But not before she’d accused him of leaving her to the mercies of the real killer and had begged him to stay.
Not before she’d said if you really love me, you won’t leave me with only Dogface to protect me.
Amanda pulled out her blender and went to the refrigerator for jalapeño peppers, lemon juice, and onion. She didn’t know why she was making guacamole at eight o’clock in the morning, except it was a way to keep her hands and mind occupied. Maybe then she could erase the memory of wounded fury that had flashed across Tristan’s eyes before he’d rapidly assembled his features into the mask of detached, professional indifference she hated. She looked blankly at the two avocados in her hand and wished she had kept her mouth shut. Even Rhonda had looked shocked—and disappointed in her.
Amanda chopped the stems off the jalapeños, cut the onion in small slices, measured the lemon juice, and threw the three ingredients in the blender. She remembered tomato and went to the fridge.
Rhonda had no business being disappointed in her. Let her be pulled out of a warm bed at six o’clock in the morning after too few hours of sleep, to be told her life had been threatened. Let her be left alone with a strange and silent watchdog while the one man who could keep her safe went chasing after a wild goose. Or, more aptly, an immature turkey. It was Rhonda who had convinced Tristan of the need to bring Randy in for questioning in the first place. If she hadn’t remembered seeing those cat scratches on his arm the day the fourth dancer’s body had been discovered, and if she hadn’t told Tristan about Randy accosting Amanda in the alcove near the wings last night, he would be here with her now, instead of leaving her with that silent, bulldog-faced man in her living room.
Amanda paused in the act of fitting the lid on the blender and stared blindly at the wall. No, that wasn’t fair. Rhonda had only been acting out of concern for her. And she certainly had no one but herself to blame for the rotten way she had spoken to Tristan.
She pried the lid back off, glowered at the mess in the blender, and reached for the pepper mill. Dammit, why was she cursed with this inconvenient sense of fair play? She wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable. Her life was at risk. She was all but immobilized with fear, and just once, she wanted to throw a tantrum like a spoiled child. Then she wanted to crawl into MacLaughlin’s strong arms and be held there while she cried out all the poisons that built up when a woman’s autonomy was removed from her control by the actions of a madman. And she didn’t want to take a step from his side until the killer was behind bars.
She wanted to be safe, and to lead a normal, regular, everyday kind of life with that big, stubborn, Scottish—no, American—cop.
Amanda punched a button on the blender, and it whirred to clamorous, noisy life just as the doorbell rang.
Was that so much to ask?
Detective Cash and Lieutenant MacLaughlin were playing Good Cop/Bad Cop. Tristan had assumed the bad cop role, and he thought it was a damn good thing. He didn’t think he’d have a prayer, where Randy Baker was concerned, of sustaining Joe’s role of nice cop. For the first time ever, in all his years on the force, he had a burning urge to get seriously, viciously physical with a taxpayer.
He closed the door behind the lab man as the tech left with a tape of Baker’s voice to be rushed through the spectrograph. He crossed to the table where the young dancer sat. “Tell us what you know about Amanda Charles.”
Randy’s head snapped up. “Is that what this is all about? That whoring bitch came whining to you, didn’t she?”
Randy jumped when Tristan’s large hands slammed down on the table in front of him. The giant cop was leaning over the table, his face only inches away, and Randy’s head reared back with an instinctive need to put some distance between himself and the raw, malignant emotion that emanated from the silver-gray eyes. The cop’s face was impassive, a frozen wasteland. But, Jesus, his eyes…
“Is that how you think of women, Baker?” Tristan’s voice was a low, hoarse rumble. “Are they all bitches to you? Whores? Is that what you call them when you’re raping them, when you’re beating them to an unrecognizable pulp?” Tristan wrapped one meaty fist in the soft material of Baker’s T-shirt and twisted, pulling the dancer from his chair, forcing him to lean awkwardly over the table. “You sick son of a bi…”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant!” Detective Cash separated Baker’s shirt from Tristan’s fist, and Randy sank into his chair as if his legs refused to hold him any longer. “Ya gotta cool down, man…”
“Give me five minutes alone with him, Joe,” Tristan said to Cash, but his eyes never left Baker. “Five minutes. I guarantee you results. The boy might not look so pretty, and he might not dance so pretty, but he’ll be ready to tell us the truth. I promise you.”
