KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (36 page)

Chapter 10

Pillow Talk

I decided to
take a look at what I could of the rest of the house, unescorted. Downstairs, I quickly inspected the back door, the windows, and peeked into the kitchen to see if anything seemed out of place. I checked in the refrigerator. Nothing stuck out as out of the ordinary.

I found a locked door to the basement and remembered that Jason had spent a considerable amount of money building Stella a home recording studio for when she thought she wanted to become a diva recording star. She had a good voice, but it wasn't unique — not quite good enough. I reached into my pocket for my key ring, upon which I had not only my car ignition key, but also a handy little lock-pick toolset. But, before I had time to jimmy the lock, I realized the water in the shower upstairs wasn't running anymore.

I hurried to the stairs. Just as I made the top step, Stella came to the open master bedroom door wrapped in a towel — a very small towel.

I was breathing hard, and I wondered what she thought of it.

Yet again came her coy little smile. "E Z, you're breathless — is it me?"

I smiled.

"Come here," she said, beckoning with her finger, "I have something I'd like you to see."

I wanted to remind her I'd seen
that
years ago, and although I liked what I'd seen a whole lot, it didn't look that much different than most of the other girls' I'd been with back then, and I didn't expect it looked much different now.

Still, I went to her. I wanted her. She was nuts — near certifiable. She was in despair. I would be taking advantage of her. But I wanted her.

She stepped back as I came in, then closed the door behind us and leaned against it.

I stood beside the bed, nearly expecting her to pull out a skeleton key from beneath her towel, put it in the lock and turn it. Then from nowhere she'd produce a salt shaker, sprinkle the key to make it more palatable, and swallow it.

I couldn't prevent my eyebrows from raising as the towel dropped. I remembered her body well. Stella had been impressive to the young man I was back then, and she really hadn't changed that much — was just as impressive to the older, more experienced man I am now. She'd kept in great shape for a girl running from forty. Probably be one of those Jane Fonda types, I thought, looking gorgeous up into her seventies. Of course, I was sure there had been some lifts here and there, a tummy tuck, breast work — although, from my memory, she hadn't needed an enlargement.

*  *  *

The heat within my core rises as she strolls to me. When she presses her body against mine, I feel a tingling that I have rarely experienced before. Her hand is against my groin, as she stares into my eyes.

I take her breasts. Our open mouths meet and we kiss. Her focus shifts to my neck. Replenished with hot pink lip gloss, she adds to the bright red lipstick stains already on my collar. But I'm enjoying it...until my conscience starts nagging in the back of my head:
this is inappropriate — getting involved with the victim of a violent crime. You're taking advantage of her. You're a hypocrite
.

But I'm no cop
or psychiatrist
, I think.
I don't work by any kind of sworn code.
I whisper, "Bullshit."

Her hand presses against me, rubbing, massaging — and she frowns curiously at my audible explicative as I become hard.

I shake my head in answer, hoping she won't stop. And we kiss again as she uses both hands to unzip my fly.

I'm fully in her hands. She's in mine.

The heat of passion launches even higher.

Her lips move down my open shirt, and I want to stop her, but don't want her to stop, at the same time.
God, it feels so good.

That annoying, cursed voice comes back to me, this time actually making audible my conscience's concern. "I don't think we should do this," I tell her. And my eyes actually bug wondering from where — or, more accurately, because it's coming from my own mouth —
who
is speaking.

She says, "And I think we should."

Her lips have passed below my open belt.

"You were just divorced from my best friend," I say.

Now, she doesn't seem to know what to say, her actions speaking louder than words. Besides, there isn't room in her mouth for talk. And the way her lips are going at it, I'm considering ear plugs.

My only discernible thought aside from the pleasure that Stella is providing is that she's really going through a lot of lipstick.

It feels so-o good.

My eyes roll back, and I have a distracting vision of Bruno when I punched him out.
Damn it! I hate it when that happens!
But the unsavory image doesn't last long enough to spoil the moment — soon overridden by extreme desire.

I feel her hand on the center of my chest, and she pushes me down onto the bed.

For a moment I'm willingly giving her complete control as I fall back.

Then my hand slaps against a pillow. I feel something hard underneath — and it isn't me.

I turn to see a black revolver — a Smith and Wesson .38 Special.

When I frown back at Stella, she looks somehow guilty — truly speechless, this time. I find it odd.

The moment is lost. I have returned to control.

*  *  *

The gun was there for her self-defense, wasn't it? Surely she hadn't just placed it under her pillow before beckoning me into the bedroom. She probably put it there last night after the kidnapping. That's all she had to tell me. She had little to explain...
except
that guilty look on her face.

My inflated male member deflated quickly at the idea of being set up to be murdered.

I shoved her backward, got up and took the gun. Popping open the cylinder, I spun it. Six bullets, ready to be fired.

"Well?" I said, still hoping somehow she'd come up with a lie. If she had, I wondered if I would have taken the bullets out and continued making love to her. But maybe she'd pull a Sharon Stone and give me the old "Basic Instinct" ice pick treatment.

For once in her life, she seemed to be unable to lie her way out of it.

Holding herself as if suddenly becoming modest, she stammered, "I...I...Damnit, E Z, I'm sorry! It's my daughter. Can't you see; Sophie's all I have!"

