Both Rhonda and Amanda stared at Tristan, momentarily transfixed by his smile. His teeth were slightly crooked but very white, and his smile was quirky and totally, devastatingly masculine. It changed his entire appearance, transforming him from a stern, forbidding cop to a warm, accessible man. It made Amanda wonder if she hadn’t been too hasty in her unflattering assessment of him. It made Rhonda itch to jump into his bed.
The two women’s sudden regard, so unexpected and intense, made Tristan’s smile fade, and he began to feel flustered. He could feel scorching waves of blood wash up from beneath the sudden constriction of his collar and tie, and for an instant, he had to struggle against the temptation to reach up, jerk the knot in his tie loose, and undo the top button of his shirt.
What the bloody hell were they looking at? Their scrutiny dredged forth a latent shyness. In a professional situation, he never had these sort of problems. He could converse with anyone, anytime. He was in charge and he never had to worry about where a conversation was leading. He bloody well directed it. But there was something abruptly personal about the way the two showgirls were regarding him. And on a personal level, Tristan never had a word to say for himself. Now if a lass wanted a bit of action, on the other hand, he could think of one or two very personal things he wouldn’t mind doing to the Charles lassie.
Jolted by the sheer unprofessionalism of that last thought, Tristan’s questions became even crisper and more coldly impersonal than before. Finally, he snapped his notebook shut and stuffed it into the inside breast pocket of his brown wool suit jacket. He nodded to Joe, and the two men surged to their feet.
“Do you have a card you can give the lasses, Detective?” he inquired, glad to be back on a footing he understood. Once Joe had produced two and passed them to the women, Tristan instructed crisply, “Call if you have any questions or if you think of anything you’d like to add—anything at all. If something occurs to you, don’t talk yourself into believing it’s not significant. As I said before, you never can tell what might be important. Call that number and ask for either Detective Cash or me.” He hesitated briefly, then smiled at the women again. “We appreciate your cooperation this evening, and we will be talking to you both again.”
He turned to Amanda. “Miss Charles, you were a brave lass entirely this afternoon. I’m right sorry about the necessity of putting you through that ordeal. I realize it was traumatic, but you can be proud of the way you handled the situation.” Then he included Rhonda in his look. It was somehow simpler to talk to her. She didn’t summon forth an awareness he was uncomfortable feeling. “And Miss Smith, you’re not to worry about your friend Mr. Schriber. You had no choice but to give us his name, and he willna be learning from us where it came from. Actually, we’ll be talking with the entire cast, or troupe, or whatever it is you call your co-workers. So he’ll have the chance to tell us that he worked with Miss Morgan. If he doesn’t, then we’ll simply mention it’s our understanding he worked with both women. There’s no need for your name to be brought into it at all.”
Joe observed Tristan closely. The lieutenant employed a lot more diplomacy than Joe had been led to expect. MacLaughlin was a good cop—Joe had felt it in his bones from the moment Tristan had opted to accompany him to the morgue instead of checking in at the precinct or settling himself into a hotel. A damn good cop—Joe would put money on it. His gut reaction said MacLaughlin had the stuff to teach them what they needed to know about dealing with this type of killer.
But Captain Tweedt was sure going to be knocked on his butt. He was expecting a bureaucrat to direct the rest of them—someone to stay behind a desk, setting up the logistics and instructing others for the street work. It was quite obvious to Joe, however, that MacLaughlin was a field cop, and damned if there wasn’t bound to be some butting of heads down at the station house before MacLaughlin ultimately got his way—which, in Joe’s mind, seemed a forgone conclusion. Somehow, he didn’t doubt for an instant that MacLaughlin would emerge triumphant. He hid a grin: the fireworks that occurred before that happened ought to make for a damn fine show, and he, for one, didn’t plan to miss it.
They left a few moments later. Tristan stepped out into the early spring chill and shivered. “Let’s go downstairs and see how the lab lads are doing,” he suggested, but before he reached the landing, Joe grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t you ever eat, MacLaughlin?” he demanded. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry, and I work a helluva lot more efficiently on a full stomach.” Jesus, he’d never seen a guy with so much focused energy. He gave the impression of being entirely single-minded.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” Tristan replied contritely. “Have you got a family, then, holding up a meal for you?”
