Deadly Lies (24 page)

“Can I get you some water?” he asked. The incongruity between the implied concern of words and the flaccid expression on his face puzzled her still further. She’d passed out. Why wasn’t he worried? As she watched his retreating back, she noticed he was wearing different clothes. He had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. His bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet as he ducked into the bathroom.

She was a mess. Her skirt was wrinkled and twisted, exposing a fair expanse of bare thigh. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone. With trembling fingers, she tugged her skirt down and straightened her top. She ran a hand through her long hair.

Peter handed her a glass, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“How long was I out?”

“Not sure. A while. How are you feeling?”

“Groggy,” she said before taking a gulp of water to wet her parched throat. As she set the tumbler on the table, she noticed that the wineglass was gone. How odd was that?

“Do you need me to call you a cab?”

Jill stared blankly up into Peter’s face for a long second as she processed his words. The need to get back to a safe place was pressing in on her, and she rose awkwardly to her feet.

“No, I’ll be okay.”

“Cool. I’m going to take a shower. You can let yourself out.”

Shocked, she watched him disappear into the bathroom. The sound of the shower’s spray blended with the buzzing in her head. She bent to slip on her shoes. It took longer to find her purse.

Her mind still stuck in slow motion, she groped for the name of her hotel. She had to get back to her room and sleep. From the
corner of her eye, she spied the card key, and crammed it into her purse. The door clicked loudly behind her as she maneuvered her way down the hall.

What’s wrong with this damned door? For the third time, Jill inserted the card key into the lock of her hotel-room door. The light blinked red. Feeling hot and exasperated, she tried again. To no avail. The door remained locked. Caught up in the mechanics of trying to get in her room, she did not hear the man approach until he was at her elbow.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Jill visibly started at the interruption.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It looks like you’re having problems with your door. Can I help?”

His smile was disarming, and the soft, lined features of his face gave him a paternal look that reminded her of Santa Claus with twinkling blue eyes. Without a word, she handed him the card and stepped out of his way.

“I think I see your problem.”

“What?”

“This card is for the Hilton. We’re at the Fairmont, dear.”

Jill’s mind raced as she took the card from him. Depositing it in her purse, she fished around for another card key and found it tucked into the folds of her wallet.

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks flushing red. “I’m so sorry.”

“No problem.” The Good Samaritan took the new card from her and slid it into the lock. With a dull clicking noise, the lock disengaged. He twisted the door handle and propped the heavy door open for her to pass through. She took the card key from his hand and put it back into her purse.

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His wrinkled brow echoed the concern in his voice, and she forced a smile.

“Yes, I’m fine.” She let the door close behind her. But the truth was, she felt anything but fine.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

J
ill awoke, disoriented. Shifting her eyes around the dark room, she tried to get a fix on what time of day it was. The heavy drapes pulled across the bank of hotel windows made it difficult for any light to penetrate. Glancing over at the clock, she saw it was late. Ten in the morning. How long had she been out? Why hadn’t she heard the alarm?

Head pounding like a bass drum, she shoved herself off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. She needed some water, and, grabbing a glass off the countertop, she filled it twice before setting it down beside the sink.

The cold marble tile felt good on her feet as she crossed the bathroom to start the shower. Steam coated the glass stall with a thick film, and Jill shed her bra and panties before stepping inside.

The hot spray from the shower streamed over her, and she tried to clear her head. What the hell had happened last night? She remembered going to Peter’s hotel room. She remembered the interview. She remembered drinking half a glass of wine and feeling a little woozy. But beyond a vague recollection of the cab ride home and fighting with the door, she remembered little else.

The bath towel felt like sandpaper against her sensitive skin. As the steam cleared from the mirror, she caught sight of her naked form. Leaning in, she saw what looked like small bruises on her breasts. What the hell?

Had something happened while she was passed out on Peter’s couch? Random snatches of memory flashed through her head. Peter’s unconcerned face hovering above hers. Her heavy limbs as she sank into the sofa. Waking up in her disheveled state. Peter heading toward the shower in different clothes than what he’d been wearing before.

Had Peter put something in her drink? Had he done something worse than that? Certainly that might explain some of what she was feeling this morning. Her head throbbed like the worst kind of migraine. She was sore in places she shouldn’t be. A lightning strike of realization flashed through her.

Jill gagged, and, swaying back on her heels, she leaned over the sink. Dry heaves rocked her body. There was nothing in her stomach to bring up. After a moment or two, the nausea passed. She splashed some cold water on her face.

Was Peter capable of rape? If he had spiked the wine, it would explain the wooziness, the memory loss. And… And…

Oh, God
.

Sinking to the bathroom floor, Jill covered her face with both hands. Memories rushed back in like a tidal flood. She remembered the stifling dark of her tiny bedroom, the sound of his feet on the bare hardwood floors, and the boozy stench of her stepfather’s breath. His calloused hands digging painfully into her shoulders as he held her down. The fear. And the pain. Oh, the pain.

All of the things she worked so hard to forget surfaced in a terrible moment of understanding, and a deep, burning hatred swelled in Jill’s frozen heart. Silent tears streaked indelible tracks down her face.

