Deadly Fall (14 page)

He finally drifted into a fitful sleep, chased by dark, shadowy nightmares. When Charlie woke up for the last time, his nightmares became reality.

Augusta closed the bathroom door behind her and locked it. Taking comfort in the mindless activity, she methodically pulled the pins from her hair, letting the disheveled twist fall into a disheveled length to her elbows. With her fingertips, she massaged her sore scalp for long moments. Then she pulled the stretchy, fitted top with three-quarter length sleeves over her head and let it land in a heap at her feet. Her loose-fitting silk slacks followed. Her lacy, peach-colored demi bra and matching panties were next. The clothes piled on the floor represented a good portion of her monthly salary at NYU, but she had decided earlier that they would be destined for her fireplace in the living room downstairs, with the exception of the blood-stained slacks. She carefully folded the slacks and laid them on the counter. Nick wanted them and the DNA evidence. Her favorite pair of sandals and leather pea coat would join them. She would never be able to wear the clothes or the shoes again without feeling violated, without feeling that invisible film of filth settling on her skin. The monetary value was a small price to pay.

Augusta stepped into the shower. Steam filled the room in curls and ribbons of pale gray until it was more sauna than bathroom. It was a long time before she reached for her towel and briskly dried herself off. She took comfort in the ritual of applying lotion on every inch of her skin, following it with a dusting of softly scented baby powder. After taking out her contacts and replacing them in the lens case, she put on her glasses, blinking a couple of times to clear her vision. Nothing else in her life was normal so she made the most of the small parts that remained unchanged.

She took great pains not to stop and study the bruises already forming purple and blue patches on her pale body.

* * * * *

Downstairs on the main floor, Nick dumped the remains of the azalea and its pot into the trash bin beneath the sink. The broken china and glassware were sitting in a black garbage bag on the back porch. The trash bin wasn’t large enough to hold all of it. The salvageable silverware, pots and pans were being thoroughly cleaned of fingerprint powder, among other things, in the humming dishwasher. He had already righted most of the furniture in the other rooms and thrown away what couldn’t be saved. Using a dishcloth he’d found by the twin kitchen sinks, he’d wiped away the fingerprint powder that dusted the furniture, doorknobs, windows and walls. When he had completed that task and Augusta still hadn’t returned downstairs, he’d briefly entertained the notion of going upstairs and checking on her. But he didn’t. The water in the shower ran for a long time because she would be scrubbing away the dirty feeling all victims felt. He should let her take as much time as she needed. It was the least he could. His lips thinned. Hell, he should be doing it for her. But she hadn’t asked him to, and he’d taken all the rejection he could for one day.

Instead, Nick had used the time to make a few phone calls, despite the lateness of the hour.

He closed the bottom cupboard door with more force than he meant to and turned to find a thoughtful Augusta studying him. He captured her gaze and raised a brow, challenging her to make something of his small display of ire, almost relishing the thought of a confrontation. Then maybe he could provoke her out of the tight-lipped silence when it came to her sainted not-quite-ex.

Augusta broke the eye contact and burrowed her fists into the deep side pockets of her white, terry cloth robe. “Thanks for cleaning upstairs…” Her eyes strayed to the floor where the azalea and its pot had been unceremoniously dumped. “And in here.” She cleared her throat, again, as if saying thanks was something she wasn’t used to doing. “You didn’t have to, but thank you.”

He, however, wasn’t quite ready to graciously accept her gratitude, not with what was currently going through his mind. “It was either that or join you in the shower,” he told her bluntly.

“Oh.” She didn’t blush, didn’t stammer, didn’t react at all, and Nick wished he could simply chalk it all up to the aftermath of her attack. He couldn’t, though, and he wondered if he would ever understand her. Or was that part of her appeal? Was that why he couldn’t get her out of his mind? Would she lose that power she held over him if he knew all those secrets she kept locked behind those large, dark eyes of hers? Would having her body beneath—against, on top, the position didn’t matter—his just once dispel this desperate craving, this incessant need, he felt to the very pit of his stomach?

“But I didn’t want to give you an excuse to kick me out. Would you have kicked me out, Augusta?”

“Nick…” Her gaze flickered away from his. “Don’t. You didn’t, so the point is moot.”

“Right.” The single word answer didn’t come off as flip as he’d wanted.

Looking at her now, covered from neck to toe in that starkly white robe, damp hair piled haphazardly on her head, face scrubbed clean, she looked more like a child than a widow with a doctorate degree, and he knew that it was more than burning curiosity and lust that drew him to her. It was more than just the secrets he wanted to unlock in her eyes, more than the slender body he wanted to explore and know, and it was more than simply wanting to protect someone weaker than him. It was…it was just more.

Instead of the panicky, trapped feeling he was expecting to close on him, Nick felt relief. It was a relief that was so great, he even breathed easier. It cleared his head until he saw only one path for him where Augusta Langan was concerned. The decision was out of his hands. Now, he had to convince her that she didn’t have a choice, either. God, his ex-girlfriends had predicted this day would happen. In fact, some had vowed vengefully there would come the day when Nick Markov would fall hard for a woman, and if there was any justice, the feeling would be one-sided. But it wasn’t one-sided, he knew. Whatever she might have felt for the sainted Drew Langan, Augusta couldn’t have kissed him like she had, touched him like she had, if she didn’t feel anything for him beyond contempt and the occasional stirrings of animal lust.

However, for him to make the fantasy he was spinning in his head real, he had to keep her alive and well—and to do that, he had to catch Andrew Langan’s killers. It would be much easier with her help.

