Shadow Dance

by Susan Andersen

  Why was he standing here like a lonesome puppy, watching her, when he knew that even if he did catch her eye, all he would see there would be dislike and disdain? She was one of the ones who seemed to have trouble separating him from his work, and she had already made it clear that she believed he was enjoying the spectacle of seeing her turned inside out by this investigation.

  Tristan straightened his shoulders. This had been a mistake, and it was getting him nowhere. There weren’t enough hours in the day as it was, and he couldn’t afford to waste time in a make-believe world. It was definitely time to leave.

  Two things happened simultaneously then. Amanda looked up just as he was about to turn away, and Rhonda arrived at his side, reaching out to touch his right arm. “Hi, there. I didn’t know if you would come.”

  Accustomed to keeping his right arm and hand free in case the need arose to reach for his gun, he automatically clamped a hand over hers to remove it from his forearm. Still watching Amanda, he failed to see the signs of her unusual awkwardness after she had spotted him. He only saw the sexual overtones in the climactic finish of the dance she performed with a muscular redhead.

  His fist tightened around Rhonda’s hand, preventing the blood from reaching her fingertips. She looked up in surprise as the painful grip intensified, automatically reaching out with her free hand to peel his fingers away from her knuckles, which were being ground together in his grip. His face was smooth and calm, free from expression, but his grasp was unrelenting, and Rhonda followed his unblinking gaze straight to Amanda. My God, he was breaking her fingers. “Lieutenant, please, you’re hurting me.” Rhonda’s knees started to buckle.

  Tristan’s head whipped around at the unmistakable sound of pain in her voice and the gravitational tug against his hand as she sagged in his hold. He released her immediately, but unfortunately not before Amanda chanced a peek in his direction once again, only to see him turning away and what appeared to be him forcing Rhonda to her knees.

  “Aw, God, Miss Smith, I’m sorry,” Tristan apologized and put a large hand under her elbow to help her straighten. He picked up her abused hand and held it as tenderly as a wounded bird in his own large palm, rubbing his thumb gently over her reddened knuckles. “Are you all right, then, lass? I’m ever so sorry.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I realize it wasn’t intentional…”

  “Leave her alone, you bastard!”

  Tristan released Rhonda’s hand and turned to face an outraged Amanda. “What?”

  “I said, leave her alone! What are you doing here, anyway, MacLaughlin? You don’t belong here.”

  Her words struck so close to what he had been thinking himself that Tristan felt himself reddening. “Nice of you to point that out,” he said stiffly. “I was just leaving.”

  “No, you’re not.” Rhonda moved out from behind Tristan’s bulk, which had been blocking her from her friend’s view. “Mandy, it’s okay. I invited him here.”

  Rhonda observed Amanda with interest. Although her voice was pitched low, it was clear she was upset—extremely upset. And she was being impolite, which was a rarity indeed from this woman who had been raised always to observe the proprieties, regardless of provocation. Even as she watched, Rhonda could see Tristan’s quiet reprimand had registered with Amanda. The hot color of blood sweeping beneath the surface of her skin suffused her pale golden complexion at having been caught in a rudeness. Rhonda smiled to herself as she turned to Tristan. “Care to dance, Lieutenant?”

  If it had been Amanda who had asked him, Tristan knew he would have been too self-conscious to comply. But he felt at ease with Rhonda, or at least as at ease as it was possible for him to feel with any woman. She reminded him, in fact, of the women he dated. They were free and easy, sexually uninhibited women filled with light, effortless conversation that bridged over the gaps of his own silences. Breezy lasses with wary, knowledgeable eyes, just like the girls with whom he’d grown up.

  “Lass, you might just be taking your life in your hands, risking a dance with a nonprofessional,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. “But I think I could manage to do that with no problem.” He indicated a couple performing the same style of dance he had watched Amanda and her partner perform and gave Rhonda a slow smile that almost held a suggestion of wicked amusement.

  “Goody.” Rhonda grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the dance floor. “It’s called dirty dancing, MacLaughlin. It’s the hot-again retro sensation of the moment.”

