When the Storm Breaks (4 page)

Washington, D.C.

Saturday, 9
A.M.

A
n insistent hand briskly shook Claire’s shoulder. “Ms. Lambert? Claire? Wake up.”

The ritual had been repeated many times that morning. Claire was getting used to being shaken awake just as she was falling deeply asleep. She generally dozed right off after they left her alone, but she was getting irritated with the constant interruptions. Sleep was important, and she wasn’t getting any.

She opened her eyes. Looking around, she remembered that she was in the hospital, in a white-on-white private room. There was an older man standing next to her who looked vaguely familiar. She jolted when the man pried her lids wide open and flashed a penlight across her face. White coat, fifty-something, receding hairline, tired brown eyes. His name was…yes, Dr. Springer.

“How are you feeling?” The doctor checked her pupils a second time.

She considered the question for a moment. She no longer felt like her head was going to explode with each
heartbeat. Every other one, maybe, but that was an improvement. “The headache is still there, but bearable.”

“Good, good. Follow my finger.” He moved his finger up and down, then side to side. “Very good. You’re one lucky young lady. Your responses are excellent, and there is no sign of serious swelling on your brain. We’ll need to observe you for about forty-eight hours, but I think you can go home by Monday morning.”

“Thank God. I can’t wait to get out of here. No offense, but this place isn’t exactly a five-star hotel.” She wrinkled her nose. “And it smells funny.”

“If you can complain about that, you’re definitely on the road to recovery.”

The doctor surprised Claire by pulling up a chair next to her bed.

“While I am satisfied with your physical condition,” he said, “we need to talk a little bit more about your neurological health. With head wounds like yours, it’s not uncommon to have some type of memory loss or impact on other cognitive functions.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Claire admitted. “I tried a couple of times to remember what happened, but there’s nothing there.”

“What’s the last thing you recall before waking up in the hospital?”

She shifted against the pillows and thought for a moment. “I left work late yesterday evening. I had an appointment.”

The doctor made an encouraging sound. “What kind of appointment?”

“I was going to meet my friend Afton at her office.”

“What were you going to do?”

Claire touched the corner of her mouth with her tongue.
“She, ah, runs a dating service. I was signing up that night.”

Dr. Springer raised his eyebrows. “What happened when you got there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember
being
there, I just know that’s where I was going.”

“What’s the next thing you remember?”

“Waking up in this room a couple of hours ago. There was a man here—he had dark hair and light blue eyes. The nurse made him leave so she could help me to the bathroom. I went to sleep afterward.”

“Nothing else?” The doctor looked at her intently. “You don’t remember the time between these two incidents?”

“Not really. It’s hard to explain.” Claire sighed and rubbed her forehead absently. “I have some images in my head. Like snapshots. You know when you smell something familiar, like pumpkin pie, and for a second your mind flashes back to Thanksgiving fifteen years ago at Grandma’s house? That’s what it’s like. First an image, then a feeling, then it’s gone.”

Dr. Springer nodded and stood to make notes on Claire’s chart. “I’m not too concerned. It’s quite common in a case like yours to remember nothing about the time leading up to the injury. Your memory may come back fully as your brain heals itself. You may only remember bits and pieces, or you may never remember another thing. Especially as the events leading up to injury were…traumatic.”

Claire looked at the doctor with dark, bleak eyes. “I feel like something terrible happened, but I don’t know what it was. Can you tell me?”

“I should probably leave that to Detective Richter.”

“Who?”

The doctor smiled. “The man with light blue eyes. He’s been with you since you were downstairs in the ER, early this morning. He’s out in the hall right now. The police are very eager to take your statement.”

“Why? What happened to me? Was I attacked—raped?” She bunched her hands into fists, then immediately straightened her fingers as the IV catheter dug into the back of her left hand.

“There’s no evidence you were sexually assaulted. Why would you think you were?”

“I remember thinking that I had to run,” Claire said hoarsely. “If I didn’t, someone would catch me. I was really scared.”

Her head began to throb as she concentrated on the night before. She winced at the pain and wondered if her head would actually explode. She tried to focus on the doctor’s words, necktie, nose hairs—anything not to think about her suddenly pounding head.

“The police believe you witnessed a murder, then fled the scene with the killer in pursuit. You were injured when you fell down some stairs outside a club, presumably trying to reach help.”

I don’t have any idea what he’s saying. He’s talking about what happened to me, and I don’t remember any of it.

There was a surreal, disjointed quality to the moment, a delay between watching Dr. Springer’s mouth move, hearing the words, and then understanding them. She fought a spinning, nauseous feeling.

“I don’t remember anything about it. God, who would want to? Maybe it’s better that way.”

“The Homicide Unit and Detective Richter would be quite disappointed if you have traumatic amnesia,” Dr.
Springer said, “but maybe that would be best for your safety.”

Normally Claire was very quick, but right now she wasn’t able to track a simple conversation. “I don’t understand.”

