Now or Never (36 page)

He stood, swaying slightly, looking at the television screen. The news was on, and he was looking into his own eyes again. They were talking about him again, about what he had done.
Again
.

Of course the photo-fit did not resemble him in the slightest, except for the vague details, the height and weight.

He had been right when he thought he would make Suzie Walker a star. He had given all his girls their fifteen minutes of fame. The media would drop it soon enough
when no one was arrested and there were no further killings. He was sure of that—they always did.

But Mallory Malone was another matter. She never let a case drop. He knew he would have to do something about her.

He switched off the set, turned out the lights, and walked heavy-footed upstairs. He needed to think this out. He needed advice.

At the top of the stairs, he pulled the key on its silver chain from under his shirt. Then he unlocked the door to the special room and stepped inside.

W
HEN IT WAS OVER
, the atmosphere in the studio was thick with emotion. Everyone was in tears, even the hard-nosed crew who had seen it all. Everyone except Mal and the stalwart families whose determination to tell their stories and catch the killer had brought them through.

Mal thought she would never forget the linked hands of Summer Young’s parents. The image of their intertwined fingers that were gripped tightly together, as though to convince themselves that they still had each other, that there might still be a chance they could go on, even though life would never be the same, was a symbol of courage. The lost look in their eyes had told of their personal devastation, just as the determination in their voices had conveyed their resolve to find the evil rapist and killer who called himself a man.

Mal hoped with all her heart that all the people watching tonight would remember that.

Still shaky from the emotional impact of the program, she banished her fatigue and spent time with the victims’ families. She congratulated them again on their courage and their steadfastness and thanked them for their help.

“But it’s you we have to thank, Mallory,” Mrs. Walker said, her tired face lighting with a smile that made her suddenly look heartrendingly like her daughter. “Without you, we parents might never have had our say. Now all those people will know how it feels when something like
this happens to your daughter. And maybe because of it, when the killer is caught and brought to trial, the victims will not become lost in the legal wrangling. They will still be real people, butchered by a man for his own terrible satisfaction.”

“They won’t be forgotten,” Mal promised grimly. “Believe me, I’ll see to that.”

She called Harry over. He did not talk to them about the killer. He figured they’d had about as much as they could take, and they were finally thankful to say good-bye and be escorted back to their hotel.

“We thought about forming a kind of club,” Summer Young’s father told Harry wistfully. “You know, for people who’ve lost their child like this. We could meet, talk it out. It would be a kind of group therapy, I guess.”

His brown eyes were somber, with grayish shadows underneath. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. Harry wished him well as he said good night.

When they were gone, Mal collapsed onto the hard little sofa on the set. The lights had been killed, and she was in semidarkness. She leaned forward and put her head between her knees, suddenly faint. Fatigue washed over her like a heavy blanket, and her limbs felt as though they were stuffed with lead. She could not have gotten up if she had tried.

Harry sat down beside her and rested his hand tenderly on her soft hair. He ran his fingers down her neck and massaged it gently.

“You did it, Mal,” he said quietly. “And no one could have done it better. The phones are ringing off the hook at the police number. You were wonderful.”

She shook her head wearily. “The parents were wonderful, not me. Could you believe them, Harry? How strong they were, how much courage?” Tears threatened again, and she choked them back. “I’m praying for their sake that you get him.”

“We will.”

She lay back against his arm, totally depleted. She had gotten through the day on caffeine, Coca-Cola, and Snickers bars—things she never normally consumed—and now she was paying the price. Her blood sugar had plummeted, and her emotions were hovering somewhere between depression and hysteria.

“I don’t know how you feel about this,” Harry said, “but it’s been a long hard day, and you haven’t eaten. I booked a table at a discreet little place I know in the Village. The food is simple and good, and no one will bother us.”

She turned and looked at him; his clear gray eyes had an expresssion she was not used to seeing. There was tenderness, compassion, concern. But beyond that was something deeper.

