Better Read Than Dead (6 page)

“A mask?” Milo repeated.

“Yeah, I had a really brief glance at it from the corner of my eye.”

“Like a Halloween mask?” Milo asked.

“No, not a Halloween mask. It was a ski mask, one of those Gore-Tex ones.”

“The skier . . .” I said breathlessly, a little startled by the revelation.

Cathy looked sharply at me, her mouth dropping open at the connection. “Oh, my God . . . yesterday you told me to be careful of the skier. After I left your office I remember thinking that you must have been talking about my next-door neighbor. I think he skis, and he’s always trying to hit on me.”

“Could he have been your attacker?” Milo asked.

“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe? I have no idea; that’s just who came to mind when I was wondering who Abby was talking about.”

“He’s your next-door neighbor?”

“Yeah, he lives in the redbrick ranch right next to ours. He’s always trying to talk to me when Kenny isn’t home. He’s creepy too. Last summer I caught him spying through the fence between our properties when I was sunbathing.”

“You know his name?”

“I think it’s Jeff, or John . . . something with a
J
. . .”

“It’s Jeff. Jeff Zimmer,” said a voice from behind us. We all looked up quickly, and around the curtain stepped a young man with sandy-blond hair and eyes full of pain. Cathy’s boyfriend, no doubt.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Cathy said with longing in her voice. Quickly the young man moved to the opposite side of the bed from me and took his girlfriend’s hand protectively. Cathy began to melt again with emotion, and I sent Milo a look as I got up and stepped away. These two people needed some alone time. Milo nodded at me and closed his notebook after jotting down the name Cathy’s boyfriend had given him. “Thanks, Ken,” he said. “We’ll check it out. Cathy, why don’t you rest, and if you remember anything more just call my cell phone. You have the card, right?”

Cathy nodded as tears made tracks down her face. Milo and I waved a small good-bye, exiting the room.

 

On the way back to my house, Milo filled me in on what else Cathy had remembered, which was very little. She’d gotten to the market just before closing, and the staff was already locking up as she left. She was halfway to her car when she was grabbed from behind, dragged backward behind the building, beaten and hit over the head into unconsciousness. Luckily she had no recollection of her rape—a small blessing, in my opinion.

Milo pulled his car into my driveway, and after shifting into park he reached over and squeezed my hand. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I was a little hard on you this morning.”

“No, you were absolutely right,” I said, looking at him, still feeling chagrined. “Mornings have never been good for my personality, and I’m sorry I was so insensitive.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Milo replied with a mischievous grin.

“Deal.” I laughed as I got out of the car. Right before closing the door I asked, “Call me if anything new develops, okay?”

“You got it,” Milo answered, giving me a small salute.

I walked up my walkway and into the house, where an impatient Eggy pestered me until I’d cooked his morning egg. Then, glancing at the clock, which now read eight, I ran upstairs for a quick shower. While I was shampooing I heard the phone ring, and being one of those impulsive types who can’t let a phone ring without answering it, I got out of the shower and grabbed the cordless before the call went to voice mail.

“Morning,” came my favorite baritone.

“Hey, there, Dutch,” I said, feeling relieved that he seemed to be in a better mood this morning. “Listen, I’m in the shower. Can I call you back in a couple of minutes?”

“Need someone to scrub your back?”

The flirtatiousness of the question caught me off guard, and I dissolved into a fit of nervous giggles. Sometimes I’m
so
sophisticated. “Uh, ha-ha, no, actually, I’m just rinsing off . . . I mean I’m almost done . . . I mean, hee-hee, not that I would normally turn down your offer . . . ha-ha, I’m just running late this morning and—”

“Just call me when you’re through, okay, babe? I’m at home,” Dutch said, obviously recognizing that I needed help putting an end to my embarrassment.

“Deal,” I said hanging up the phone and rushing back into the shower. Quickly I rinsed off and folded myself into my favorite flannel robe; then, with my hair bound up into a giant turban I called Dutch back. “Morning, sailor,” I sang when he picked up.

“Hey, there. I wanted to catch you before you headed off to work and see if you were still intent on working tonight.”