“You witnessed a murder. It’s only logical that your life might be in danger, especially if the killer knows where you are. Why do you think the detective has been with you all morning?”

Claire’s murky thoughts abruptly cleared. Surely she would have remembered if there had been an armed man standing over her, but all she recalled was a pair of hypnotic, ice blue eyes. Like glacier water.

“You mean the detective is guarding me?”

“You’ll have to ask him that. Look, I don’t want to upset you. I want you to rest and recover, and don’t be too hard on yourself if the events of last night never come back to you. I’ll tell the detective to come back later.”

Feeling numb and cold, Claire watched the doctor leave.

Someone tried to kill me.

With stunning clarity that fact burned into her brain. Then came another—that same man had savagely murdered at least one other woman. Worse, the killer could walk through the door to her hospital room right now and she wouldn’t know him from the guy who changed bedpans.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, reining in her imagination. The murderer wasn’t going to walk in with a policeman on guard. And she would be careful as well. The blow to her head had stolen part of her memory, but she still had the rest of her faculties.

Think, Claire. Don’t react, think.

She would be in danger as long as the killer was running around free. If she remembered last night, she could help the police catch him. But how could she remember? The doctor certainly hadn’t been any help with his talk of traumatic amnesia.

Maybe all she needed was rest and a little chance to recover. Maybe then she would remember enough to give the police a description. Maybe she would at least recognize the murderer if he stood in line behind her at an ATM.

The thought of a faceless killer approaching her increased her resolve to remember. Until she knew the horrible details of Friday night, and the man responsible for them, she wouldn’t have control over her own life.

And that was one thing that Claire Lambert simply would not accept. In the last eight years she’d worked hard to build a safe and comfortable life. She wouldn’t let the killer take that away from her, too.

She closed her eyes and almost instantly began to dream of pale eyes, photographs, and cruel smiles.

Washington, D.C.

Saturday afternoon

C
laire emerged from a sleep so deep she hadn’t moved in hours. As her mind slowly came awake, she took stock of herself. Her head still hurt, no doubt about it, but she no longer felt as if there were a sharp-toothed demon gnawing her brain from the inside out. She stretched gently, testing the rest of her body. Her thigh and calf muscles were stiff, and her feet were sore, but everything else was in good shape—except her memory.

She opened her eyelids and looked directly into a compelling hazel gaze. Tilting her head she studied the green-blue eyes. They were set in a wide face with strong cheekbones, a square jaw, and nicely shaped lips. As she continued to stare, the lips moved in a smile. A very charming smile. He looked to be in his early thirties, though he sprawled in an armchair with the ease of a teenager. He seemed vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t one of the doctors, which meant he had to be the detective.

“I thought your eyes were blue,” she said.

“Nope. They’re hazel.” The room door opened and the
man next to her gestured with his chin. “My cousin’s eyes are blue.”

She turned to look at the newcomer. Here were the stark blue eyes that had punctuated her dreams. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t remembered the rest of the package, as well. Dark hair, tall, athletic build with broad shoulders and long legs. And a truly striking face.

He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, though he was certainly handsome. His power lay in his icy eyes, which weighed the world with tangible intelligence.

“I see you two have met.” Blue Eyes approached the bed, holding out a cup of coffee to the other man.

“We were just getting there. Why don’t you make the introductions?” Hazel Eyes and Charming Smile took the coffee and sipped from the steaming container.

“This is Aidan Burke, my cousin and partner. I’m Sean Richter, in case you don’t remember me. We’re both detectives with DCPD’s Homicide Division. Aidan, meet Marie Claire Lambert.” Though he spoke to the other man, Sean’s blue eyes continued to look intently at Claire.

“Please, just Claire,” she said. “My Catholic mother mistakenly thought I’d learn grace and humility if she named me after the Blessed Virgin, but it’s been years since anyone actually called me Marie Claire.”

“And what did you do to the last person who called you that?” Aidan teased.

She smiled and said in her best Louisiana drawl, “Now,
cher
, is that something I’d tell a detective?”

As the words echoed in the room, her smile dimmed. Detectives. These men were here to take her statement about a series of deadly events she couldn’t even recall.

“Claire it is,” Aidan said. “Is there anyone we can call for you? Family, boyfriend, roommate?”

The last of her smile faded at the question.

No, no family at all.

She pushed aside the old sadness at having outlived all of her close relatives. “I don’t have any family, but—Livvie! I have to call her. What time is it? We were supposed to have lunch today. She’ll be frantic.”

Claire sat up and flung back the sheet to reach for the phone. Instead her hands grabbed her head. “God
damn
it.”

“Easy does it.” Sean caught Claire’s bandaged feet before they touched the floor. “No sense in breaking open these cuts or fainting and hitting your head again. Aidan will call your friend while we talk.”

Sean gently swiveled her legs back on the bed and drew the sheet over their pale, distracting length. He had to work very hard to keep his eyes on hers and off the sleekly muscled line of calf and thigh.