“No, I’m divorced. And I’m more than willing to come back and check out Farrel’s apartment. But let’s go over to the Peppermill and grab one of their four-ninety-five Comfort Meals first, okay?” His voice turned persuasive. “Mom’s beef stew, MacLaughlin. Or country-fried steak or chicken pot pie.”
“You get a home-style meal for five dollars?”
“Damn tootin’. With potatoes and vegetables and maybe a big, fat country biscuit thrown in. For peanuts, MacLaughlin, you can eat like a king in Reno.” He grinned at Tristan. “Lieutenant, I don’t deny we have a lot of problems in this town, what with the highest suicide rate in the nation and a disproportionately large violent-crimes ratio. But eating poorly is not one of them. For dining out, this is the best metro area in the country, bar none. Won’t put much of a dent in your per diem at all. Most of the time I find it’s just as cheap, not to mention a whole lot easier, than doing for myself.”
It was a short drive downtown from Amanda’s. The quiet neighborhood where the two dancers lived gradually gave way to an industrialized area, dimly lit at this hour. A few blocks beyond, the bright lights of downtown glowed against the inky clouds hanging low in the night sky. As Joe drove into the heart of Reno’s downtown entertainment district, Tristan tried to absorb the sudden onslaught of impressions.
It didn’t matter that he’d been downtown earlier when he had gone to the morgue, for the city’s impact just wasn’t as immediate during the day. Miles of light bulbs and neon tubing of every imaginable color lit up the darkness, gaudy and vulgar and vivid against the night sky. Some of the lights were stationary, while others incessantly blinked, flashed, or rolled in frenetic patterns designed to catch the eye and lure you off the street. Some of the casinos were wide open, their entire front walls rolled up to display the banks of slot machines and craps tables nearest the street. Other casinos teased, giving the merest glimpses of the activity within as their smoked-glass doors opened and closed, admitting and disgorging patrons. The sidewalks filled and emptied as people came and went. Hawkers stood in front of establishments, handing out coupons and bawling the advantages of their casino over all the others. And on every street corner, it seemed to Tristan, was an establishment offering loans, loans, loans. You could hock nearly anything, apparently, for one more chance to spin the wheel, roll the dice, turn the card.
Tristan shook his head. What a flamin’ crazy town.
But just as Joe had promised, the Peppermill served up a good, substantial meal at an absurdly reasonable price. It wasn’t often Tristan found a full-service restaurant capable of satisfying his large appetite for less than ten dollars. But when he finally pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, he was pleasantly stuffed. By the time the two men headed back to the murdered woman’s apartment, he was feeling downright optimistic about his assignment in Reno. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bloody awful after all.
The crowd of lab personnel and detectives had mostly dispersed by the time Joe and Tristan arrived back at the triplex. There was a thin film of black dust coating every surface, but the lab tech dusting for prints was in the process of packing his case, preparing to leave.
“Hey, Cash,” he called. “You want me to get prints tonight from the other two broads who liv
e here?”
Tristan looked up from his study of the deceased’s address book, which he had flipped open with a pen he’d pulled from his breast pocket. A slight frown puckered his heavy eyebrows. “You’ll refer to them as women,” he instructed in a soft but clipped tone of voice. “Or ladies. Not broads.”
“Hey, they’re just a couple of sweet-assed bimbos, not the Queen Mum and what’shername—Princess Anne. And who the hell are you, anyway, Jack?” the man demanded belligerently.
