Intimate Portraits (2 page)

He drove through, parked in back
at the delivery door.

Mother and stepfather gone. Nobody’ll
be home but her, Bernie’d said. Piece of cake.

Like Bernie knew shit. Not many
things in life that simple.

After Sam took out his gum, he
wrapped it in its saved paper and stuffed it in his litter bag. Then he got out
with the floral box. It even held roses in case she wanted to see them before
opening the door.

Little extras like that had saved
him grief more times than he liked to remember.

Double patio doors lay adjacent
to the delivery entrance, so he stepped over the edging blocks onto bark mulch
that wouldn’t take footprints and leaned over small shrubs for a quick peek.

The house’s open design gave a
clear view across an open interior to large windows framing trees. Nice. He
liked that.

What he saw inside he liked even
better.

Sarita Sartowe, this year’s
flavor of superstardom, sat by herself on an ottoman with her back to him. He could
tell it was her by the mass of tiny braids tumbling forward as she bent over
something in front of her. Her arm occasionally moved.

Thumbing through a magazine? Searching
for articles about herself? Sure were lots of them out there.

He tried a door. Unlocked. No
need to ring the bell. Maybe Bernie would be right for once.

Inside, notes from a sultry
trumpet flowed from surround sound speakers and masked the door click. Louis
Armstrong. Sweet. Not what he’d expect from a trending gal like Sarita.

Retrieving the silenced .22 Ruger,
he laid the floral box on a cozy dining table. Four chintz place mats and
bright red napkins circled a fern centerpiece.

Cheerful. Homey. A lot different
from Sarita’s LA digs.

Sam noticed stuff like that. His
wife said he had a sensitive soul, but his eye helped in his work. Like he
spotted right off there was no bodyguard tucked in the corner of the great room.

Yeah, she was alone like Bernie
the prick had promised.

Nice layout, too. Like a scene
from an old
noir
film where the director posed his leading lady in
silhouette against ceiling high windows while the bad guy sneaked up behind
her.

And Sarita was oblivious as any
noir
heroine.

When the trumpet’s suggestive
tones gave way to the raspy croon of Satchmo, she began to sway and hum with the
music. Her voice was husky, delicious, unmistakable.

Mesmerizing.

Sarita Sartowe, performing for
herself and an uninvited fan. Glorious. One of those rare unforgettable moments.

A bullet in her head seemed out
of place. Blasphemous.

He stuffed the Ruger into his
belt and pulled out a thin blade six and a half inches long from its
utilitarian hilt to its tip. Its edges were honed razor sharp, an instrument
designed to his specifications and fabricated for a single purpose.

Weighing it, he hesitated. All
that blood. Messy as a bullet.

Eyes on her back, he retreated to
a window where he slashed the cord of a Roman shade and looped an end around
either hand.

There. The cord felt right. More
appropriate.

Go with the gut. It’s never wrong
.

When he glided toward the sofa,
when he was three feet away, she stopped humming.

He froze.

She gave one long luxuriant sigh
and stretched both arms up.

The braids must have been hot because
she caught and held them away from her neck for a moment, then bent back to
whatever kept her so rapt.

Sam relaxed. Not a clue.

The big windows to her front
trapped his shadow behind him. The thick carpet muffled his sneakers.

Not until he threw the cord over
her head in one lightning quick stroke did she realize she wasn’t alone.

Too late.

“Ahhhh—” What would have been a
scream died.

She struggled, but he held firm.

She half rose and clawed at the
cord.

He didn’t let go.

She tried for his face.

He pulled his head out of reach.

All the time the cord’s pressure
choked her windpipe. He sweated, but held on tight long after she slumped
against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

Kind of eerie holding her so
close. Almost like he was one of her lovers.

She was still, not breathing, but
he kept her there for three minutes, four minutes, five.

Trembling from the effort—how
come movies make strangling somebody seem so frigging easy?—Sam released the
cord and lowered her to the ottoman.

No pulse, but his own heart thudded
so he could have missed any thread of life.

Wait till you can tell
. He did his stress exercises,
counted his pulse rate, settled down. Okay. He checked again.

She was dead. The sensual lips
were slack, never again to curve invitingly. Nor would that dainty ear hear any
more whispered endearments from besotted lovers.

Shit, he hated this part of his
job.

Don’t look at her
.

He couldn’t help it. Her
complexion, once vibrant as mellowed oak, had dulled to grayish brown. Her
tongue lolled to one side. Dark eyes popped out, opaque and staring.

She was ugly now as she’d never
been in life.

He’d seen violent death lots of
times, but this…

The familiar queasiness surged.

Don’t get sick. Look away,
dumbass. Think of something else.

What had engrossed her so much
she hadn’t heard him?

Pictures. His latex-clad finger
fanned them out. Photographs of her. Lovely, every one. Like her.

He could imagine her, pointing
with a long magenta nail, saying, “This is good,” and her soft hand that in a
different time, a different place, could drive a man wild, shifting that proof
into a stack to keep.

Two years ago he and his wife had
attended Sarita’s United Center concert. If that night had left any doubts of
her charisma, these photos dispelled them. She was unique.

In one lounging shot, a snowy sheet
emerged from between her thighs to cover most of the dark triangle and one
golden hip. A hand cupped a breast, not protectively but like she relived a
lover’s caress. Tiny black braids fanned to one side. An amulet lay on the hollow
of her collarbone. A lacy earring traced a pattern on the white pillow. Huge
eyes wore sex’s aftermath.

