Storm Season (2 page)
Authors: Erica Spindler
Kitt stepped in. “Detectives Lundgren and Riggio.”
“They’re looking for Whitney.”
“No,” M.C. corrected, “we’re here about her. Who are you?”
“Allison,” the blonde answered. “We’re Whitney’s roommates.”
Kitt indicated the living room. “Maybe we should sit down.”
“Oh God." Allison crossed to the couch and sat hard. “Has there been an accident or something?”
“It looks like your friend drowned.”
Rhonda went white. “She’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so. We’re so sorry for your loss.”
Rhonda sat next to Allison. They both looked stunned. The dog jumped down and came to sniff M.C.’s feet. She bent and scratched the pup behind the ears, then took the remaining chair. Kitt stood behind her.
Rhonda spoke first. “You said it . . . looks like she drowned. I don’t understand . . . what does that mean?”
“She was pulled out of the river. Down by the Ice House. But an official cause of death hasn’t been made.”
Allison started to cry, and Rhonda found her hand and clutched it. “We weren’t very close, but--" she stopped, blinking furiously against the tears that flooded hers. “We advertised for a roommate. At school. She answered the ad.”
“At Rock Valley?"
Allison nodded, lips trembling.
“When was that?”
“The start of this term." Rhonda drew in a ragged breath. “She kept to herself.”
“But she loved Max,” Allison added.
M.C. looked at Allison. “Max?”
She pointed to the dog. “She takes him to the park all the time."
Rhonda jumped in. “She’s sort of a health nut.”
“A health nut?”
“Always exercising. Running. Yoga. Eating good stuff.”
“Fruits and veggies.” Allison made a face. “Brown bread.”
That didn’t fit the profile of a drug abuser.
"She was a student?”
“Yeah. Part-time. And she worked part-time.”
“Where’d she work?”
“A counseling center." Rhonda looked at her roommate. “What was the name?”
“Kids in Crisis,” Allison answered, sniffling.
She’d worked for Erik.
The strangest sensation came over M.C. Part awareness, part dread. One of those weird moments in life that changed everything.
“That’s right." Rhonda nodded. “Sometimes she called it KIC.”
“She was crazy about her boss. Talked about him all the time.”
M.C. had noticed how good he was to his staff, how they responded to him. Still, hearing this pretty young woman had talked about him all the time felt odd.
Kitt jumped in. “I thought she kept to herself?”
“She did, but when she was around she either talked about her job or her boyfriend. Brad.”
“The boyfriend, you have a last name?”
They looked at one another and simultaneously shook their heads. “He must’ve had his own place, because she never brought him here.”
“He a student?”
Rhonda answered. “I don’t know. Do you, Ali?"
The other girl shook her head. “He might have been older. Not ancient but . . . older. I don’t know why, but I got that impression.”
“Me, too.”
“Any idea if and where he worked?”
“Sorry." Rhonda spread her fingers. “Like I said, we--”
“Didn’t know her that well,” Kitt said. “Got it. One last question. Was she a drug user?”
Both women looked surprised by the question. Again, Rhonda responded first. “Not here. We specifically advertised as a substance free living environment. No tobacco, alcohol or drugs.”
“HELLO, BEAUTIFUL,” ERIK SAID as M.C. and Kitt stepped into his office. He kissed her, then turned to Kitt. “Good to see you, Kitt. How’s Joe?”
“Fine. Busy trying to close in a build before the snow flies.”
“He better hurry. According to the noon weather report we could have two feet of it by the end of the week.”
“He heard the same report and is not a happy camper. We’re both hoping the weather guys are going the worst case scenario route to boost ratings. A few flurries isn’t nearly as compelling as a couple feet."
“It wouldn’t be the first time." Erik turned back to M.C. and smiled. She loved the way his light eyes crinkled at the corners. He had one of those faces that was aging in all the right ways. The lines and creases complimenting his face, making him more handsome rather than less. “If I’d known you were coming, we could’ve had lunch.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not a social call,” Kitt said.
M.C. stepped in. “Do you have an employee named Whitney Bello?”
She saw apprehension race into his eyes. “I do. She’s part-time. Why?”
M.C. and Kitt exchanged glances. He saw it and frowned. “What?”
“How well did you know her?”
“Very well. Whitney’s--" he stopped, moved his gaze between them. “What’s happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s dead, Erik. I’m sorry.”
For several moments, he simply stared at her. Then he went around his desk, pulled out the chair and sat. Heavily. As if suddenly carrying the weight of the world.
It took him a moment to collect himself and speak. “How?”
“At this point it looks like an accidental drowning.”
She gave him a moment to process, then went on. “Do you know if Whitney had substance abuse issues?”
