and out to the workshop. I skidded to a halt behind him as he threw the door open.

  It was Robin, wrapped in a trench coat and screaming as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She was covered in blood.

  Chapter 2

  Derek reached out, grabbed Robin around the shoulders, and pulled her inside.

  “Oh, my God,” I cried, enfolding her in a hug. “What happened?”

  “She’s in shock,” Derek surmised. Shoving the door closed, he led us both through the hall to the living room. Robin’s shrieks had faded to muffled whimpers and sobs.

  I hadn’t noticed whether any of my neighbors were staring from their doorways, but was there any doubt that everyone in the building had heard the screams?

  “Wait,” I said, when we reached the living room couch. I ran and retrieved my big old yellow blanket from the linen closet and threw it over the couch.

  “Can we take your coat off?” I asked.

  She twitched, then shook her head and wrapped her arms around her waist in a protective gesture.

  “Okay, coat stays on. Sit down, sweetie.”

  Derek helped Robin sit on the blanket, and we both tucked the soft fabric around her. I grabbed some socks for her to wear, because she wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  Why was she barefoot? I didn’t ask. She was incapable of putting the socks on, so I knelt to slip them on her feet for her. But when I lifted her heel, I gasped. The bottom of her foot was caked in blood. Robin didn’t notice my reaction. She was still shuddering and crying and seemed unable to speak.

  I ignored my own dizziness as I stretched out the socks and managed to pull them onto her feet without touching the blood.

  There were also dried streaks of blood on her hands and across her face and forehead. The trench coat was relatively free of blood, so I figured she must’ve thrown it on at the last minute to drive over to my place. Was she wearing anything underneath the coat? I was just too plain scared to ask any questions yet.

  I sat down next to her and angled myself so I could stroke her arms to get some warmth back into her. She was so cold.

  Derek sat on the coffee table directly in front of Robin and pulled the blanket tighter over her legs, then patted her knees to keep them from knocking together. Her teeth began to chatter and I thought she might be sliding deeper into shock.

  “I’m guessing the blood isn’t yours,” he began.

  She blinked and tried to swallow, then licked her lips.

  “Let me get her some water,” I said, pushing myself off the couch and running to the kitchen to fill a glass. I grabbed some tissues while I was there and returned to the living room.

  I helped her take a few sips; then she closed her eyes.

  “Honey, what happened?” I asked. “Can you tell us?”

  “Blood,” she managed, then sucked in a breath between hiccuping and shivering. “Blood.”

  “Whose blood is it?” I asked warily, glad that I’d thought to wrap her in the blanket. The fact was, I had an unfortunate tendency to pass out at the sight of blood. It’s not my finest quality, and it was a testament to my love for Robin that I didn’t shriek and drop like a tree when I first saw her.

  Robin ignored my question and stared bleakly at Derek.

  “Robin, love, we’re going to have to call the police,” he said gently.

  “No,” she whispered. She turned and appealed silently to me. She tried to reach for me, grab my arm, but she was wrapped like a mummy in the blanket. I watched her struggle for a moment before I thought to pull her hand free and grip it in mine. I refused to think about her bloodstained palms.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We won’t call the police.” I gave Derek a look that said, Not now, but soon.

  He seemed to understand, and turned to Robin. “We won’t call the police yet, but you must try to tell us what happened.”

  I helped her take another sip of water.

  “Alex,” she uttered finally.

  I thought for a moment. “Mr. Wonderful? The man you met at the Indian restaurant?”

  She nodded slightly. “I… We… um, we went to dinner. Then he came back… to my place. We had some wine… and… you know…” She paused and met my gaze.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Then… we went to sleep.”

  “He spent the night at your house.”

  She nodded, then signaled for more water. It was slow going, but she was beginning to come around. Her skin wasn’t quite so pale and damp, and her eyes seemed clearer than before.

  “I slept,” she whispered. “I’ve never slept so well. It was… it was wonderful. So deep. Peaceful.”

  I looked at Derek. “She’s always been a really light sleeper. If she wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, she’ll get up and start working on her sculptures.”

  Even when she was young, Robin didn’t sleep through the night. My mom used to think it was because she was worried about her own mother.

  “I woke up,” Robin continued slowly. “I needed to use the bathroom. I was so sleepy. Groggy, you know?”

  She sought our acknowledgment after every other sentence, so at this, Derek nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  “I came back to bed. I was so sleepy, I almost tripped over a pillow on the floor. I picked it up. There were marks on it, like… like dirt streaks. It was weird. I could barely keep my eyes open, but you know how I get a little anal retentive about things.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, relieved that small pieces of her personality seemed to be returning.

  “I didn’t want to wake Alex by turning on the bedroom light, so I took the pillow into the bathroom to look at it.”

  She swallowed, started to sniffle; then one teardrop fell, followed by another as she continued. “It… it was blood. I thought maybe he’d cut himself. Then… then I happened to look in the mirror. I screamed. I had blood on my face. Clumped in my hair. On my hands.”

  She stopped to try to swallow again. For a second or two, I thought she might throw up. I felt close to it myself.

  “I ran back to check on Alex and saw more streaks on the sheets. There was enough light coming in from the street that I could see dark streaks and… and blotches. Everywhere. I yelled his name to wake him up, then shook him. I flipped the light on and that’s when I saw…”

  “What did you see?” Derek asked with remarkable calm.

  She covered her face with both hands. “I was so afraid. I hated to leave him, but I had to get out of the
re. I ran. I’m so ashamed.”

  “Tell me what you saw before you ran,” Derek said evenly.

  “Blood. Everywhere.” She shuddered uncontrollably. “Alex. Dead. Blood trickling down his face, on the sheets. On the wall above the bed. On my hands, my stomach, my legs. I was covered in his blood.”

  “Did you see a weapon?” Derek asked carefully. “Was he stabbed? Shot? Could you tell?”

  Grimacing, she said, “No. No weapon. Just… b-bullet holes. In his…” She couldn’t say the words, just covered her eyes again.

  “Robin?”

  She nodded, then managed to rub her forehead. “Here.” Then she touched her chest. “Here.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head and rocked slightly back and forth.

  “Somebody shot him in the head and the chest?” I exchanged a quick, apprehensive glance with Derek. “While you were sleeping?”

  “And I never woke up,” she whispered on a sob. “I was curled up next to him, holding him, but I never woke up.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, and wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

  We sat like that for a long moment, rocking slowly. I watched Derek, whose eyes were narrowed in thought.

  Finally Robin eased away and looked at me, then Derek. “Who would do that? Why? In my house? How did they…? Oh, God. They were in my house.” Her face contorted into a mask of disgust and pain and dread. Her entire body shivered as more silent tears fell.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” I squeezed her hand, wishing for things I had no control over. “We really need to call the police now.”

  “Yes,” Derek said, standing. “We’ve already let too much time pass.” He was clearly anxious to get the police involved. He couldn’t help himself, having been on the proper side of law enforcement his entire life. “We’ll put clothes on, get Robin bundled up and in the car; then I’ll call Inspector Lee on the drive over.”

  Robin grabbed my hand. “They’ll think I did it. But I didn’t do it. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course you didn’t do it,” I said indignantly. “You’re the victim here.” And there was Alex, I amended silently. I met Derek’s gaze again to telepathically convey the message that I expected him to make sure the police didn’t do something stupid, like arrest Robin.