Which was what the detective had done, and he had spotted MacLaughlin right away. But since he was going to have to work with the man, Cash didn’t see any point in antagonizing him right off the bat by repeating the description verbatim. Besides, he had to admit he was curious about this guy. He’d wondered why Weller had called the man a Scot, since American citizenship was a prerequisite for every police officer in the United States. But when he had questioned the captain, Weller had merely laughed and said, “Sure, MacLaughlin’s a citizen. But wait until you hear him speak.” Then he’d added with irritated amusement that MacLaughlin was a damned brilliant detective—a man whose lack of charm was well worth putting up with in exchange for his help in organizing the type of task force Reno so sorely needed. Cash had tried to analyze the captain’s tone of voice when he’d spoken of MacLaughlin, but the closest he could decipher was a sort of puzzled, grudging affection and a definite lasting impression of professional respect.
Tristan, too, made a swift, comprehensive survey of the man in front of him as they shook hands. Cash was about six feet tall, rangy and lean, with a well-shaped head that was entirely bald. He had a luxuriant bushy brown mustache, watchful, intelligent brown eyes, and large white teeth, which he flashed in a friendly smile. He’ll do, Tristan thought, and nodded abruptly, reaching that decision in his usual way—instantaneously.
“Sir, we have a number of choices,” Joe Cash said moments later as they stored Tristan’s luggage, which consisted of two suitcases and a giant unwieldy box, in the trunk of a nondescript car. Tristan pulled his attention away from the group he’d been watching pile onto a gold and brown Harrah’s coach across the parking lot, and raised an eyebrow at Cash in question.
“We can either go straight to the station,” Joe said as they climbed into the car, “or we can check you into your hotel and drop your luggage. Or,” he hesitated briefly, glancing at Tristan from the corner of his eye as he turned the ignition, “we can go to the morgue. There are a couple of dancers coming in from the Cabaret Lounge who think they might be able to ID the latest victim. They’re due at five; some uniforms are bringing them in. I was going to call and have someone else meet them, but if you’re willing…” He shrugged, leaving the decision up to MacLaughlin.
Tristan didn’t hesitate. “The morgue,” he said with crisp decisiveness. “You can fill me in on the way.”
“They’re here.” Rhonda turned away from the window, letting the curtain drop. She looked over at Amanda, watching as her friend rose gracefully to her feet and turned back to gather up her jacket and purse. “Are you ready?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Amanda drew a deep breath, shrugged, and smiled weakly at her friend. The smile wobbled and died a sudden death at the tap on the door. “Oh, God, Rhonda. I wish we didn’t have to do this.”
“Tell me about it.” Rhonda checked her lipstick in a small pocket mirror, then dropped it back into her purse. She looked up to meet Amanda’s eyes. “But maybe it won’t be Maryanne. We gotta hope. Hell, she’ll probably come roaring home and threaten to skin us alive for creating all this fuss for nothing.” She squared her shoulders and stood aside as Amanda reached for the doorknob.
“Miss Charles?” The uniformed officer who stood on her doorstep was young and fresh-faced, and he wore his cap at a cocky angle. Amanda glanced at him briefly, but her gaze was drawn past him to the heavyset older officer accompanying him. He had a weatherbeaten face, his uniform was rumpled, and he looked as though he’d been around the track a few times in his life. His eyes had obviously seen the world, but still they held compassion for the ordeal that lay ahead for the two women.
“Yes, I’m Amanda Charles,” she said. She turned slightly so they could see the woman behind her. “This is Rhonda Smith.”
“We have been sent here by the city of Reno to…” the younger officer began officiously, but the older man cut him off, gently grasping Amanda’s arm and guiding her down the steps. He smelled strongly of tobacco.
“They know why we’re here, son,” he said in a smoke-roughened voice as he released her and reached for Rhonda. “This way, miss,” he directed politely, and somehow he managed to ease all of them along the path, up the stairs, and into the back of the police cruiser without creating a lot of unnecessary fuss.
They rode in tense silence. All too soon, it seemed to Amanda, they were pulling into the emergency entrance of St. Mary’s Hospital, and the older officer was helping her out of the car. She quietly thanked him and turned away.
