Stalking Death (33 page)

He looked as surprised as if I'd slammed him upside the head with a big, wet fish, a slightly goggle-eyed look that was endearing in its vulnerability. I'm so perverse. I love it when cops prove they're human. Then his eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of a game?"

"You're the one who plays games, Bushnell. I can, when I have to, but what would be the point?"

"People play games for lots of reasons."

He reached toward me, then pulled back his hand. "You look like you're about to fall over. Come sit in the car. I promise I won't say a word, if that's what you want."

"What I want is Triple A to come so I can hand over my car, go rent another one, and then go back to The Swan." I didn't share my fantasy about a warm tub and a small rest. He might have found my longing to collapse a sign of female weakness.

With a roar, a huge flatbed black tow truck, decorated with pink and baby blue swirls and Jose's Towing in gaudy silver letters, charged into the lot and rocked to a stop beside us. A round-faced guy with three-day stubble leaned out. "You the lady needs a tow?"

I was. I was ready for him to hook me up and drive me away. But he meant the car. I pointed. He stared and shook his head. "How did that happen?"

"Just what I was wondering." I unzipped my wallet and got out my AAA card. "Guess you'd better take it to the Saab dealer. I understand they've got a body shop."

"Pretty good one," he agreed. He hopped down from the truck, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and started working on his clipboard. After I'd given him the relevant information, he jockeyed his truck into position, hooked onto the car, and winched it onto the truck, bits of glass and metal dropping off and rolling down the ramp. A bright red car looks so vulnerable when it's wounded. He handed me a receipt and roared away.

Once again, I was alone with Bushnell. "Let's go rent you a car," he said.

The adrenaline had subsided and my bruises were making themselves known. I walked stiffly around the Crown Vic and gingerly lowered myself onto the seat, closing my eyes and letting him take me away from all this.

The skinny man behind the rental desk stared disapprovingly at my cut face and Medusa hair. "What happened to you?"

"Madman ran into my car. I need to rent another."

"Compact? Mid-size?"

"What have you got in a full-sized car?" I wasn't interested in squeezing myself into a sardine can just to save a few bucks and my bad mood needed a lot of space.

"Let's see." He tapped some keys, stared at the screen, tapped some more. "Got a Lincoln."

I hated the mushy way big American sedans drove. It was like piloting a whale down the street. No sense of the road. "Anything else? An SUV maybe?"

"Jeep Cherokee?"

"That's fine." And hurry it up. The day is slipping away.

"There's a surcharge," he said ominously, tapping his keys again.

"That's okay." I waited. He tapped. Tapped. Tapped. By now he could have written chapter one of the Great American Novel. Eventually he raised his eyes briefly, lowered them again at the sight of my face, and elicited vital information. I handed over my license and a credit card, and he rather grudgingly gave me the keys and told me where to find the car. All the time, Bushnell hovered by the door.

By the time I'd signed the final paper and pocketed the keys, I'd had it with the human race. I needed to get to a place where I could shut the door, scream, and then spend an hour getting the glass out of my hair. I thanked the man. I thanked Bushnell. Then I levered myself up onto the high seat, slammed the door, and Trigger—the name I'd instantly given the Jeep—reared up, the big V-8 rumbling happily, and took off so fast I almost had another accident. Yee ha!

As I zipped toward The Swan, I was glad Bushnell was behind me. I didn't want to see the look on his face.

No one at The Swan even blinked when I returned with a scratched face and a different car. I dragged my battered body up the stairs, dumped my briefcase and purse on the bed, spread a towel over the pillow to catch wayward glass and lay down, closing my eyes and practicing relaxation breathing. I thought calm thoughts. Clear blue skies. Billowing waves. The warmth of sunshine. It didn't work. The puzzling situation at St. Matts was as persistent and intrusive as a mosquito in the dark. I couldn't relax until I'd sorted things out.

I sat up and dug out my phone. First I tried Jenna Adams. I got her voice mail so I left a message that Shondra was out of the hospital but had bolted before I could get her back to St. Matts, told her to be on the look-out, and asked her to call to discuss plans for Shondra's safety. As a nod to private school protocol, I made a courtesy call with similar information to Shondra's advisor. Funny how "courtesy call" has become the new euphemism for annoying phone call.

Then, without too much hope of a positive response, I called Craig Dunham. Before I got to the subject of my call, he said, "I heard about the... uh... accident... are you all right?"

"Fine. Thank you. I'm calling about Shondra. She..."

"I heard you took her to see her brother. That was good of you. How'd it go?"

"I can't really say. I waited outside."

"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "So how's she doing?"

"About like you'd expect. Edgy. Upset. Less than 100%. Has she shown up anywhere at St. Matthews yet?"

"What are you talking about? You didn't bring her back to the dorm?"

Funny that he'd heard about the jail visit and the accident but not that Shondra had taken off. "She ran away while the police were there taking a report of the accident. That state cop, Bushnell, was talking to her. He got pushy and she bolted. Bushnell went after her, but you know Shondra. She's fast."

I decided I could conduct this business lying down. Gingerly, I settled my head back on the pillow and closed my eyes. "How did you hear about the accident but not about Shondra running away? Woodson only told you half the story?"

"Woodson? I've been looking for Frank for hours. Haven't been able to find him. He was with you? Excuse me." There was a commotion as someone came into his office and distracted him, then he was back with me. "I heard about the accident from your guy. Bobby Ryan. He was all upset about his car. Maybe he sent Woodson."