My shoulders slumped; I’d almost forgotten about my obligation for this evening. “Yeah, I’m sorry, but Kendal did me a huge favor last summer and I really owe him. Besides, you and I have all weekend, or parts of it anyway. I’m working Saturday and Sunday, but we still have the evenings. Honest, I can make it up to you, I promise.”

There was a long pause on Dutch’s end, then, “Could you at least have lunch with me this afternoon?”

“Absolutely!” I said perking up immediately. “I have a break from noon to one. How’s that grab you?”

“Sounds like a winner. I’ll pick you up right at twelve.”

“Sailor, you can pick me up anytime, anywhere . . . I won’t complain,” I said, doing my best Mae West.

Dutch doesn’t share my love of impressions, so he simply replied, “See you then, babe,” and hung up.

With a quick glance at the clock I rushed back into the bathroom to get to work on hair and makeup.

My looks have always been the one thing about me that I’ve been pretty comfortable with. Having a sixth sense took years to come to grips with, but not my appearance. I know people who stare at themselves in the mirror and long to be different. Not me.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m by no means a supermodel, but neither am I plain-Jane, either. I’m somewhere in between, sort of a girl-next-door type with long, waist-length hair the color a mixture of auburn, brunette and a few recently added blond highlights. My face is an inverted triangle, with a broad forehead, high cheek-bones, a regular nose and an angular chin. My eyes are steel blue, my complexion fair and—usually—blemish free. I do have freckles, though, which I remember in my youth not being so fond of, but over the years I’ve gotten used to them.

My shoulders are broad for a girl, my hips are curvy and my butt has just a hint of J-Lo. I’m small in the chest, but since the invention of the Wonderbra, it’s been less of an issue.

I stand five-foot six, and due to a busy schedule of late, I weigh a little less these days than I did a few months back; I’m down to 120 pounds.

My one weakness is that I’m a clotheshorse. My closet is bursting to overfull, and my fashion sense leans toward Darth Vader.

When I was a little girl, most of the other little girls in my neighborhood wanted to be Princess Leia. And although I liked Leia, and cheered for her, Luke and the gang . . . it was Darth Vader who captivated me.

Here was a guy who was different. He could do stuff with his mind that others couldn’t. He could tap into the future and see things that were about to happen. He’d had some sort of freak accident that prevented him from mixing with polite company, so he too was on the outskirts of the “in” crowd.

To this day I remember the power emanating from Lord Vader as he strode down hallways, his black cape billowing dramatically behind him as the music trumpeted his footsteps and the eerie sound of a ventilator sounded a warning call to one and all.

Everyone in his path shrank from his presence as, even masked, he still dominated the screen. Darth Vader stole every scene, he commanded absolute respect, and nobody messed with him. As a lonely little kid known to have rather “odd” talents, which provoked a slew of verbal and even physical attacks, sometimes I longed for that kind of presence.

Now, in the real world I can’t very well parade around in a cape, no matter how much I’d like to, so given my dramatic flair, you can imagine how happy I was the day sweater coats came into vogue. I must have fifteen of them, most in shades of gray, black or charcoal.

My typical wardrobe for a day at the office is a sweater coat, jeans and spiky boots that, of course,
must
match the sweater coat, so I have ten or fifteen pairs of those too. Gee, and I wonder why my savings account remains so low.

This morning I chose faded blues, black silk blouse, black sweater coat and black boots. Look out, Dutch; here comes Darth Vadora.

 

After half an hour of primping in the bathroom I was done, and I rushed down the steps trying not to trip in my heels. After letting Eggy out one last time I locked up and headed to my office.

The morning passed normally, although I found myself having to work hard to concentrate as the time to meet Dutch came closer. I hadn’t seen him in eight weeks, and I wondered, insecurely, if we’d still have that same spark between us.

At exactly twelve noon there was a knock on my outer door, and with a quick breath I rushed to open it. As the door swung open there stood Dutch Rivers, leaning against the doorjamb in cool magnificence. I tell you, ladies,
no
man should look that good.