Only seconds after they stepped away from the patrol car, the hospital door opened and two men walked out. Even from a distance, Amanda knew they were policemen. She assumed one of them must be the officer she had spoken to on the phone, and her heart began to beat with unnerving force.
“Miss Charles? Miss Smith?” A tall, bald man approached them. “Thank you for coming. I’m Detective Cash.” He indicated Tristan. “This is Lieutenant MacLaughlin.”
Amanda examined the two men. They were big. The bald one, Detective Cash, was lean and almost adolescently loose-limbed. He had warm brown eyes, and she was instinctively drawn to him. He looked as though he’d try to protect them from as much unpleasantness as was humanly possible.
She couldn’t say the same of Lieutenant MacLaughlin. Warmth and humanity didn’t strike Amanda as his primary characteristics—not with that remote expression of his. Her immediate impression of him was one of cool, efficient control, and without uttering a word, he made her feel defensive. There was something about the aloof and assessing way he inspected her and Rhonda—
He was an extremely large man—immense, really. She figured he must be six foot five, and he possessed the widest shoulders and chest she had ever seen. Standing next to the lieutenant in the elevator moments later, she felt uncomfortably crowded and short of breath, as though his massive frame were taking up every bit of space and absorbing all the available oxygen.
His size alone was enough to intimidate, without the added military sternness he projected. He had thick sandy-brown hair that would probably have been fairly curly if it hadn’t been rigidly subdued by a short cut. It receded slightly above his temples, leaving an M-shaped hairline that attractively set off his high, wide forehead. His skin bonded leanly to the strong bones of his face and looked slightly rough in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. He had a large, sharp blade of a Roman nose and thick eyebrows, and his eyes, as they made contact with hers, were a steady, piercing silver-gray behind heavy-rimmed glasses.
Amanda was aware of Rhonda perking up next to her, drawing her shoulders back and thrusting her breasts forward, and without looking, Amanda knew she was flashing her patented, cocky, Hel-lo Sailor Boy welcoming smile. Rhonda adored men and was a shameless flirt. But Amanda had the feeling Rhonda could save her wiles in this instance, for there was an inherent austerity about the lieutenant that no amount of eyelash batting and pretty pouting was liable to affect. The clinical way in which he inspected the two of them chilled her. She much preferred Detective Cash’s warm smile.
Tristan gazed pensively at the subtle sway of Amanda’s hips as the group moved down the corridor to the morgue. He hadn’t missed her withdrawal from his inspection, and one corner of his mouth tilted up bitterly. She was the type of woman he had never been able to talk to without tripping all over his size-thirteen feet and making a total ass of himself. She was cool-eyed and unexpectedly elegant. Her hair was wheat-pale blond; her makeup was subdued. She wasn’t at all what he had anticipated.
He knew he had come into this case with some prejudices that he’d been prepared to set aside until the case was closed. Hell, half the hookers he’d booked in his long career as a cop had said they were dancers. He’d figured the Reno showgirls were maybe one step above the whores he was accustomed to dealing with, but Amanda Charles’s air of refinement didn’t fit in with his neat, preconceived image at all.
Well, vulgar or refined, he resented being dismissed by those large, round violet-blu
e eyes, which were framed by surprisingly dark eyebrows and eyelashes. Bet she bloody well dyes her hair to get that shade, he thought with uncharacteristic antagonism. She had an olive complexion—a skin tone not generally associated with blondes. Her natural hair color was probably an ordinary mousy brown, instead of the pale Scandinavian blond it appeared to be. The idea gave Tristan a jolt of dark satisfaction.
But God, what a figure. Miss Charles was not a flashy dresser like her more flamboyant black-haired friend, but she had the same sort of fabulous body, recognizable even in the unbuttoned black jacket, lavender cashmere sweater, and black suede slacks. It was a shape to attract stares: fairly tall, wide shouldered, deep-chested, and wasp-waisted, with a tiny, tight butt and long, long, long legs. Of course, that wasn’t exactly surprising. She was a showgirl, even if she didn’t wear spandex pants during her off-duty hours like the other, friendlier lassie.
