Key West (48 page)

Chris moved even faster. He opened one of two closets and went through pockets as rapidly as he could. Dr. Lesley’s clothes hung there, and Chris saw no reason not to search them, too. He checked a shelf above, and moved clothes aside to see if anything had been taped to the wall behind. Nothing. And the clothing yielded nothing.

Someone knocked on the door.

Chris prepared to shut himself in the closet.

Another knock Chris said, “Yes?” and quit breathing. “Housekeeping.”

“Later,” he said, shaking his head. If you belonged in a room, you didn’t usually knock on the door before entering.

With Jim Lesley unaccounted for, every second became even more precious. Chris threw open the second closet. That was when he saw a leather satchel tossed on a shelf in the nearest bedside table. The bed was a vast effort covered with, yep, palm trees on blue. The walls and ceiling were blue. The carpet was blue. The club had definitely gone the watery tropical route. He supposed he could say it sort of fit in with the private pool he could see in a courtyard beyond sliding glass doors.

The satchel looked feminine.

He started on a short dress encrusted with silver sequins. A jacket hung on top had pockets. But for a used tissue, the pockets were empty.

Shit
. He’d look in the bag.

Made of the kind of leather that sucked fingers into its tan softness, it closed with one of those snap buckles that was pretty close to ski-boot style. This buckle was gold. Chis slipped it open and looked inside. A small bottle of Coco. A lipstick—Shiseido, a powder compact—Shiseido. Money. Loose money. Chris sank his lingers into several inches of bills and brought up a handful of hundreds, fifties, and the odd grand. The lady was very relaxed about security around here—and she liked to deal in cash.

An inside zippered pouch yielded several pens and two leather-bound notebooks. Chris flipped through one, and at last he found something that really surprised him. Billy Keith kept a record of her dreams. He dropped that little tome back into its “safe place” and opened the other book.

Numbers. Telephone  numbers. Addresses. Random notes that she wrote almost in code because she didn’t bother to complete a thought, and grammar wasn’t Billy’s forte. She liked to make shapes with words. A shopping list in the shape of a fish blowing bubbles. What she wanted the hairdresser to do for her took on the shape of a hair dryer. Evidently the gentleman also gave interesting massages.

The shape of a gun with a long barrel consisted of nothing but names written so that it was impossible to tell which first names went with which last names.

One name stood out. Ginger-Pearl. Chris scanned for last names that might help him remember where he’d first seen them.

He didn’t need to. He eased a couple of fingers into a back pocket in his jeans, drew out the list of names he’d found in Ena’s attic, and found Ginger-Pearl with ease. Last name Smith. And the rest of the names used to make Billy’s artistic gun were also on the list.

The project had yielded something useful, even if Chris still had to find out exactly what, but he could be walked in on at any moment. Back at the closet, the search went on. And one after the other, pieces of clothing yielded nothing. In the midst of Billy’s expensive and flashy wardrobe, he found a black sweatsuit made of some soft microfiber. It looked very unBilly.

Chris took the jacket off the hanger and checked the size, just to be certain Lesley’s clothing hadn’t gotten mixed in. Nope, this was Billy’s. Probably used as warm-ups before playing tennis, or whatever she did with her time when she wasn’t being a nuisance to Sonnie.

In the right front pocket of the jacket, he found a black silk stocking cap and gloves. Glancing down, Chris noted black sports shoes with black socks stuffed inside. Even Detective Talon at his least sharp could figure out how useful this number would be at night if a person didn’t want to be seen.

He ought to leave.

In the left jacket pocket Chris hit pay dirt—so to speak. He withdrew his hand and looked at pale grit crammed beneath his fingernails. That led him to examine the gloves more closely.
Oh, baby, you’ll never get into Special Forces.
The fingertips and palms of the glονes were soiled gray-white. When he shook out one glove, a powdery substance flew.

Chris stuffed the gloves away, felt around for a small sample of what he’d found to take away, and put it in his own pocket. He smacked his hands together to remove any residue.

Now he wanted to see Sonnie so badly it hurt. He hadn’t come up with anything a resourceful person couldn’t explain away, but the evidence was good enough for him—it tied Billy Keith in somewhere, and now he’d have to find out where that was.