“Whatever would I do without you?” she murmured.

He took her hand, pulled her to her feet, put his strong arm around her as they walked from the darkened set. He said, “I hope I never have to answer that question.”

He had called ahead and warned the owner not to mention the program, just to give them his quietest table. The request was honored. The room was low-ceilinged and beamed, French country-style, and the tables were simply set with cloths the color of old terra-cotta frescoes and bunches of white daisies in Mediterranean-blue jugs. There was fresh bread and a dish of
tapenade
, and a good Bordeaux had been opened and decanted.

The owner, Monsieur Michel, quickly took the order from Harry. He poured the wine and brought Evian, then left them alone. Mal thought it all so serene, so normal—the contrast with what they had just gone through was almost shocking.

It was late, and only a few other couples were lingering over their meal. Little table lamps cast intimate pools of light, and it felt as if they were alone. Mal sipped her wine
and smiled across the table at him. “The wine is velvet,” she said.

He nodded. “Some years it’s just plain old velour, but this one’s good.”

She felt the tension begin to soften at the edges. Her limbs no longer had that leaden feeling and the muscles in her neck started to unlock. She leaned back in the chair. She told herself it was over.

A comfortable silence hung between them; they felt no need to fill in the spaces, and they sipped their wine, passed an occasional comment, and smiled gently at each other.

When Monsieur Michel brought the food, she tasted everything, ate a little, sipped her wine, and gradually was at ease again. Then Harry paid the check and took her home.

Back at her penthouse they walked, arms around each other, into her room. She sank onto the bed. Exhaustion was claiming her, and she could barely keep her eyes open. She lay back as he removed her black suede shoes, then unzipped her black dress. He lifted her, eased the dress up over her hips, and off. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her black pantyhose and slid them down.

Mal wriggled her bare toes in relief, docile as a doll as he unhooked her bra. Then he rolled her into the bed, laid her limp head on the pillows, and pulled the cool smooth cotton sheet over her.

She felt languorous with sleep, craving it, sinking into it. The big bed seemed to enfold her. Then Harry was lying next to her, his warm body like an anchor of security in a disturbed world. And she knew no more until morning.

She awoke to the smell of coffee and to sunshine shafting through the windows. The weather had been rainy and cool for so long, she thought it just might be a good omen.

Harry was singing under his breath in the kitchen. It made her solitary apartment feel like a home, having a man there she cared about.

She cleaned last night’s studio makeup from her face, took a quick shower, brushed her hair, and put on a long white terry robe.

Harry was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms folded, one leg crossed lazily over the other, waiting for her. His hair was wet from the shower. For once, it was neatly combed. He was wearing last night’s smart linen pants and good blue shirt, but without the tie.

She stood in the arched doorway, and they took each other in. He thought she looked clean and pink-cheeked, as scrubbed as a schoolgirl; and she thought he looked tough and handsome and as stalwart as Braveheart.

“Thank you for last night,” she said, oddly shy.

“It was my pleasure, Malone.”

“I mean for everything. The dinner was just right. Thanks for bringing me home and putting me to bed. Staying with me.”

“Didn’t I tell you I was a well-brought-up guy? I always see my women safely home?” He grinned at her, and she smiled back.

“I hope you don’t stay with all of them,” she said with a pang of jealousy.

“Not all. In fact, right now, only you, Malone.”

He unfurled himself from the counter and held out his arms, and she walked into them. Clasped against his chest, she never wanted to move.

He said, “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

She tilted back her head, surprised. “I didn’t hear it.”

“That’s because I turned down the volume. You must have a dozen messages on your machine, and it’s only seven thirty.”

“What about you?”

“I called in to check. The lines were jammed after the
program. Hundreds of callers think they might have seen him. Every one of their statements will be carefully analyzed, and every one that’s not a crank will be looked into. The calls to your show are all being taped.”