“At one time. She’s been clean almost two years." He paused. “Tell me what happened.”
“A jogger found her this morning, face down in the Rock River. We don’t have the pathologist’s report yet, but we suspect she got juiced and either slipped or passed out.”
He sighed, the sound heavy with regret. “I didn’t see this coming.”
“Why would you?”
“I’m not just her boss. I’m also her counselor. She started seeing me at eighteen. Court ordered appointments. She got sober, started taking classes at Rock Valley and I gave her a job. She--" he dragged his hands through his hair. “Dammit.”
“What can you tell us about her?”
“She was a nice kid. Hadn’t had an easy childhood. Shuffled between parents who had new spouses and new families. She got lost." His throat closed over the words. He cleared it and began again. “I had no hesitation about hiring her. She was smart. Caught on quick. Worked hard.”
That’s what Erik specialized in--kids who had lost their way. The reasons why didn’t matter, he had made it his life’s mission to help them get back on track. He was so committed he’d given up the opportunity to run his family’s multi-million dollar corporation, SunCorp.
“What did she do for you here?”
“She acted as a personal assistant of sorts. Ran errands for me. Shuttled things over to SunCorp headquarters. Anything I asked her to do, she did well. And with a smile.”
He fell silent. Lowered his gaze. When he lifted it, the expression in his eyes was shattered. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“We talked to her roommates already. They claimed they didn’t know her well. But they said she talked about a boyfriend. Brad.”
“Bradley Rudd,” he said. “She’d been seeing him a couple months. Really liked him.”
“You don’t sound so thrilled.”
“I never met him. I was--" he paused. “--concerned because of his lifestyle.”
“Is he a substance abuser?”
“Whitney said no. He’s a bartender. Over at Spanky’s. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with being a bartender but I . . . understand the lifestyle. Crazy hours. Partying. Alcohol and drugs. That wasn’t where she was going.”
M.C. reached across and squeezed his hand. “We don’t have the pathologist’s report yet, so we don’t know for certain she lapsed.”
“But it makes sense,” Kitt said. “In terms of her drowning. We see it often.”
“She’s dead either way,” he said softly. “I doubt a pathologist’s report confirming or denying relapse is going to make it any easier.”
M.C. stood. It felt wrong to leave him this way, hurting and alone.
But she had a job to do.
“I’m so sorry, Erik. I wish I could stay--”
“But you can’t. I understand."
He kissed her, lingering a moment longer than was appropriate for the situation. He drew away, searched her gaze. “You’ll keep me posted?”
“Of course.”
He looked at Kitt. “You’re going to talk to Rudd?”
“Oh yeah. Right now.”
“Heads-up, if he got her back on drugs you’ll have to arrest me. Because I’ll kill him. I swear I will.”
His tone made M.C. believe he would do it. “I’ll come by later,” she said. “You’ll be home?”
He said he would and she walked away, though it took all her self-control not to turn back, hold him tightly. She left him everyday. Why so hard today? Why the sense of dread unfurling in the pit of her stomach? This sense of a clock ticking, counting down to . . . what? The end?
But the end of what? Her and Erik? Or worse?
“What’s wrong?” Kitt asked as they reached her car.
M.C. looked at her, shaking off her melancholy. “Nothing. Just . . . nothing.”
BRADLEY RUDD WASN’T WHAT M.C. would describe as handsome. But he exuded a bad-boy charm that a lot of women gravitated to, her included. In her youth, anyway. Nothing like a whole school of hard knocks to change a girl. Make her long for something nice and steady.
As she slid onto the bar stool, M.C. flashed Rudd what she hoped was a provocative smile. He ate it right up.
“Hello ladies,” he said, setting coasters in front them both. “Looks like my afternoon just took a turn for the better.”
M.C. smiled again. “I bet I could change your mind about that, stud.”
“I doubt it, sugar." He grinned. “But go ahead, give it your best shot.”
M.C. released a breathy little laugh. “I’ll do that." She held up her shield, demeanor changing to all business. “Detective Riggio. R.P.D. My partner, Detective Lundgren.”
He stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns. Maybe she had, M.C. thought. She was just perverse enough to enjoy the thought.
“Make that a turn for the worse, Detective. And I don’t suppose you’re here for a drink.”
“You suppose correctly, Brad. I can call you Brad, can’t I?”
“Sure." He propped against the bar, sending them a forced smile. “Call me whatever you like.”
Kitt stepped in. “You know a young woman named Whitney Bello?”
He blinked. Twice. Otherwise his expression didn’t alter. “Yeah, she’s a friend of mine.”
“A friend?”
“We go out sometimes. Why?”
“She’s dead, Mr. Rudd. She died last night.”
He stared at them, expression comically disbelieving. “That can’t be right.”