“You never answered my question.” She’d been saved by Officer Greene interrupting them to tell them of his initial findings and the arrival of the forensics unit.

She didn’t speak.

“Who did Langan cheat on you with?”

He thought she was going to run when she turned her body slightly, but then she stayed where she was. Her lips rolled inward.

“You know who she is, Augusta. Don’t lie to me.”
Trust me at least that much.

“I-I don’t know…for sure,” she said, faltering.

“But you have an idea,” he said, not softening his expression or his stance.

Her hands moved restlessly to the tie of her robe and tightened the knot. “Even if she did sleep with Drew, what possible reason could she have for murdering him?”

“Maybe she wanted him to leave you and marry her, and she was pissed off because he went back to you.”

Her shoulders hunched, as if she could shield herself from his speculations. She was already shaking her head. “She wouldn’t. I… No, she wouldn’t. Drew and I were getting a divorce. They would’ve been free to be together.”

“Tell me who she is, Augusta. Maybe she knows things that you don’t, like why Langan was acting strange that last week.”

When she remained infuriatingly silent, he let her hear his anger. “Why are you protecting her?”

“Because she’s my friend.” She closed her eyes. “Or I thought she was. Silly, naive little me.”

His patience rivaled Job’s when he wanted it to.

“Jana Westenberg. Red hair and, I think, green eyes.”

“You think?”

She shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to those types of details. Anyway, medium height and build…I think. I haven’t seen her in a while.” Her mouth curved wryly. “She owns the Westenberg Gallery in SoHo.”

Nick nodded and made a mental note of the information. Sunday or not, he and Ethan would pay Jana Westenberg a visit tomorrow. It might lead to something or nothing. With the way their case was going, he half expected the latter.

“Are you hungry?”

She made a face and brought her hand to her middle. “I don’t think food would sit very well with me right about now. But if you are, feel free to help yourself.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

Augusta stuffed her fidgety hands into her pockets. “Maybe you should get some sleep.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Unlike myself, I imagine you have to be in for work tomorrow morning.”

“Will you be staying at home all day tomorrow?”

“Probably. What else can I do?” Her smile was grim and just a tad bitter. “Maybe I should get myself a hobby.”

“It’s better tomorrow if you stay home,” he said, not addressing her sarcasm. “I have someone coming over to install a security system for you. His name’s Joe Doyle and he should be knocking on your door bright and early.”

“How bright and early?”

“Eight, maybe eight-thirty.”

“Tha—”

“Don’t thank me,” he bit out. “I’m doing this more for me than for you. I need to know that you’re safe when you’re alone in this house, or I’d have you handcuffed to me twenty-four-seven.”

She bit her lower lip, moistened it, but only asked. “Anything else I should know?”

He briefly entertained the notion of telling her about the patrol car he would have cruising the neighborhood for the next couple of days, but he didn’t want her more alarmed than she already was. Looking at her now, at the weariness that was pronounced by the drooping shoulders, the lines on her forehead, the shadowed eyes, he didn’t think she could handle anything other than sleep.

“You look exhausted.”

“What gave me away?”

“You should get to bed.”

“So should you.”

He wondered if that was an invitation. Maybe his luck was changing. He didn’t usually rely on luck, but with Augusta, he would take anything he got. “All right. I guess a couple hours of sleep will be better than nothing.”

“If you’re going to spend the night, I’d better show you where you can sleep.”

Your bed.
But Nick didn’t think that was going to happen.

“I can take the sofa in the living room.”

She swallowed a yawn and the corners of her lips twitched. “I didn’t take you for a closet masochist, Detective. The sofa’s great to sleep on—if you’re five foot nothing.”

He waited.

“I have a spare bedroom upstairs. The bed’s a king-sized one. It should be big enough for you. If not, you can stretch out on it diagonally.”

He hid the twist of disappointment in his chest well.

Augusta preceded him to the third floor and showed him the room, which was across from hers and faced the walled backyard, not that anything could be seen at the moment except for enveloping darkness.

“There are extra blankets and pillows in the hallway closet if you want. I can get—”

“This is fine. Go to bed.” He splayed one hand between her shoulder blades to usher her to her own door. “You look ready to drop at any moment.”

A faint smile touched her lips as she turned and came face to chest with him. For a moment, he stopped breathing. Then she retreated half a step.

He reached past her to open her door. “Good night.”

She hesitated, then whispered, “Good night,” and crossed over the threshold to her bedroom.

Nick lingered in the doorway, undecided about something. “Do you need anything else?”

Not looking at him, she shook her head.

“Remember I’m across the hall. I’ll leave my door open.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to leave your door open?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

* * * * *

Standing alone in the middle of her room, Augusta heard the door close and released long, low breath. She pressed a hand to her middle. This time, it wasn’t the thought of food that caused the jitters.

She looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time. Nick had cleaned up in here, too. The top of her vanity table was cleared of the numerous dainty containers of lotions, foundations, powders and shadows. The broken bottles and jars were now lying at the bottom of the wicker wastebasket. The only remaining item was a silver-plated piggy bank Drew had surprised her with after she had admired it in a store window. They’d been dating for less than a month. She’d been flustered and touched that he’d noticed and remembered. Augusta picked it up. The pennies she kept in it clinked together loudly as she wiped away the fingerprints with the sleeve of her robe and replaced it on the vanity.

Someone—probably Nick—had thoughtfully left the lamp by her bedside on, but Augusta couldn’t bring herself to do more than sit on the edge of her mattress. Nick was right. She was tired to the point where she felt as if weights were attached to her eyelids. Or, she had been up to that point when Nick had shut the door and left her alone. Now her senses were alert and she was wide awake.