Randy’s bowels threatened to give way, and he stared at Detective Cash as if he were a savior when he returned from leading MacLaughlin over to the window, having murmured something that apparently appeased the angry man. Randy accepted the cigarette Detective Cash shook out of a pack and extended to him, but he kept a wary eye on MacLaughlin’s harsh profile as he smoked it. The cop’s interest was focused on something outside the window. Randy blew out a stream of smoke and brushed the hair off his forehead. He looked up at Joe.
“That guy’s crazy.”
“Yeah, I hope I can keep him off your back. But last night you told his lady she was gonna get hers. A few hours later he gets a phone call saying Amanda Charles is a dead woman. If you have anything to say for yourself, Baker, I’d speak up fast, if I were you. MacLaughlin outranks me. All he’s gotta do, kid, is order me outta the room.”
Randy paled. “Jesus H. Christ, you think I’m the Showgirl Slayer? That’s nuts, man! I ain’t never hurt a woman in my life!” His voice rose with each word.
Tristan turned from the window. “You just feel the lassies up, is that what you’ll be having us believe?”
“Yes!”
“Y’just cop a feel here, cop a feel there, but nobody gets hurt, right? Grab a little tit, pat a little ass, who’s to care. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, yes!”
Tristan surged away from the wall and crossed to tower over Baker once again, hands planted on the scarred wood on the tabletop. “The lassies care! The lassies have told you, more than once, and more than one of them, to knock it the hell off, but y’haven’t, then, have you?” Suddenly, he straightened. He stared down his nose at the seated young man. “There were scratches all over your arm the day Joy Frede’s body was discovered in a dumpster. Did she object a wee bit too hard to being felt up by the likes of you? Is that why you raped her and then killed her?” The words were rapped out hard and fast, and sweat streamed from every pore of Randy’s body.
“It was a cat! A cat made those scratches. Jesus, you gotta believe me! I ain’t never hit no woman in my life. Please, Lieutenant! I’m sorry I touched your girlfriend, but I wouldn’t hurt her. I swear. Does Amanda think I’d do that? I’ll apologize; I’ll never touch another woman without her permission as long as I live. I’ll do anything, but you gotta believe me.”
“Amanda’s soft. She insisted it couldn’t be you. She says you’re more punk kid than killer.”
“God, man, listen to her!”
Tristan was beginning to think he should have. When they had first dragged Baker out of bed and told him to get dressed to come downtown with them for questioning, Randy had been as arrogant as the favored son of a small town’s richest man. He hadn’t even asked why; his attitude as he had accompanied them had been cocky and insolent. A cold rage had burned through Tristan’s veins at the thought of this young punk putting his hands on Amanda, and it had taken a little longer than it should have before it sank in that, despite the little sod’s smug opinion of himself, Baker wasn’t acting in the classic manner of a serial killer. He hadn’t attempted to control the interview, and his air of superiority had evaporated quicker than spit in the desert the moment he’d realized where the questions were leading.
>
Tristan reached over and picked up the phone.
He hung up a few moments later and ran both hands over his face in a scrubbing motion. He looked up at Joe. “They haven’t got the results yet.” He turned to Baker. “Is there anyone who can verify that you were scratched by a cat?”
“How the hell would I…” Randy saw the look in MacLaughlin’s eyes and immediately modified his tone of voice. “I didn’t see anyone. Someone could have been looking out their window, though.”
“We can send someone out to check with your neighbors.” Giving in to a faint feeling of unease, Tristan turned to Joe. “Take over. I’m going to call Amanda.”
As he dialed the number, Tristan heard Joe ask about an alibi for any of the dates when the other three victims were murdered. He wasn’t paying close attention, frowning as Amanda’s phone rang and rang and rang, but by the rising hysteria in Baker’s voice, he assumed the kid couldn’t automatically provide one. A moment later, he slammed down the receiver and jumped to his feet, grabbing his coat.