M.C. wasn’t impressed. “Why’s that, Brad?”
“I talked to her Sunday afternoon.”
“Was that the last time you saw her?”
“No. Saturday morning. She’d spent the night.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Around ten. She had a paper to write.”
“Then you didn’t see her again over the weekend?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, she had a paper. Plus-- never mind.”
“Plus what, Brad?”
“I worked all weekend. She didn’t like visiting me here.”
“Why was that?”
“It wasn’t her kind of scene.”
“Not a drinker?”
“Yeah.”
“Drugs?”
M.C. had the sense that his thoughts were somewhere else. That he was wrestling with a whole other conversation in his head. She wondered who that conversation was with.
“No. No, drugs.”
“You don’t seem certain about that.”
Again, a slack-jawed moment. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, M.C. thought. Either that or he was trying so hard to cover up, he was coming across slow-witted.
“What’s there to think about, Mr. Rudd?” Kitt asked. “Either you’re positive of your statement, or you’re not.”
“Before I met her,” he blurted out. “She had a problem. A big one.”
“With what?”
“Everything. Mostly blow.”
“What else did she tell you about it?”
“Not much. She was in recovery. Went to rehab.”
“So you never saw her use?”
“No. Never.”
“She work?”
“What?”
“Did she have a job?”
“Yeah. She didn’t talk about it much.”
Interesting. "Doing what?”
“Some kind of office work." He shrugged. “Filing. Shit like that.”
“What about her boss? She talk about him much?”
“Never.”
“Never,” Kitt repeated. “Really? Said nothing at all?”
“Not that I recall,” he corrected. “We had other things on our minds, if you know what I mean?”
M.C. decided he was even more of a creep than she had first thought. “Do you know of anyone who would want her dead?”
He paled. “No. No way.”
“You’re awfully emphatic about that.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. A subtle desperation oozed from him. Like slime.
“She was a nice girl. Why would someone hurt her?”
“You tell us, Mr. Rudd.”
His eyes widened. “What do you mean by that? Are you . . . you can’t think I had something to do with-- I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t hurt her or anyone else!”
His voice rose. A couple patrons from the other end of the bar glanced their way.
Kitt stepped in, suddenly the good cop. “I’m sure my partner didn’t mean to imply you were involved. Did you, Detective Riggio?”
“Of course not." She smiled. “Just curious what you might know about her death.”
“Nothing! Just like I said!”
Kitt laid her card on the bar in front of him. “Call me or Detective Riggio if you think of anything else.”
“Wait! What . . . what happened to her?”
M.C. stopped and looked over her shoulder, locking her gaze with his. “We’re not certain yet. But we will be, Brad. Soon.”
M.C. PICKED UP TAKE-OUT Chinese food on the way to Erik’s. She’d tried to call him, but he hadn’t answered. If he’d eaten, they could refrigerate the Kung Pao chicken and broccoli and beef for another time. Though something told her food was the farthest thing from his mind.
She parked, climbed out and crossed to the home’s magnificent entrance. M.C. recalled the first time she had crossed this threshold, the way her jaw had dropped at first glimpse of the home’s incredible interior.
That felt like a lifetime ago now.
And, oddly, it felt like yesterday as well.
She had a key, but felt funny about using it tonight and rang the bell. M.C.’s breath caught when Erik answered. He looked shattered. “Hey,” she said softly and held up the take-out bags. “Chinese. I tried to call, but--”
He took the bags from her hands, set them aside and drew her into the foyer and into his arms.
And held her. As if he needed her to stay upright. As if his very breath depended on her. He bent his head, resting his cheek against her hair.
Seconds ticked past, becoming minutes. Still he held her. She felt his sadness as if it were a tangible thing. It seeped out of him, into her.
So this was what it was like to be someone’s rock, she thought. Their port in a storm.
Their everything.
He broke the embrace. Together, silently, they carried the bags of food into the palatial great room. He’d already opened a bottle of wine; a half full glass sat on the coffee table.
She refused his offer of a glass and opted for water. They didn’t bother with plates or forks, but passed the cartons back and forth, using the chopsticks provided by Ming’s Palace.
Although Erik’s skill with the sticks bordered on amazing, tonight she managed to eat more than he. He soon gave up the pretense and went back to his wine, silently watching her eat.
After a moment, he broke the silence. “Her parents called,” he said softly. Almost as if to himself. “Suddenly concerned and attentive. They blamed me. Accused me of not doing enough for her. It was my fault.”
He paused, then went on, anger edging into his voice. “The same parents who had shuttled her between them, resentful of the one who didn’t have her, counting the hours like a miser counting his coins. The same parents willing to simply cut her free when she turned eighteen. When all she wanted was for them to fight to keep her.”