Jeez, that picture was something
else.

There were others, all seductive,
all with her looking like an angel. Sam shuffled through them. She’d been a
damn fine singer, a damn splendid woman. A shame he’d had to do her.

It’s my job. No reason to feel
guilty. And she was no angel, that was for sure. A wonder someone hadn’t offed
her before now
.

The familiar mantra didn’t work,
but at least he’d quit trying to puke.

Stealing a proof, he had it
halfway to his pocket when another caught his eye.

Sarita leaned dreamily against a
mirror. Her gown, frothy and light, fell off smooth shoulders. One erect nipple
touched its reflection. A large collar of beads, vivid blue and purple beads primitive
as the woman herself, fanned out from her neck.

That necklace. He recognized it
from the stuff taken from her LA safe.

No way. She wouldn’t have…

He bent closer.

Shit
.

He thumbed back through the
proofs and cursed.

Another telltale shot of ivory.
And one of turquoise.

The dumb son of a bitch.

If whoever had diddled Sarita
hadn’t let his pecker rule his head, Sam would never have had to silence that
glorious voice.

Now he was caught in the middle.

Because nobody, least of all him,
could afford this snafu.

He swept all the photos up, noted
the studio name.

Lucky he had sharp eyes and a
sharper mind.

Why did people make his job so
complicated?

Chapter 2

In the middle of the afternoon, Autumn
skipped up her condo walk, swinging her shopping bag.

She still couldn’t believe it.

When word got out Sarita Sartowe
was a client, studio business would double. Maybe triple. No more pictures for
school yearbooks. No more dodging sippy cups. No more scratches from cats whose
fond owners mouthed empty apologies or strained muscles from chasing runaway
dogs through the studio.

Her key turned in the knob effortlessly.

Same for the dead bolt.

Both unlocked.

Had she forgotten to lock up this
morning when she left?

No way. Not
Miss Caution
personified.
Besides, she distinctly remembered hearing the bolt clunk into place.

Cell. Where was it? She pulled it
out of her purse, and then turned the doorknob. Yep, open.

Tinny applause crackled from the
TV.

She froze, heartbeat ratcheting
up. When she’d gone off that morning, she certainly hadn’t left the TV blaring.

Someone was here.

Reseda? No, Reseda cleaned on Tuesdays,
not Fridays. But hadn’t she mentioned taking off next week? Something about relatives
from Mexico City? Maybe she was making up for it today.

That was logical, wasn’t it? Stepping
inside, Autumn looked for Reseda Degardovera. No plump figure bustled through
with dust-rags or vacuum, but could be, she was upstairs.

Or maybe she gave Fran her key.

Oh sure, that was it. Lowering
her cell, Autumn breathed again. Fran was driving her to Helen for the getaway
weekend with his sisters.

Then she frowned. Fran with a key
to her condo?

Fran did
not
need her key.
Not even to pick her up. She was wary of jumping into anything she might
regret, and joining Francisco Degardovera’s string of women was definitely
something she’d regret.

Better make sure he gave Reseda her
key back.

Autumn set down the Brooks
Brothers shopping bag containing a new snowman sweater. A talk show featured two
skinny wild-haired kids confronting two older wild-eyed women. A down jacket
hung over a chair. A sofa cushion bore a head’s imprint. A pair of battered men’s
loafers rested on the area rug in front of the sofa.

Fran had stretched out to watch
the tube except…

Those loafers. Persnickety Fran wouldn’t
take out the garbage in such dilapidated shoes. Someone had made himself at
home, but not Fran.

A whiff of cologne lingered, tantalizingly
familiar.

She sniffed. Too subtle. Fran
wore strong scents, something that announced his presence and attracted women’s
attention.

Okay. Not Fran, but someone comfortable
in her home.

Few people were. Work left little
time for cultivating close friends, especially for introverts like her.

Who then? Eddie, Reseda’s
youngest and a high school senior? The shoes would fit him, and he wasn’t a
clothes hound like Fran. But why would Eddie be here?

A creak came from the kitchen,
from the cabinet door housing the glasses.

Clutching her cell, she slid her
purse off her shoulder. She ought to run or call for help, but a casual burglar
wouldn’t settle in as if he belonged. And that cologne…

Had to be Eddie, but no sense
taking chances. She dialed 911 but didn’t press
CALL
. Instead, she picked
up a fireplace poker and crept round the corner to the bar.

A sock-footed man, back to her,
stood at the gaping refrigerator door. Squeaky, between his feet, wrapped her
tail around his calf like she was his cat instead of Autumn’s.

A loose T-shirt hung from wide
shoulders. Worn jeans hugged slim hips and long legs. The afternoon sun
streamed through window panes and turned dark curls into a frenzy of mahogany
sparks. As some people have an unconscious habit of humming, he whistled softly
between his teeth; a thin reedy, tuneless sound.

Radiant, body-tingling happiness
cut through Autumn. She didn’t need an exposed profile to recognize him.

Rennie. Lorenzo Tomas Degardovera.
Friend of her childhood, counselor of her youth, object of her desire since
before she knew what desire meant. Rennie, who’d left home years ago.

Happiness vanished. Gut-wrenching
longing didn’t.

Autumn swallowed. All right, so Rennie
was back. Here in her kitchen. So what? She squared her shoulders.

The studio was going great guns,
and Sarita Sartowe
loved loved loved
her photographs. She had taken control
of her life. She didn’t need Rennie’s approval or anyone else’s.