They all halted outside the morgue doors. Cash turned to the two women, rubbed a hand over his bald head, smoothed his mustache with his thumb and index finger, and said, “Listen—there’s really no reason for both of you to go in; we only need one of you to make the identification.”
There was an instant of dead silence while Amanda and Rhonda stared at each other. Then, before they had a chance to decide which of them it should be, Tristan decided for them.
“You, Miss Charles,” he said peremptorily and grasped Amanda’s arm just above the elbow, propelling her through the doors.
The abruptness with which the decision had been taken out of her hands, plus the knowledge of what was to come, turned Amanda’s knees to the consistency of warm wax. The atmosphere into which she was suddenly thrust was coldly sterile. Chemical odors permeated her senses, making her membranes sting, and she sagged slightly in Tristan’s grasp.
Her eyes, staring up into his, were huge and dilated, and Tristan experienced a momentary twinge of guilt. Then he shrugged it aside irritably. Bloody hell—he wasn’t entirely insensitive. He knew this was not going to be a picnic for the lass. But he also knew that if he’d let the women decide between themselves, they’d be here until midnight. He ignored the small voice that whispered inside his head—the one that said if she hadn’t happened to be the type of woman most designed to make him feel like the shy and awkward, oversized, under-coordinated Glasgow street urchin he’d once been, he might have allowed her more time to come to a decision on her own.
Beside him, Amanda resolutely drew a deep breath and silently straightened her shoulders. Her eyes, snagging his once again, were frigidly aloof as she pointedly withdrew her arm from his grasp. She made him feel a right proper sod without half trying, and when the door opened behind them and Joe Cash entered, flashing him a questioning glance before he turned his attention to the showgirl, Tristan cursed the heat he could feel creeping up from beneath his collar.
Amanda stared straight ahead as an attendant pulled open a stainless steel drawer. Not until the sheet covering the body on the slab was flipped back did she glance down.
Nausea rushed up her throat and she swallowed hard, staring. Then she jerked her head up, her glance bouncing off the silver surface of Lieutenant MacLaughlin’s eyes and locking with Detective Cash’s. “Oh, God. It’s her…she,” she whispered, and then immediately felt foolish for worrying about correct grammar at a time like this. “That’s Maryanne Farrel.”
Joe nodded to the attendant to close the drawer, and Tristan gently placed an arm around Amanda’s shoulders and turned her away. He wasn’t unsympathetic to her horrified emotions, but he tended to forget just how traumatic death could be to the uninitiated.
Amanda Charles’s face was a testament to remind him. It had turned greenish-white under the harsh overhead lights. The delicate tracery of blood vessels just below the surface of her skin stood out like a dark purple spiderweb against her bloodless complexion. Within the loose grasp of his arm, he could feel her periodic shudders, as if she were chilled to the bone, and he experienced an uncharacteristic urge to tighten his hold on her and share some of his own abundant body heat. He resisted, naturally, and escorted her out of the morgue.
Amanda drew air deep into her lungs once they were back out in the hall. She nodded curtly to Rhonda’s questioning look and gratefully walked into her friend’s embrace when Rhonda opened her arms to her. They clung to each other. Tristan, watching them, wondered what it would be like to have someone to hold you in your worst moments—those times of stress and grief. He had always dealt with his own problems alone.
“Which hotel are you staying at, Lieutenant?” Joe asked the big Scot, making conversation to provide time for Amanda to regain her composure. She looked ill.
“I’m not sure,” Tristan replied. “I haven’t made a reservation anywhere.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Replacing them, he eyed Joe seriously. “I was hoping you could recommend somewhere fairly inexpensive. The SPD’s paying a per diem until I draw my first paycheck here, and it’s no’ the most generous in the world.”
Rhonda eyed the large policeman with fascination over Amanda’s shoulder as she listened to his softly spoken brogue. She eased her grip on her friend. “If you’re looking for someplace nice, clean, and reasonable,” she suggested, “an apartment in Amanda’s triplex will soon be available.” Her face tightened with emotion. “Maryanne’s.”
Amanda pulled out of Rhonda’s arms. “Please,” she said, looking around so wildly that everyone watching feared she was going to be sick on the spot. “Is there a rest room?” Grasping Rhonda’s hand, she almost ran down the hall, following Joe’s hurriedly given directions.