His voice cracked. It broke M.C.’s heart. For Erik. And Whitney. And for the parents for whom it was now too late.
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
“I feel responsible anyway.”
“Relapse is part of recovery. You can’t blame yourself if she--”
He cut her off. “I’m an addiction specialist. I don’t need a lesson in recovery.”
M.C. didn’t take offense. How could she?Too many times she had done the same as he was doing now. Blamed herself for circumstances she couldn’t control, rejecting every offer of comfort.
Still rejected them, she acknowledged.
Instead, she stood. And crossed to stand before him. She held out her hand. “Come with me.”
He took her hand; she led him to the bedroom. There, she drew him with her to the bed. She took his mouth in long, slow, drugging kisses, then moved on, tasting and teasing, stripping away garments, eager to feel his skin against hers. Without words, she told him how sorry she was, that she knew he hurt, that she hurt for him. Without words she allowed herself to love him.
As she took him inside her, reason evaporated. As did thoughts of lives ended too soon, of sadness or comfort. Urgency replaced them, a different kind of need. Faster, more frenzied. They crescendoed and cried out together.
Skin damp, hearts thundering, they lay twined together. M.C. trailed her mouth across his shoulder.
Erik stopped her, bringing her face to his. Looking her in the eyes.
“I love you,” he murmured.
No-where to run. No place to hide.
She wished she could return the endearment. The L-word didn’t slip off her lips easily. Not anymore. Not since Dan.
So she kissed him. Deeply. Passionately.
She felt him sigh. Perhaps tonight, of all nights, he had believed he could scale the wall around her heart.
“I can only be who I am,” she said, hearing the regret in her own voice.
“I know that, M.C." He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Mmm hmm?" She whispered her fingers across his chest, liking the trail of goosebumps that followed.
“We could go away.”
She smiled to herself. “Where would we go?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I like that. Just pick a place and go.”
“Pack up and leave.”
She smiled up at him. “Someplace warm, please. I’ll bring a bikini.”
“And I’ll bring sunscreen.”
She laughed lightly. “Tropical drinks. With those little umbrellas.”
“As many as you want.”
“I don’t even remember my last vacation. And I know it wasn’t nearly so wonderful.”
He turned so they were face to face. “Not a holiday. Forever.”
She laughed at his serious tone. “What are you talking about?We can’t--”
“Yes, we can.”
It began to sink in. “Run away.”
“That’s one way to put it. Another is, just . . . start over.”
“What about my job?”
“Leave it behind. You won’t need to work.”
Not work?Give up being a cop?She thought of Kitt and Joe. The struggles they’d had reconciling their relationship and Kitt’s badge. “What would I do?”
“Stay in bed with me.”
He sounded like a little boy. Hopeful. And naughty.
She shouldn’t be hurt. But she was. She shouldn’t be angry. But she felt it building inside of her.
“And what about my family?”
“They could visit us,” he said, obviously not hearing the edge in her voice. “And we would visit them.”
He had it all figured out. And she would be along for the ride. His ride. Living off him.
“I need to work.”
“No you don’t.”
“Spoken like a true trust fund baby.”
“I can support us. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“What if I don’t want that?”
“Ouch.”
“It’s not about the money, Erik. It’s who I am.”
“I know. And I love you for who you are.”
“I don’t think we should talk about this right now.”
“Why not, M.C.?" Now he sounded angry. “Afraid I’ll get too close?”
“You know why,” she said softly. “You suffered a loss. Your emotions are raw. It’s logical that you want to escape now, but tomorrow--”
“What about tomorrow?”
“It’ll come. And it will take care of itself.”
“What if I don’t want that?”
She searched his expression, a chill moving over her. “I don’t understand.”
“What if I don’t want to do this anymore?Us. This way.”
“Don’t say that, Erik.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re upset,” she said, hearing the desperation in her voice. “Hurting. You--”
“I love you, M.C. I want you to be my wife. Marry me.”
Fear, the deep cold, took her breath. “I can’t,” she said, choked.
“Can’t, M.C.?Or won’t?”
She was too broken for a relationship. No good. For him. Or anyone.
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right,” he said harshly. “I don’t.”
“I’ll go.”
She slipped out of bed, he reached up and pulled her back. “Don’t go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Please, don’t go.”
He could swallow his pride for her. Make himself vulnerable. Need her.
Why couldn’t she do the same?
She curled up next to him. But the way he held her was different. Though they were nestled against each other, distant. A yawing chasm she felt to the very core of her being.
It was over. She and Erik. The feeling of dread that had come over her earlier. The premonition of an end.
She felt as if she was dying inside. But her eyes were dry. She had no more tears. She had used them all up.