She looked astonished and he added, “There was enough preshow publicity—the killer is pretty sure to have seen it. There’s always a chance he will phone in. He might enjoy seeing himself as a media star, might start bragging, showing off. In fact, he might walk right into the trap you set so cleverly, Mal. If he does, we can trace the call in minutes.”

“And then you’ll have him.”

“If good fortune goes with us. Right now it’s just a chance, but it’s better than nothing.” He sighed and took his arms from her.

She said resignedly, “I know. The shuttle.”

“I’m afraid so.” He put on his smart jacket from the night before. “I wonder what lovers did before they invented planes.”

“They stayed home and married the boy next door.”

He kissed her. “Just think of all those wonderful love affairs that might have been. Right now I wish very much I lived next door to you.”

“But you don’t.”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. But I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll be working all hours this week though.”

“I’ll come to you, then,” she decided quickly, unable to bear the thought of not seeing him.

He hesitated. “I may not be able to spend time with you.”

She locked her arms around his neck—she didn’t want to let him go. “I don’t care. I’ll just be there waiting for you whenever you get back. I can look after Squeeze, take him for walks, cook dinner.”

“What if I can’t get home for dinner?”

“Then Squeeze and I will dine together, and yours will be reheated in the microwave when you finally decide that home is where the heart is.”

He laughed. “It’s a deal.” He took the housekey from his pocket and handed it to her.

“What about Squeeze?” she said.

“Don’t worry—he only attacks strangers and people he doesn’t like.”

He kissed her properly before he left, and when he finally took his mouth reluctantly from hers, it was harder than ever to let him go.

“Mmm,” he murmured, “lilacs …”

“You got it right this time, detective.”

He strode into the hall and lifted a hand in good-bye. “Call and leave a message what flight you’re taking. I’ll be there somehow,” he promised.

M
AL WENT INTO THE STUDY
and checked her calls. They were mostly from friends and colleagues congratulating her on a superb program. There were two hang-ups, which surprised her, but it was early in the morning and perhaps whoever had called had been worried they might wake her.

She packed a bag with a few simple things and added a couple of books she had been meaning to read, as well as some notes about the next two programs. Then she put on a white linen shirt and jeans, a comfortable tweed jacket, and glossily polished loafers. She clipped pearl studs in her ears and wore a man’s plain steel Rolex.

She picked up the bag and was just taking a final glance around when the phone rang again. Thinking it was Harry calling from the airport, she picked it up immediately.

She sank onto the bed clutching it to her ear. “Hello,” she said with a smile in her voice. She waited expectantly for him to say, “I miss you already,” but there was no sound.

“Hello,” she called again, sharper this time. There was nothing. She held the phone away from her ear, puzzled. Someone had to be there—why weren’t they answering? Or maybe there was a fault on the line. She hung up and took the elevator downstairs, where the car was waiting to take her to the office.

The doorman stopped her on the way out. “I wanna tell you, Miss Malone, I ain’t never been so touched by anything I seen.” Tears stood in his eyes. “Those poor families, it just ain’t right. I sure hope what you did last night helps catch him. I got a coupla daughters, and now grandchildren, and I know where these parents are comin’ from. I felt for them, Miss Malone.”

She shook his hand and said, “I just did what I could to bring it to the public notice, Vladimir. Now we have to hope for the best.”

She got the same sort of reaction the rest of the day: from her driver, the woman at the cleaners, the girl at the pet store where she stopped to pick up a toy for Squeeze, and the guy behind the counter at the grocery, where she bought food for the weekend.

When she finally got to the office, it was in turmoil.

“This place is busier than a beehive with a visiting queen,” Beth Hardy greeted her as she came in. “Are you all right?” she asked, still worried. “You looked like hell when you left last night. You went through it all with them. It was as real as if it were your own daughter you were talking about. At least, that’s the way it came across.”

“I’m okay, Beth. It was worse hell for the families than for me. They still have to wake up this morning and remember they don’t have a daughter anymore.”