Joe had never seen a man of Tristan’s size move quite so swiftly. He was across the room in a flash, dwarfing Johnson with his sheer size as he leaned down to stand eyeball to eyeball with the forensics man. “I’m the mon who won’t hesitate to hang your butt out to dry if you dinna learn to show some respect,” he growled. “These women are not suspects, Detective. The victim was their friend. She’s been murdered in a most brutal way, and they’ve spent a grueling afternoon down at the morgue, identifying her body and assisting us in our investigation. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’re spending the evening wondering if it’ll happen to them next. The last person they need to be seeing tonight is some snot-nosed arrogant cop who thinks his badge gives him license to be discourteous. So to answer your question: no, we do not want you to get prints tonight from the other two women in this complex. Leave it for tomorrow.” Tristan backed up and gave the man, who was a few shades paler than he’d been moments ago, room to breathe. “As for your other question, my name isn’t Jack. I am Lieutenant MacLaughlin. And as of today, I head this case.”
“Shit, Mack,” a black detective in the corner murmured, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “Smooth career move.”
Johnson glanced over at him, obviously sharing his opinion. He was sweating lightly, but he straightened up and faced Tristan squarely. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Mack Johnson. I…uh…didn’t know who you were.”
“Who I am isn’t the point, Johnson. The badge you wear carries a responsibility, and the taxpayer who pays your wage is due courteous treatment, at the verra least. You don’t have to like what someone does for a living; that’s your right. I’ve thought a great many disrespectful thoughts m’self.” Tristan’s eyes were level and cool on the man in front of him. “But as long as you’re on the job, you keep your thoughts to yourself, Sergeant. Because the public has rights also, and one of them is the right to be treated equally under the law, regardless of your private opinion.”
Johnson wiped sweat from his forehead with a beefy forearm. “Yes, sir,” he repeated.
“Good.” Tristan stuck out his hand. “Joe tells me you’re verra good at what you do. Have you gotten a set of Miss Farrel’s prints yet, so you can start eliminating?”
Johnson shook Tristan’s proffered hand and relaxed fractionally. “Yes, sir. The morgue supplied them.”
Tristan nodded. “Call Miss Charles and Miss Smith late tomorrow morning and, if possible, find a time that’s convenient for everyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Were you on your way out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take off then, mon.” Tristan smiled slightly as Johnson turned away with visible relief. “Oh, and Johnson?”
The forensic man turned back, his face wary. “Sir?”
“You don’t have to call me sir, Sergeant.”
Johnson grinned. “Gotcha, Lieutenant.”
Joe sidled up to Tristan. “You lie through your teeth, Lieutenant,” he murmured.
Tristan turned cool eyes on him. “How’s that?”
“I never told you Mack was very good at his job.”
“Oh.” Joe was amused to see Tristan shift uncomfortably. He’d just raked Mack’s butt over the coals without turning a hair, yet he appeared embarrassed to be caught restoring Johnson’s pride. “That,” Tristan mumbled. “Well, I dinna like to take something away from a mon without giving him something in return.” He smiled crookedly. “You’re not gonna be telling me he’s not worth shit, I hope.”
“No. You erred on the side of the angels this time, Lieutenant.” Joe’s teeth gleamed whitely. “He’s damn good at what he does.”
Shortly thereafter, the rest of the lab crew finished. Tristan ordered a seal placed on the apartment and pocketed the keys after they locked up. Then Joe drove him to an inexpensive motel not far from the police station.
The room was like a thousand others in every city in every state, decorated in oranges and golds, furnished in nondescript blond laminate Danish modern, and it was overheated. Tristan stripped down to his shorts, meticulously hung up his clothes, and neatly lined his shoes on the floor next to the bed. He hung his gun, in its leather shoulder holster, on the back of a desk chair within reach of the bed.
Lying on his back on the mattress, one arm crooked behind his head, he reflected on the past ten hours. It seemed longer, somehow, since he had left Seattle. He had a whole host of impressions and reactions crowding his mind. He thought of the new town, the case…the Charles woman.
Hell of a day, he decided as he watched the impersonal, plasticized room glow red and grow dim, glow red and grow dim, as the motel sign outside his window blinked on and off.
Hell of a day.
Chapter
3
Amanda’s first reaction when she finally had her apartment to herself once again was a sagging feeling of relief, as if every rigid muscle in her body had suddenly unclenched and responded to the force of gravity.