Aiden had gone to Miami to see what he could find out about the address Chris had discovered at Ena’s. Chris was grateful he’d decided to take on the list of names himself. He needed some time alone with a telephone directory. And he needed to persuade Ena to allow him to poke around in her house. He thought he could do that.

A peach-colored teddy and negligee slipped from its hanger to the floor. Chris gathered it up, trying to visualize Sonnie in anything trimmed with ostrich feathers. He failed.

He also felt a familiar old friend: all systems on alert. The sound he heard at the door this time wasn’t a knock—or the voice of a maid. What he heard at the door was someone fumbling to insert a key. Escape was out of the question. He yanked pillows against the headboard and propped himself against them just as Jim Lesley meandered in, looking at the keys in his hand.

Chris seized the only defense he might pull off. “You,” he said. “What the...”What are you doing letting yourself in here?”

For an instant the man’s calm slipped. He looked quickly at Chris. “Talon?”

“Yeah, Talon. I’m waiting for Billy.”

Lesley shut the door. “Does she know you’re waiting?” Chris settled back on the pillows.  “Couldn’t reach her before she left.”

“So she doesn’t know. How did you get in here?”

Chris gave his best innocent smile. “Just a little skill I picked up along the way.” He laughed as if hugely enamored of his joke.

The doctor said, “Cute., but there are going to be questions.” He inclined his head. “She’s something, isn’t she? Billy? That’s what this is all about. You’re one more man she’s bowled over without even knowing she’s done it. Happens all the time. You want something of hers, is that it? Look, you don’t have to make excuses to me. Nothing too unusual about that as long as you don’t let it get out of hand.”

Now the guy was analyzing him, but at least he showed no sign of having any idea about the real reason Chris was there. “You should see her in that,” Lesley said, pointing.

Chris turned to see that he’d managed to drop the teddy and negligee again, and wisps of silk with ostrich feathers attached were visible under the closet door. “I bet she looks great,” Chris said. “Look, this was a bad idea. I don’t know what got into me, but I’d better clear out before I make a total fool of myself.”

“Billy won’t be back for a while. I’m a believer in grabbing opportunities, Chris. I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk to you. I’d say this was the perfect chance.”

Chris didn’t want a cozy chat with Jim, but he also didn’t want to miss anything useful the man might inadvertently say.

The doctor went to the second closet, opened the door, and picked up the fallen lingerie. He carried it to the bed and stood over Chris. “It’s soft,” he said, holding it to his mouth, then rubbing it against his cheek and neck. “Here, take this. She doesn’t use it, but you can.” He winked and gave Chris the belt from the robe. “Just let me know if you want any ideas. Erotic stimulation is one of my areas of special interest. It’s been useful in my practice. Α happy patient is a docile patient—as long as they keep getting more of what they want. That’s my motto.”

Chris squelched the urge to toss the belt aside. Instead he wound it quickly and stuffed it into one of his jacket pockets. “Thanks, Doc. I haven’t had much chance to get to know you, but I can see why Billy feels comfortable with you. She needs a strong, innovative man, doesn’t she?”

“I like to think it’s something like that. Chris, it’s Sonnie I want to talk to you about.”

Chris wasn’t surprised by the switch in topic.

“I don’t think your interest in her is purely professional. And I’m sure Billy’s right when she says Sonnie isn’t your type—not sexually. You’re a man who must need a woman with an appetite to match his own. And the kind of physical stamina to match. Obviously Sonnie can’t satisfy you, but I think you care about her as a friend. Am I right?”

Chris would like to smash the charming, sympathetic smile right off the hypocrite’s face. “Sonnie’s worth caring about. She’s very special.”

“That’s exactly what I expected you to say, and it makes what I want to tell you much easier. How much do you know about schizophrenia?”

“Not a lot outside of it’s being when people have delusions.”

“A simple explanation, but certainly true to a degree in some cases. The presence of conviction—by the patient—that the patient is being persecuted is almost always demonstrated. I’ve no doubt you’ve heard about these poor, beleaguered souls being tormented by the belief that they hear voices—real voices, of course.”