“Cut him loose.” Turning to Baker, he snapped, “Don’t leave town, kid.” Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
When Joe got to the parking lot, it was in time to see Tristan’s car reversing out of its parking slot in a tight, fast U-turn. He raced across the lot and ripped open the passenger door, diving headfirst into the car just as Tristan slammed the gearshift into first. “What the hell is going on?”
Tristan took off with a screech of smoking rubber before Joe had a chance to close the door behind him. He hit the street already doing forty.
“Nobody answered the bloody phone.”
Amanda lifted her finger from the blender and listened. Then, out of sorts, she shook her head and turned the appliance on again. Typical. Every time she ran the vacuum cleaner she thought she heard the phone ringing. Now the blender was making her hear doorbells.
Amanda frowned and raised her finger once again. The appliance whirred into silence. She had used this blender a hundred times before and she’d never noticed that particular phenomenon. It was probably nothing, but to be on the safe side, she’d check in with the watchdog.
“Sergeant Kalowski?” She walked into the living room. His book was open, face down on the coffee table, but he wasn’t sitting in the chair where she had last seen him. She poked her head in the dining room. It, too, was empty. “Sergeant?”
Maybe he’d had to use the bathroom. She headed there, passing the open doorway to the kitchen on her way. She glanced in. If necessary, she’d pound on the bathroom door, if that’s what it took to determine his whereabouts. She tried not to think of the embarrassment to both of them if he was simply obeying a sudden call of nature. He might simply have failed to hear her call.
Her feet hesitated a few steps beyond the kitchen doorway. Something wasn’t right. Her mind’s eye had belatedly registered an aberration in the kitchen. There had been a long shadow bisecting the tiled floor, and she couldn’t think of a thing that would account for it.
It had looked almost like the shape of a man.
Shivers tightened her scalp and raced along her spine, leaving a wash of goose bumps to rise up in their wake. Her heart surged up her throat, then dropped with a sickening swoop and started pounding against her rib cage. She’d half turned toward the kitchen to check out the anomaly catching her attention. Now she spun on her heel and ran for the bedroom.
Visions of the lockable door, the phone, the gun, all shattered before she’d gone more than three steps. Steel fingers gripped her hair, and Amanda was swung around by the froth of curls escaping her barrette until she crashed up against the wall just inside the kitchen. Pain exploded in her cheekbone from an unseen fist, and she felt a rush of cooler air upon her heated skin as her blouse was ripped open. Vicious fingers tore at her bra, gouging vulnerable flesh. Blinking through tears of pain and against the brightness of the kitchen following the hall’s gloom, she peered at her assailant.
And recognized him.
“Dean?” Her voice cracked in the middle of the one-syllable name, and for a moment, his hands quit tearing at her clothes. He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her back against the wall. Pain erupted in the back of her head where it struck the hard surface, and then she bent double and choked when he buried his fist in her stomach. He dragged her upright again.
“That’s right, Amanda.” She looked up through pain-fogged eyes at a face stripped of civilization and into narrowed eyes gleaming with a lust for blood. Her blood. “It’s ol’ Dean. Happy to see me?”
“Why?” she whispered, but he didn’t appear to hear her. He seemed to be looking inward, gloating over something only he could see.
“Where’s Kalowski?” she asked hoarsely. “What have you done with him?”
“Sent him to that ol’ pigsty in the sky,” he replied, and then he laughed. Chills ran up and down Amanda’s spine. “It was perfect, Amanda,” he told her confidentially. “They made it almost too easy. The dumb shit didn’t even ask who was there. He just stuck he head out the door and…” He made a sound like cracking bones. “Now he’s permanently looking over his shoulder.”
Amanda couldn’t stifle her small moan of terror.
Dean’s mouth stretched in a parody of a grin. “They’re so fucking stupid,” he informed her. “All of them.” Then his eyes got a faraway look, a little frown puckered his brow, and he murmured to himself, “I thought that Scottish bastard was sticking it to Rhonda Smith…”
“Rhonda!” Amanda couldn’t stop herself from exclaiming. “It was you in that parking lot?”