Slowly, one by one, Jill opened her eyes.

She was a defenseless kid when her stepfather preyed on her. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. Jill gripped the counter and pulled herself up off the cold tile floor. Drawing in a series of deep breaths, she regained her equilibrium. Compartmentalize. Pushing the fear,
the shock, the shame back, she focused on the one emotion that still remained. The hatred.

Whomever Peter thought he was dealing with, he was wrong. She was no victim. She wasn’t going to shrivel up in a little ball and let him win. But what could she do?

Perched on the edge of the bed, she planned her next move. She could go to the cops, but the cops would launch an investigation. Date-rape drugs were in and out of the system so fast, they were virtually undetectable. There might be physical evidence of . . . what? Rape? Or intercourse? It would be her word against his. And she was a married woman. A married woman who had had an affair, and whose lover had careened down a flight of icy stairs to his death.

Peter would hire his own investigator, and what would he find? No. She couldn’t risk it. There were too many secrets in her past. Too many lies.

Jill’s hands shook as she raked her wet hair out of her face. He wouldn’t get away with it. She wouldn’t let him.

She would make Peter pay.

With steadier strides, Jill crossed the room, snatching her purse off the night table. Unceremoniously, she dumped the contents onto the bed and rifled through it until she found what she was looking for. She remembered having trouble with her door last night, and the kind stranger who had helped her. Between her clenched fingers, she clutched a white card key bearing the Hilton’s logo, and she realized she must have inadvertently taken the key to Peter’s room in her haste to get back to her hotel last night.

The conference was scheduled to start later this morning and would end well into the evening with the closing night banquet.

Jill pressed the plastic access card to her lips as a plan began to form in her mind. Tonight Peter Young was going to get more than he bargained for.

Jill dressed to blend in with the tourist crowd at San Francisco’s Pier 39. The peak of her baseball cap sat low on her forehead, her long hair pulled starkly away from her naked face. The cold wind blowing off the choppy water of San Francisco Bay carried the smell of salted fish.

Hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket, Jill veered away from the pier in search of a pawnshop. She was looking for the kind of place willing to break the rules. Instead, she met the gaze of a homeless man who was standing on the corner. Coarse gray hair spilled from the confines of a grimy woolen hat. The frayed collar of his green canvas jacket was pulled up in a vain attempt to shield his neck from the biting wind. His hands held a sign: “Vet down on his luck. Anything will help.”

Watery eyes met hers, and Jill was about to pass as she noticed something else that stopped her dead in her tracks. While this wasn’t exactly part of the plan, sometimes fate had a way of intervening. Without further hesitation, Jill pulled a hundred dollar bill from her pocket and ripped it in half. Catching the man’s eye, she dropped it into his bucket and ducked around the corner. The last thing she needed was for a video-happy tourist to capture this transaction on tape. Some business dealings were meant for dark corners, and this was definitely one of them.

“Hey,” he called after her as Jill ducked into the alley, her heart beating like bat’s wings in her chest.

The alley was deserted, and Jill kept her back to the chipped brick wall as the bum rounded the corner. He held the ripped bill up for her examination. Before he could say anything, she stepped forward.

“You’ve got something I need.”

She grabbed the waistline of his pants to pull him closer. The gap-toothed smile he gave her was that of a man down on his luck who suddenly finds himself in possession of a winning lottery ticket, one with a big payoff.

“Hey, little lady. Not sure what you had in mind, but—”

In one quick movement, she reached around him to touch the bulge at the side of his waist. His lips parted, and his eyes hardened as he grasped her meaning.

“Now what would you be needing with something like that?” he asked, his tone part curious, part scolding. Jill had no intention of making idle conversation. Instead, she brushed past him on her way out of the alley.

“Come on now, don’t be so hasty,” he called after her, and she stopped.

Jill turned with a knowing smile. Pulling the other half of the bill from her pocket, she handed it over in exchange for what she wanted.

The revolver was old but looked in perfect working condition as she stuffed it in her coat pocket and headed back toward the pier. As she crossed the street, her body shook with adrenaline. Whether from triumph or fear, she couldn’t say. But there were two words that formed in her head, causing the slightest of smiles.

Mission accomplished
.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

T
he card key disengaged the lock, and Jill let herself into Peter Young’s room. The maid had already been there, and the suite was in immaculate shape, from the high polish on the desk to the comforter pulled so tight across the bed, it would have passed her stepfather’s stringent coin-toss inspection. Peter wouldn’t be back soon, probably not for a few hours. The closing speeches would drag on and on, and then there would be drinking. Lots of drinking. One thing you could count on at an event like this was an open bar, and Jill was willing to bet Peter would take full advantage of that fringe benefit.

She took her time searching the suite. The bathroom held all of the usual toiletries—deodorant, shaving cream, toothpaste. Stashed away in his shaving kit, she found something that made the rhythm of her heartbeat accelerate to a full gallop. There were three little white pills in the clear baggie. She would bet money that a fourth little white pill had made it into her glass of wine. On one side the word “ROCHE” was etched into the surface. On the other, a number one appeared stamped within a circle. Roofies.