  Tristan stopped dead, pulling Rhonda to a halt also. “Dirty—?” Head tossed back, he roared with a rare, unrestrained laughter. “Perfect. Oh, that is just too bloody perfect. I watched a couple of dancers and thought it looked less like dancing than it did like an up-against-the-wall fuck—oh, I beg your pardon, lass.”

  “No problem.” Rhonda noticed that he carefully didn’t mention Amanda’s name as one of the dancers, and being nobody’s fool, she relinquished all of her half-formed plans to attempt seducing the good lieutenant. She experienced only a momentary twinge of regret. No one had to hit Rhonda Smith over the head for her to see the big picture. She had pretty much abandoned any nebulous plans already when Tristan had watched Amanda dirty dancing and failed to realize he was grinding her knuckles to dust. “But, be warned, Lieutenant,” she told him with a breezy grin. “This style of dance requires a little more skill than it might appear. Follow my lead.”

  Amanda thought she was probably the only one at Pete’s party who didn’t automatically smile at the infectious quality in MacLaughlin’s brief burst of laughter. She watched Rhonda lead him through a dance, and she experienced a confusing rush of emotions. One of them felt suspiciously like jealousy, but she knew it was only a momentary envy of Rhonda’s ability to take the best components out of any situation without first trying to diagnose them to death the way Amanda knew she sometimes did. She also felt anxious and angry and ashamed. It was pretty clear she had misinterpreted what she thought she had seen, for if the lieutenant had indeed hurt her, Rhonda would most emphatically not be shy about informing the world.

  So, you jumped to an erroneous conclusion. Amanda attempted to put it into proper perspective. You reacted with unwarranted rudeness, and now you feel like a fool. Big deal. You know damn well anyone else would just shrug it off or chalk it up to frayed nerves as the result of a couple of truly horrendous days.

  Anyone who hadn’t been programmed from childhood to feel ten kinds of guilt when she committed a social faux pas, that was. Dammit, when was she going to let go of the past? It was at times like this that she missed Teddy the most, for Teddy had always had the ability to provoke her little sister into a little healthy rebellion, the aftermath of which had left Amanda’s pristine manners just the tiniest bit tarnished. It seemed to Amanda that she’d possessed a more mature attitude when she was seventeen than she did right this minute.

  She ought to leave. She was too tired to deal with this.

  But before she could make good her escape, an overdeveloped sense of etiquette once again backed her into a corner. She gathered her jacket and purse and should have left right then. Instead, she had to track down Pete to thank him for the party and let him know she was leaving. She was in the middle of her excuses when he said, “Just a minute, love,” and, instead of relinquishing her, dragged her along with him to intercept Rhonda and Tristan as they left the dance floor.

  “Hey there, Lieutenant,” he greeted Tristan. “Good to see you. Did you get a glass of wine?”

  “Actually, I was just leaving,” Tristan replied. “I’ve got to get to work. Thanks again for inviting me, lass,” he said to Rhonda. “And for the dance.” He smiled slightly. “It was most instructive.”

  “Amanda’s leaving, too,” Pete informed them. “Maybe you could walk her to her car.”

  “Oh, no, really,” Amanda protested. “That’s not necessary. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition,” MacLaughlin said. “In fact, I insist. It’s not smart fo
r a young woman to be out on the streets alone these days—particularly a dancer.”

  Amanda gave Rhonda an imploring look, but she merely smirked. Pete removed any further options when he grabbed Rhonda’s arm and said, “There’s this guy who’s been driving me crazy, insisting he has to meet you. Why don’t you come along and let me introduce you, so I can get him off my back.”

  “Ooh,” was all she replied, and gave a single full-body wiggle of anticipation. She smoothed an eyebrow, grinned indiscriminately at all of them, and hooked an arm through Pete’s, strolling away without a backward glance. Tristan and Amanda exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you ready, then?”

  “Yes.” Amanda hitched her purse strap more securely onto her shoulder. “We can leave by the kitchen door. It’s closer to where I parked.”