“She gets herself talked about, you know. Word has it she was dirty dancing with MacLaughlin at some party, and I was going to get to him through her. He’s the one I’ve got to show. I figured…but it didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned.” His face twisted; then, slowly, he focused on Amanda again.
“You know, it really is too bad you know who I am,” he whispered and brushed the hair out of her face in a grisly travesty of tenderness. Then he backhanded her with vicious strength. “It woulda been kind of fun to just splinter all your bones, slice up this pretty face”—the backs of his fingers trailed down her cheekbone to her jaw—“and leave you here for MacPrick to find.” He giggled. “It would be worse than death for you, wouldn’t it, Amanda? That’s what I want for you, you see—whatever will destroy you most completely. I thought you were different; I thought you were pure.” His hand closed over her windpipe and squeezed with increasing strength, cutting off her air. “But you’re worse than all those other cunts put together. Yeah, I really wish I could leave you alive. MacPrick wouldn’t have any use for you—not once he saw I’d used every orifice in your body.” He released her and Amanda sagged against the wall, gasping for breath. “Not after he saw the face I’d leave you with. And you wouldn’t be able to dance—ever again, Amanda.” He giggled once more. “Oh shit, it’d be great. It’s almost as much fun to destroy a dancer’s career as it is to kill. I discovered that when I pushed that fag Schriber in front of the truck.”
“Pete?” she whispered. “You pushed Pete?”
“Yeah. I wanted to dance for the Cabaret. Hell, you saw me audition; you know how superior I am to the rest of those lead-footed hoofers. But Charlie said there weren’t any positions available.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “So I opened one up.”
Amanda felt something very cold take possession of her emotions. It encased her, numbing her terror. Okay. Fine. She was all alone. And he was crazy. But she was going to get out of this.
By herself, as usual.
She had always known, in a far-flung corner of her mind, that only one person could ever be counted on to keep her safe, and that person was she. All her life, it seemed, she had taken care of herself. She had learned not to rely on other people to look out for her, and she knew now that it had been a mistake of gargantuan proportions to depend on Tristan for her safety. Because he was nowhere around when it really counted, was he? Once ag
ain, she was on her own.
Dean was still gloating over his cleverness when Amanda slammed her knee into his crotch. With a dancer’s quick reflex, he deflected most of the blow, but she knocked him to his knees all the same. He fell across the doorway, blocking her planned avenue of escape, so Amanda ran for the drawer where she kept the knives. She pulled it open, but Dean rolled across the floor and to his feet, throwing himself at her back and slamming her forward, and her stomach shoved it closed again. The force of his tackle bent her over the counter, and her wide-flung arms knocked the container off the blender. It skittered along the counter, and Amanda made a grab for it just as Dean punched her in the kidney. Still clutching it, she fell to the floor, rolling away from the foot that he aimed at her face. It glanced off her ear. She pried off the rubber cap and plunged her fingers down into the chunky liquid at the bottom.
Dean kicked the container out of her hands, stomped flatfooted on her forearm, grabbed her left wrist, and then jerked it. Amanda screamed as the delicate bone snapped.
Breathing heavily, Dan hooked his fingers in the waistband of Amanda’s pants and dragged her to her feet. She moaned as her broken arm flopped against her side and pain pulsed through her with red-hot agony. In her ear his voice muttered a litany of obscenities, interspersed with self-satisfied assertions of his own superiority. Shoving her against the wall, he kept her upright by planting a hand flat against her chest. He cocked back his fist.
Amanda reached for his eyes with her right hand, and Dean screamed when her fingers, with their coating of lemon juice, pureed onion, and jalapeño pepper came into contact with the membranes of his eyelids. He let her go and clutched at his eyes.
Left arm hanging uselessly at her side, Amanda ran for the bedroom. She slammed the door and slid the bolt, knowing it wouldn’t hold him for long. Pulling out the drawer of her nightstand, she cursed the squeamishness that had caused her to insist on keeping the gun unloaded. An hour ago, she would have been willing to swear she wasn’t capable of pointing a gun at another human being and pulling the trigger, no matter how threatened.
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