After the two policemen left, Rhonda had remained, settling in, ready and willing to dissect the day’s events. Amanda couldn’t imagine a single activity she felt less like doing. She loved Rhonda dearly, but her curiosity and her desire to probe into the whys and wherefores of Maryanne’s murder made Amanda feel as though she were about to jump out of her skin. She felt, in fact, just like JoJo Malone used to act before she’d gotten herself fired from the Cabaret last year for a major cocaine dependency problem. She was shaky and sick, all ragged nerves and restlessness, and she found it impossible to sit still for any length of time. So she kept hopping up to straighten this and tidy that, until Rhonda finally snapped at her to plant her butt in the chair, sit still, and listen up.
And she tried, but quite honestly, she hadn’t noticed how tight Detective Cash’s cute little tush was. Neither had she observed that if Lieutenant MacLaughlin peeled out of his conservative suit and tie and put on a pair of jeans, his body would probably look just like the guy in the Soloflex ad, except maybe hairier. And she didn’t want to even think about what Maryanne’s body had looked like on that slab in the morgue, let alone discuss it with Rhonda. Her nerve endings felt as though they were right on the surface of her skin, making her foot tap, her hands fidget, and her bottom shift in agitation against the chenille upholstery of the chair, and she was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would begin to scream and scream and not be able to stop.
Rhonda left off chatting quite suddenly and looked at Amanda with concern. She popped up out of her chair and came to squat in front of her, reaching out to fold Amanda’s hands in her own. The cool, calming grip gradually penetrated, soothing the perturbed movements of her fingers.
“I’m sorry, Amanda,” Rhonda whispered. “I can be such an insensitive boob sometimes.” She stroked Amanda’s wrists and waited until she was ready to meet her eyes. “This entire situation has me wired, and you already know how a really built man gets my motor running. Well, jeez, Mandy, I truly couldn’t help but notice that both Cash and MacLaughlin have bodies designed to keep it revving in high gear for a week. But that’s no excuse for being such a horse’s ass.” She squeezed Amanda’s hands. “What would you like? Can I get you a Valium?”
“No,” Amanda whispered. “I want a hot bath.”
“You and your baths.” Rhonda rose to her feet. “I’ll go run one. Why don’t you make yourself something to eat? You haven’t had a bite since lunch—and we were both so nervous we only picked at that.”
“Maybe after my b
ath.”
“Okay, hon, whatever. At least pour yourself a glass of wine, though, will you? You look like a ghost.”
“All right. You want some?”
Rhonda looked at her closely. “No thanks,” she replied slowly. “I’m going to run your bath and then leave you alone.” She smiled slightly at the barely suppressed relief that scudded across Amanda’s violet-blue eyes. Moments later she was ushering her friend into the bathroom, helping her out of her clothes and into the tub. She lit a number of candles and handed Amanda a goblet of wine. Promising to lock the front door on her way out, she snapped off the overhead light and smiled at the picture Amanda made, sitting in her fragrant bubble bath in the candles’ glow. Then, murmuring “Good night,” she left.
Limp with relief at finally attaining a measure of privacy, Amanda slumped bonelessly, but then thought better of it when the tips of her hair touched the water. She set her wineglass down on the tile ledge that encircled the tub. Twisting her hair up, she reached into the pottery jar sitting next to the fern in the corner where the ledge met the wall. She extracted a couple of long tortoiseshell pins, which she used to skewer the French twist into place. Sighing, she leaned back, resting her head on the inflatable shell-shaped cushion. She picked up her wineglass and drained it in one gulp. Not very ladylike behavior, she decided. Wouldn’t Mother be appalled?
She snorted, yet another unladylike mannerism. The hell with Mother. Her parents were certain she was going to hell in a hand basket anyway. And Amanda appreciated the warmth the wine provided as it coursed through her bloodstream. Resolutely, she put her mind in neutral and simply enjoyed soaking up the heat of the water, listening to the hiss and whisper of the bubbles as they shifted, sliding and popping, against her skin.
Shadow Dance Page 4