I nearly told her that I'd heard that before.

"So, what was the plan?" I asked. "Did you have it already thought out — knowing I'd be by sooner or later? Then I show up earlier than you expect — you probably thought I'd call first, or you'd have to call me. You had it all figured out, though. Then I show up, just as slick as shit."

"No, E Z, please listen."

"You were going to kill me," I continued, "call 911 and report that I'd broken in and raped you — or were you even going to let me have that little pleasure before blowing my brains out on your pillow?"

"Oh, E Z, you've got to listen. I couldn't have done it. I still love you, E Z — after all these years, I still love you. I wouldn't have been able to follow through. But this is about my little girl, can't you see? They want you — they didn't mention any ransom. They just want
you
!"

I had a huge problem with the difference between this
wanting me
business and wanting me
dead
. But I decided to play this out a while and not bring up semantics.

She began crying again and fell to the floor. The crying sounded genuine, convincing. But, like I said, she'd always been a fair actress.

I tossed the gun back onto the bed.

"You still love
me
?" I asked, stepping over to the towel she'd discarded by the door. I tossed it to her. "And how about Jason? You still love him too, don't you? And you hate him at the same time? But you still love him, right?"

Now for the kicker
, I thought. "And what about Ramón Peña? You still love him, as well?"

That got her attention. The sobbing stopped in an instant.

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eyes. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Is he here?" I asked. I opened the door and looked out into the open atrium below the second floor. "Maybe in the recording studio downstairs? No, of course not. If he were, you'd make him do the dirty work and get my blood on
his
hands. But he
has
called you, hasn't he?"

Her eyes were dry now. "I don't understand — No! I haven't seen or heard from him in years."

"Does he have your daughter?"

"What? No. I don't know. If it is him, I don't know anything about it. But he wasn't like that when I was seeing him back then. I suppose he could have changed, but.... What have you heard? Do you think he could be involved?"

I stared at her, trying to analyze if she was going for her best actress Oscar right this minute in front of me. I had no way of telling. A little girl's life might depended on it — my goddaughter, my best friend's daughter, my girlfriend from long ago's daughter.

I knew I could get the truth out of her, if I tried. I'd learned and practiced ways of making people talk, and I'd become quite good at it. I could make the biggest, toughest son-of-a-bitch scream out his mama's home address and social security number like a little girl.

But, if she wasn't lying — then what? That's always the danger of torturing someone. How far do you go before you're sure they're telling you the truth? Then, at that point, what harm have you done that can't be taken back?

"Like you said, this is your daughter's life we're trying to save. You better tell me if you're hiding anything — anything at all. I made you a promise, and I'll follow through on that promise — but you have to tell me everything."

"I am, darling...oh, God, I am! Please, E Z. Believe me!" She began sobbing again, and she reached for me to come to her.

"Wherever he is — out making more plastic explosive vests for little girls, killing and terrorizing innocent people, picking up your cigarettes at the corner C-store, I don't care — I will find him. And, when I do, I'll take him down quick — him and anyone else who has anything to do with him.
Anyone
. Do you hear me? And that
is
a promise I
will
follow through on."

I turned away and went to the steps, wondering if she had the guts — the balls to go to the bed, get the gun and shoot me in the back.

She called after me, "Wait! E Z, please wait!"

By the time I'd made the foyer and had my hand on the front door doorknob, she'd caught up and took my wrist.

Would she have the gun when I turned?

She didn't. Her tears were no longer flowing. "What about the Oscars?"

I didn't have a clue as to where she was going with this question. "What about them? Who you talking about, your neighbors?"

"E Z! The Academy Awards...should I go?"

"I don't know, when are they?"

"My God!" she told me. She sniffed a remnant of her tears. "You really must live in a cave. The Academy Awards are tomorrow night. I'm supposed to present Best Actor — and, of course,
you know who
has been nominated."

She raised her eyebrows and gazed out blankly. "I was nominated for Best Actress five times in ten years. But
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride
— as they say. The only reason I'm presenting is that the little tree-hugging bitch who won Best Actress last year turned her award down. And
guess who
isn't doing anything that night?
Me.
That's her loss. I get to hold Oscar, and she joins the club with George C. Scott and Marlon Brando. What a fool — refusing Oscar to bring attention to the Japanese illegal whaling industry. Ignorant little shit — give all that up just to draw attention to a bunch of dumb fish!"

Initially, I had a hard time believing she was serious. I let it slide. "Jason hadn't mentioned the Awards."

"Really? I'd heard he was bragging to everyone — being a real pest!" She forced a chuckle. "If he wins, and I have to present that Oscar to him, I think I'll stick it up his ass! And that's after I club him over the head with it!"

"Why don't you just shoot him?"

She sighed. "E Z, look, I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have followed through. See?" she said, this time forcing a smile. "If I'd been that cold-hearted, I'd have the damn gun with me now. Do you see that I've hidden it anyplace?"

I made no comment — not needing to add anything to this conversation, and I didn't search her nude body to see if she was telling me the truth.

I turned in the doorway to finally leave, and she tugged on my arm, yet again.

I was getting very tired of this woman. It wouldn't have taken much for me to turn around and smack her — and that's coming from a man who's never struck or intentionally hurt a woman. But she was really pushing those buttons. And I knew she'd pushed a few of them on purpose.