Chris supposed that if one charged by the hour, one might learn never to use one word where seven or eight would do. “I have heard that, yes.”

“The good news is that there have been significant advances in the treatment of schizophrenia. Often we employ the type of cognitive therapy used for cases of severe clinical depression. And we’re scoring successes. Especially where a supportive family is involved.

“Perhaps I can give you a sketch of what may happen. A patient may be convinced that there is a malevolent force set on destroying him or her. The patient hears this force, or can produce signs that it exists. Our cognitive approach is to make the patient spend time alone. Then we start to prove that this,

for want of a better term, this force is not waiting somewhere, out there to do mischief, but that it in fact originated within the patient himself. By forcing the patient to confront the truth—in lucid moments, of course—we can make progress.

“Chris, Sonnie hears voices, doesn’t she?”

He’d learned to show nothing of what he was thinking. He drew on that skill now.

Jim smiled again. “All right. Loyalty is very admirable. From what I’ve been told, I know Sonnie hears voices. In fact, as hard as this may be for you to accept, I believe she has a very severe emotional illness that may well be schizophrenia. Complete rest and intensive treatment is her only chance for recovery. But I can’t force her to accept my opinion, not that I’ve given her my opinion, or would do so unless someone with the right authority requested me to do so.”

“The right authority?” Chris said.

Jim sighed and inclined his head sadly. “Someone who eventually takes over responsibility for her because she can no longer continue to function adequately in the regular world.”

Every word made Chris feel a little angrier. These people already had Sonnie locked away and under constant supervision. And Chris didn’t know if there was truly a plot afoot to accomplish this, or if Sonnie really needed help. He would not consider that possibility until he’d done his best to help Sonnie sort her way through whatever was going on.

“What do you say?” Jim asked. “Will you help us to help Sonnie?”

Chris got no chance to answer.

Romano Giacano burst into the room. He pushed Jim Lesley aside hard enough to send the man stumbling over an ottoman. Failing to catch his balance, Lesley fell and slammed into a wall.

“You’re a violent man,” Chris said, bracing himself for a fight. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got some unfinished business.”

“We certainly do,” Romano said. “You have become a nuisance. You are in my way. That is something I will not tolerate. Jim, get out of here. Wait in my room.”

Jim Lesley made much of hauling himself from the floor.

He stumbled again and slid to his knees, holding his head as if he were injured.

“Games are over, Giacano,” Chris said, standing and taking a step toward the man. “I suggest you go on your way. When you’ve cooled off, well talk about why you’re into victimizing women.”

“The only time I intend to spend with you is right now,” Romano said.

“When will you learn you are not in charge of the world?” Chris said.

Romano turned away to look at Jim Lesley. When he turned back he held a Smith Airweight in his right hand. Its short barrel gleamed. “Υou have meddled in my business for the last time.”

Thirty-one

The thought of using the telephone frightened Sonnie. She heard that there were instruments that could be used to listen to other people’s phone conversations.

Perhaps that was how they were getting information on her, how they knew when she’d be alone. Listening to her phone calls could have given them a lot of details Sonnie didn’t want them to have.

They would use the information against her.

What could she do? There was no noise anymore. It had stopped when she went into Jacqueline’s room and found the battery-powered doll in the bassinet. Sonnie had bought that doll for Jacqueline, for when she was old enough to enjoy it. They were cruel, these faceless enemies. They wanted her to be forever waiting for them to taunt her.

She tiptoed downstairs, watching to be sure there wasn’t anyone stretched out on the floor anywhere. That man was injured. She knew it for sure now. He’d show up again just as soon as he was well enough to crawl from wherever he was hiding.

Gravel crunched beneath tires in the driveway.

Sonnie stood quite still in the hallway and waited.

Ena had talked about a man with the same kind of hair—long blond curls—going into her house. Into this house. Sonnie peered around. And he had been injured. He bent over and hobbled. He was here with her somewhere.

She must find the courage to return to Ena’s and hope she’d be there now. Sonnie was worried about Ena. She’d been under such strain and she was completely alone.