Now I was confused. Woodson showed up before Bobby called to say he'd been delayed and was finally on his way. But maybe there was a piece I was missing. Maybe there was a universe of car troubles today. Maybe Bobby had had car trouble and then gotten it fixed, and while he was fretting about that, he'd spoken with Woodson who'd headed over to see what was up. I'd also assumed Woodson had come right back to St. Matthews and reported our latest problem with Shondra. It was important information. But why did I assume he'd do that? Failing to share information was business as usual around there.

"You got Shondra's room fixed up?" I asked.

"Did the best we could," he said. "What a mess."

"And otherwise? Any problems with difficult parents? Upset students? Intrusive press? Any further developments in the investigation?" I wanted to ask about Alasdair's Neo-Skulls, and how they might fit into this, but that I needed to do face-to-face.

"I'm working on a memo about all that," he said, "for your partner." Stiff and a little smug. It was so foolish. They had little to be smug about. This mess was far from over. Besides, they might not work like a partnership on their side, but we did on ours.

"That's good," I said, deciding to needle right back, "because Shondra mentioned talking to some black reporter about having proof that Alasdair had been in her room, and I wasn't clear when that happened."

"She what?"

"She didn't elaborate. Bushnell scared her off before we finished talking." I decided not to elaborate, either. "Can you ask Mrs. Leverett to call me if Shondra turns up?" He allowed that he would, and we parted telephonic company. I was still uneasy about Shondra, both her whereabouts and her safety, but I'd done what I could.

I tried to call Bobby, but couldn't reach him. Since Bobby always answered his phone, I imagined a dozen awful things that might be happening. Crises occurring without me. Random attacks. But Dunham had said Bobby was having car trouble. Most likely, he was dealing with an AAA guy himself and would call when he was finished.

In the midst of these speculations, my sleepless night and stressful day caught up with me. My eyelids slammed down, my brain went into energy-conservation mode, and I went night-night.

Chapter 26

I woke because someone was in my room. I heard the faint thud of footsteps, the rustling of clothes, the sounds of someone breathing. Too many years among the bad guys have conditioned me to be cautious. I held my own breath and listened. Without opening my eyes, I said, "Bobby called you, didn't he?"

"No."

"Don't tell me it was that damned Gary Bushnell."

"Yeah. He said he thought maybe you didn't like him."

"Very perceptive fellow. It was nice of him to call you, but he's still a world-class jerk." I opened my eyes and held out my arms. "I'm awfully glad to see you, detective, but aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Am working," he grunted. "Working at keeping my marriage, and my bride, intact." He touched my hair. "Ouch!" He pulled back his hand, inspected it, and sucked on his finger, where a bubble of blood had risen. "Gary said something about you needing help combing glass out of your hair?"

"I do," I agreed. "What time is it?"

"Why? You got a date?"

"Dinner meeting with Suzanne at six."

"It's not even four. We've got plenty of time."

"Never enough."

I looked up at him, sitting there on the edge of the bed, hovering over me protectively. Would other women think he was handsome, or would they find his firm-jawed face too hard, that bristly dark hair too military short? Would they look at his broad, solid body and wish it lithe and slender? I loved having some bulk to brace myself against. He was only two inches taller, but in the weight and muscle departments, despite my faithful attendance at the gym, he dwarfed me.

Broad, solid, commanding. He could be such a cop. But the bad guys, and the public, rarely got to see his wicked, dancing eyes.

"First, a nice, hot shower," he said, "then I'll comb the glass out. How's that sound?"

"It's a great big shower."

"That an invitation?"

"Did you need one?"

"Everyone wants to be wanted." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What does that expression mean?"

"I'm trying to remember if there was ever a time when I didn't want you."

"When we first met, I believe."

"You were a jerk," I agreed. "Other than that?"

He shook his head, grinning. "Not that I recall." He stood and offered a hand to help me up. "I'm so pleased to find you're being your usual careful self."

"It ain't me, Black Bart. I'm just a patient little consultant, going about her business. It's those bad guys." I let him pull me to my feet, closing the space between us.

"Right," he said. "I've noticed how Suzanne and Bobby are always getting battered about."

"That's why they send the big gal in first, to draw the enemy fire. I'm EDGE's special ops person. They come in when it's safe."

"So you think it's safe now?"

"Damned if I know, Lemieux." I stepped back, pulled my sweater over my head, dropped it on a chair, and unzipped my skirt. I peeled off my panty hose, an act so unaesthetic I turned so he could enjoy my cleavage instead. There's a reason why strippers and porno flicks use thigh-high stockings or stockings and garter belts—so the women undressing don't have to hop around on one foot, all bent over and awkward. "So. You joining me in the shower or what?"

"What would you do if I said 'or what'?"

"Shower alone, I guess."

I tried to sound morose, but Andre was here, and battered and bruised as I was, I felt like singing. Not the wistful "Someday my prince will come," I'd been thinking earlier, but something thumping and righteous. Maybe Shondra was right and eventually I'd get sick of him, but I didn't see it happening anytime soon. I can keep my nose to the grindstone, deal with difficult clients and danger, do whatever needs to be done, without too much self-pity. Partly that's my workaholic genes, but a major part comes from having the cushion of Andre's presence.