He was wearing a tan suede jacket, brown cashmere sweater and faded blue jeans. He’d obviously just showered, as his light blond hair still looked slightly damp, and the subtle scent of a spice-laden aftershave tickled my nose. “Hey, there, Edgar,” he said, using the nickname he’d coined for me months ago, after the famous psychic Edgar Cayce. The way it came out of his mouth, all throaty and masculine, made me want to jump him right there and then.

“Hey, yourself,” I said, my voice cracking and a smile erupting on my face. I saw him straighten, looking intently at me, and it froze me in place. I don’t know what I imagined this moment would be like, especially after not seeing each other for so long, but I do know I didn’t think it would be this intense. This charged. This . . .
hot
.

I waited for him to do something, and for several seconds all we did was look at each other. Then I heard him inhale deeply and move forward, grabbing me around the waist with one hand and lifting my chin with the other. I allowed myself to be pulled forward as he kissed me long and deep. I couldn’t help it; I moaned. This of course gave him added encouragement, and his kiss deepened, his embrace tightened and I began to swoon.

My senses were filled with him. His smell. His warmth. His kiss. His touch. We pawed at each other, breathing heavily and consuming each other like ravaging animals. At some point, however, I heard someone pass by and cough loudly, saying, “Get a room.”

I didn’t care, but Dutch was probably a little more self-conscious, and he pulled back slightly and looked behind him to the departing figure, then back at me, and grinned. “That’s a great suggestion. Shall we take him up on that?”

Just as I was nodding my stomach gave a very loud, rebellious growl. It had been hours since I’d eaten. We both looked down at my midsection in surprise, and Dutch let out his throaty, seductive laugh. “Guess we’d better feed you first, huh?”

My stomach answered with another growl. I giggled myself this time and said, “Yeah, might be a good idea.”

“I’ve made reservations anyway,” Dutch said, releasing his firm grip on me.

I smiled shyly as I smoothed back my hair and readjusted my clothing. How had my blouse come unbuttoned? When I’d put myself back together, I grabbed my purse and smiled as I brushed past Mr. Sexy while he held the door. After locking up we headed companionably down the hallway, his arm tossed casually across my shoulders. “So, gorgeous, how ya been?” he asked while taking up a small lock of my hair to examine my new highlights more closely.

One of my favorite things about Dutch is how quick he is with a compliment.

“I’m good,” I answered. “Busy, but good. You like?” I asked, indicating the highlights.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” he said, smiling, “but you could be bald as a billiard and still look good to me.”

God help me, I’d found the perfect man. “So where we going for lunch?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator, heading toward the lobby.

“Well, I made reservations at Maverick and Moon’s, but about that . . .”

“Yes?” I asked as we reached the front lobby.

“I wanted to introduce you to my new partner, so . . .”

“You extended an invitation,” I said, letting the disappointment hang in my voice.

“Uh, yeah. Technically I’m still a trainee, and I’m sort of under Joe’s command for the first six months.”

There was an unspoken apology in Dutch’s voice, and I really wasn’t up to picking a petty argument over something so small. We’d have time to get reacquainted later anyway, so I shrugged off my initial annoyance. “Dutch, it’s okay. I’d love to meet your new partner. Speaking of which, have you talked to Milo lately?”

Dutch and I had reached his car at this point, and my question hung in the air as I saw him bolt around to the front of his car—parked illegally, as usual—and snatch a small white piece of paper from under the wipers. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, alarmed.

“That son of a bitch Bennington!”

Immediately I knew whom he was referring to. Shawn Bennington was an archrival of Dutch’s. Passed over for detective half a dozen times, Bennington was most recently reprimanded due to his lack of professionalism in a murder case Dutch and I had solved. Dutch had made a lot of noise about Bennington’s sloppiness, and as a result Bennington had been demoted to meter maid. The ticket wadded up in Dutch’s hand was evidence that Bennington was taking his revenge any way he could. “I’m gonna kill that asshole!” Dutch said, looking around for any sign of the patrolman. Not seeing him, he mashed up the ticket and stuffed it into his coat pocket, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line.