  The short walk to her car was accomplished in absolute silence. A small frown dug a groove between Tristan’s thick eyebrows when Amanda opened her car door without using a key. He stopped her from entering the automobile by placing a hand on her arm. “You didn’t bother to lock it?”

  “I forgot.” And of course the one time she had done so would have to be when he was around.

  “Of all the careless…” Tristan moved her aside and leaned inside the driver’s door to check the interior of the car. He noticed that it smelled like leather and some light, elusive perfume. Backing out once again, he leveled his gaze on her, his eyes carefully free of expression. “Every time you go out alone, Miss Charles,” he said in a neutral voice, “you put yourself at risk. It’s necessary to be more cautious than you’ve ever been before. Your life may depend on it.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said stiffly, staring at the rigidly knotted tie beneath his white starched collar. She knew he was right, of course; she had been inexcusably careless. But this guy was the last person she needed a lecture from this morning. “May I go now?”

  Tristan felt like spitting nails, but he kept his mask of cool indifference firmly in place, damned if he’d let her see. Bloody hell. She takes everything I say to her the wrong way. Every sodding time. With reluctance, he stood back and held the door for her. “Aye. Drive carefully.” Chances were, she would find exception in that, too.

  But it was not for nothing that Amanda had had manners drummed into her from the time she was old enough to string two words together. “I will,” she said softly, and she extended her hand. When the lieutenant’s large grasp swallowed it up, she fought a panicked urge to snatch it back. She was surprised anew at how warm his skin was. He had such a cool attitude, it never failed to amaze her that he radiated as much heat as ordinary men, if not more. It amazed her, too, that he didn’t just pump her hand once and release it. Really, wasn’t he holding it just a little bit longer than was strictly necessary? “Um…thank you for walking me to my car. You may not think so, but I do appreciate it.”

  Tristan released her hand and stepped back from the car. “It was no problem. Be sure to lock your door.” Once her legs were pulled in, he closed the door behind her.

  “Yes.” She looked at him through the rolled-up window, and immediately did as he instructed. The corner of her lips turned upward in just the tiniest of smiles.

  And then she drove away.

  Chapter

  6

  In the following weeks, Amanda’s life slowly returned to normal. Lieutenant MacLaughlin eventually ran out of questions, and the police ultimately directed their attention elsewhere. As far as she knew, no real progress was being made in the hunt for Maryanne’s killer, but at least she was no longer in the thick of it. Nothing was exactly the same as it had been before, of course. Everyone she knew had been affected by Maryanne’s death in one way or another, and they’d all learned to adopt a new wariness.

  Her apartment was a case in point. The seal across the door had finally come down last week, and after cleaning up the mess the police had left behind and sorting and packing away Maryanne’s more personal possessions, Amanda was now free to rent it. The problem was to whom.

  The only male dancer she knew who was currently looking for a place to live was Pete Schriber, and although he expressed a strong interest in Maryanne’s apartment, Amanda did not want to rent it to him. He was gay. Amanda had no particular problem with that; she liked Pete. But he was also extremely promiscuous, and while Amanda didn’t care to judge another’s life-style, the truth of the matter was that the last thing she needed right now was a parade of strange men constantly coming and going. It simply didn’t strike her as very bright in view of the present circumstances. If this entire ordeal had taught her anything, it was the crucial need for caution. She had to be able to look at any unidentified male who entered the premises and know whether he belonged there or not. With Pete’s life-style, she would never know if a stranger on the grounds was a friend of his or someone who had no business being there.

  But even with the new awareness of danger that made such considerations necessary, it was still good to reestablish some normalcy in her routine. And with each day that passed without incident—and particularly without further contact with the large, unyieldingly stern lieutenant—she relaxed a little further. Slowly, she felt her life begin to regain its former steady footing.