Once through the public rest room’s door, she swung Rhonda around and none too gently shoved her up against the wall, pinning her there by planting her hands on Rhonda’s shoulders. Sticking her nose up next to her friend’s, she hissed, “Are you crazy, Rhonda? What on earth possessed you to do that?”
Rhonda blinked her brown eyes. “What? Do what?”
Amanda growled in frustration. “Why did you offer Maryanne’s apartment to Lieutenant MacLaughlin?”
“Are you serious, Mandy? Didn’t you take a look at the man? Talk about prime! His feet and hands are absolutely huge, and you know what that means, don’t you? He’s probably hung like a stallion.”
“For crying out loud, Rhonda!” Amanda interrupted. “Haven’t you ever, just once in your life, had a thought that wasn’t sexual in nature?”
“Well, sure. I must have, back in kindergarten or something. But that was a long time ago, and getting back to this guy, don’t you think he looks kinda like a really built GQ model?”
Amanda shook her head. “GQ? You mean Gentlemen’s Quarterly?” She was finding this conversation incomprehensible.
“Yes! Well, okay, maybe he doesn’t dress quite as hip, but with those steely eyes, and the short hair and glasses, and that body all buttoned down under his suit and tie…”
“What do his clothes have to do with…the man can be second cousin to the Brooks Brothers, for all I care,” Amanda said through clenched teeth. “That doesn’t mean I want him as a tenant. I’d rather rent to Gunga Din.”
“Then I say you’re the one who’s crazy, Mandy Rose, not me.” Rhonda stared at her friend with eyes that had become deadly serious. “Forget viewing him as a sex object, if you’re too damn pure for that,” she snapped with the barely concealed disgust of the always-on-the-prowl for the hardly-ever-looking. “Look on him as protection. We’re here today because our whole damn world is suddenly getting very dangerous. Someone out there is killing off dancers the way Jack the Ripper once went through hookers!”
“It hasn’t been that many. It hasn’t been nearly as many as Jack the Ripper or any of those other serial murderers,” Amanda whispered, but she knew that was a feeble, dangerous attitude to take. One violent death was too many. When one of the three recently murdered young women turned out to be someone you knew, that made the statistics a moot point. God, why would anyone want
to kill Maryanne?
“Not yet.” Rhonda interrupted her thoughts. “But for all we know, this guy is just warming up.” She reached out and touched Amanda, her dark eyes sober. “The fact that we’re down here at all, though, having to make an identification on Maryanne, is too damn close to home to suit me.”
“Yes, I know,” Amanda conceded, and she had to hug herself against the trembling that shook her body. “Oh, God, Rhonda, I can barely take it in. When I woke up this morning, I was mad at her. I kept thinking how typical it was for her to disappear without letting anyone know where she could be reached. And now, within a few short hours, I’ve looked at her on that slab and she’s dead. Suddenly, it’s no longer something that only happens to someone else. God, if it happened to her, it could happen to you or to me.” Goosebumps cropped up all over her flesh.
She was quiet for a moment, then she looked up at her friend. “But why MacLaughlin? I don’t like him. He looks at me like I’m a bug on a pin, and he didn’t even give us a chance to decide which of us should identify her before he dragged me in there.” She shuddered.
Rhonda hugged her. “I know, kid. You don’t like him because he grabbed you and hauled you off. I think maybe—his Hunk-of-the-Month body aside for a moment—that’s the very reason I do like him. I didn’t want to go in there any more than you did,” she confessed with the ruthless honesty Amanda had always admired in her, “and I was so damned relieved when he chose you instead of me, I could have sat down and bawled. But Amanda, whatever else MacLaughlin is, he is a cop. And he appears to be of the hard-ass, tough-guy variety, too.”
“Yes,” Amanda concurred dryly. “I don’t think anyone could argue with that.”
“Well, then?”
“I suppose, if he’s interested—but he’s going to have to bring it up himself, with no prompting from you,” she stipulated firmly, hoping that would be the end of the matter, despite an unwelcome knowledge that everything her friend had said was true. They were going to have to take measures to protect themselves.
Shadow Dance Page 2