  Tristan was beginning to settle into a routine also. He set about erecting his new division in his usual manner—with methodical competence. In all honesty, he believed any halfway intelligent police officer could have done as much; it was merely a matter of instituting routine procedures. But he suspected the reason Reno had specifically requested a Seattle policeman to head its new task force was because law enforcement agencies from the Pacific Northwest had unfortunately had more encounters in that field than they cared to think about. Thus they were more sensitive to the patterns of mass murderers than almost any other police department in the nation. In the past twenty years they’d had extensive experience in cases involving serial killers of such notoriety as Ted Bundy, Kenneth Bianchi, Randy Woodfield, and Gary Ridgeway—names that had gone down in the annals of crime for the sheer grisly proliferation of their victims.

  But experienced or not, Tristan warned his division against expecting an early solution. “You know as well as I do,” he addressed the officers gathered in his office one morning, “that most murders in the United States are committed by people who know each other, usually spouses, relatives, or neighbors. Reno probably gets more of the smaller percentage committed in the course of another crime like robbery. In either case, those categories tend to generate a lot of evidence.”

  He sat facing his task force in his favorite position, straddling a turned-around, straight-backed wooden chair. Resting his chin on his stacked hands, he regarded them glumly. “Mass murderers are a different proposition altogether. The verra randomness of a serial killer, coupled with the premeditation that is nearly always involved, drastically reduce the clues that point to the killer’s identity. And as much as I’d like to be able to tell you that you can recognize one of these bloody butchers by the mad gleam in his eye, I canna.” One corner of Tristan’s mouth quirked up briefly at the momentary swell of appreciative laughter, but then he sobered. “They’re bloody hard to pinpoint. In just about every respect, the killer is someone who blends in extremely well. He is of above-average intelligence, and he can—and usually will—project an air of superiority. Historically, he dresses conventionally and well; he’s considered a good employee, easily adopts middle class behavior; and invariably a neighbor pops up who’s willing to say, ‘But he was so quiet and nice.’” Tristan snorted. “If and when we do catch the bugger, you can bet he will tend to try to control any interrogation. They’re at their best in an interview situation, for they lie easily and well.”

  “Sounds like a real charmer, Lieutenant,” a detective said sarcastically from the back of the room.

  “Aye, he can be that, too, when it suits him,” Tristan replied with complete seriousness. “But he’s a predator and a killer, and h
is personality is not yet clearly understood by either criminologists or psychiatrists. I’d love to get a profiler on the case, though, because they have made significant inroads into the subject in the past few years. But Captain Tweedt tells me he blew his budget just bringing me in, so unless the feds volunteer one, I understand I can just keep on wishing.”

  “Given what you do know of the killer so far,” said a black detective, “can you tell us if this is a brother we’re talking about, or your average white bread?”

  “Most probably he’s white,” Tristan replied. “With the exception of Wayne Williams in Atlanta, every serial killer to date has been Caucasian.” He smiled faintly. “It tends to send statisticians around the bloody bend, since blacks ordinarily have a murder rate nine times that of whites.” He regarded his subordinate levelly. If there was going to be racial tension in his squad, now was the time to address it.

  But the black detective merely shrugged, rolled his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, and murmured, “I guess you white folks really do it up right when you decide to play catch-up, though, don’t ya?” Tristan laughed and turned back to the subject at hand.

  “These buggers are generally caught when they suddenly change their MO,” he informed his task force, and he looked up from his notes to see an almost uniform puzzlement on the faces of his men.

  “Give us an example,” one of the detectives said.

  “Well, take Ted Bundy, for instance. He was considered to be a neat, methodically organized killer when he was operating in Washington State and Colorado. He was caught when he suddenly changed his methods and broke into a sorority house in Florida, where he clubbed two women with a piece of firewood in a rather random, unplanned attack.”

  Tristan riffled through his notes and glanced up at his men again. “I have a few more pieces of psychological trivia to pass along, which may help you get an idea of the type of guy we’re hunting. A typical trait of a serial killer is to see a woman as all good or all evil. There are no shades of gray to him; in his eyes, she’s either saintly madonna or sinful whore, and woe be it to the woman he once thought of as pure, if something occurs to suddenly make him see her as a whore.