Even with the distraction of her pounding head, Claire shivered at the touch of his hands. Considering the fact that she had been handled like a piece of meat by complete strangers ever since entering the hospital, she told herself that her reaction was ridiculous.

But this man didn’t feel like a stranger.

She looked away from Sean’s face to his hands. They were very nice—large, with long, tapered fingers and neatly trimmed nails. A sprinkling of dark hair dusted the back of each knuckle. She tried to recall what Olivia had said about a man with big hands. Then she remembered, and blushed.

“Do you remember your friend’s number?” Aidan asked.

Claire gave him the number and he walked to the far end of the room, dialing his cell phone as he went.

Sean waited until she faced him again. When she simply
studied him for a long moment, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Sorry, I just feel like—you seem very familiar,” she said, embarrassed.

He was surprised she felt the same thing he did, a kind of visceral recognition of the other person. It had been bothering him. So he told her what he had been telling himself. “I’ve been sitting by your bed for almost twelve hours, and sometimes you’d wake up and look right at me. Naturally I seem familiar.”

The idea of him watching her as she slept should have made Claire uncomfortable, but his matter-of-fact words reassured her. “I guess that would do it.”

Aidan came back to Claire’s bed and sat in the nearby chair. “Your friend is on her way. I didn’t tell her much, just that you were injured but would be fine.”

“Thank you. She’s quite the mother hen, so I know she’ll be worried.” That was an understatement. Olivia would probably get multiple speeding tickets on the way down Wisconsin Avenue.

Sean put his hand on Claire’s arm. “I know you’ve been through a very difficult time. I spoke to Dr. Springer, and he said you couldn’t remember anything after leaving work Friday evening, but that might change as your brain heals itself. Have you been able to remember anything else?”

“I just have some images in my head. Some feelings.”

“Like what?”

“I was walking, then I stopped short. A man smiling—a nasty, mean smile. I was afraid, and I remember running. Being chased.” Her eyes stared ahead, unfocused. She shivered and blinked, then looked at Sean. “Nothing really makes sense, because there’s no context. I don’t
know when it was, where I was, what I was doing there. It’s like looking at pictures in a photo album but not knowing the story behind them.” She frowned and tried to hold a thought that was teasing just at the edges of her memory. “Photos.”

“What?” Sean asked, leaning toward her.

“I looked at that cruel smile and thought…thought I’d seen a photo of the man smiling at me. The idea just popped in my head. It was…surreal.”

“Good.” He took her hands and spoke soothingly. “What did the man look like?”

She tried to remember. After a full minute of silence, all she had was a vicious headache. “I don’t know. I had to get away, so I ran. I just ran. That’s all.”

Sean’s hands tightened around hers in an instinctive protest. To come so close, to have an eyewitness to the crime, and yet come away with nothing.
Shit.

Aidan murmured reassuringly to her as she freed her hands from Sean’s.

“I’m so sorry.” Claire wiped her clammy forehead with the back of her arm. “I just can’t remember anything clearly.”

Sean paced toward the door, running his hand through his hair and then letting his fingers rest on the back of his neck. Silently he considered the possibilities, revising his approach to getting information.

“Do you remember anything after thinking you needed to run?” Aidan asked.

“Nothing.” Claire’s mouth was as flat as her voice. “I woke up here.”

Silence filled the room.

She looked at Aidan, then Sean. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“We’re not blaming you,” Sean said emphatically. “We blame the criminal who’s responsible for this whole mess. Sure, it would be nice if you could give us a description, but we’ve got more now than we did yesterday.”

“Like what?” Her voice was skeptical. She wondered if he was patronizing her the way the doctor had.

“We’ve got a new crime scene with new forensic evidence. We know we’re dealing with a man, a man with what you describe as a cruel smile. We know there is a photograph of the man or someone who looks like him—”

“No. A photograph of
him,
” she interrupted. “It’s the only thing I’m certain of, that flash of recognition.”

“Okay,” Sean said. “Where did you see this photograph?”

“I—I don’t remember.”

“Could it have been in a newspaper?”

“I don’t subscribe to any papers. I get my news online, text version usually.”

“Then what photos, particularly photos with men, have you seen recently?” Aidan asked.

“I may have looked at photos—a lot of photos—during an appointment after work last night. But I can’t say for sure. I don’t even remember going to the meeting.”

Sean tried to imagine why she would review pictures during a business meeting. He came up blank. “What was this appointment about?”

Her cheeks turned a dusky red. God, talk about adding insult to injury. “It was a dating service.”

Aidan’s jaw dropped. “You’re shitting me.”

“You went
where
?” Sean’s voice rose on the last word. He shook his head in disbelief.

Claire counted to ten and hoped her blush would be mistaken for anger. “All right, gentlemen, I’m only going
to say this once, so listen up. I had an appointment with a dating service last night. I’d just joined, so we were going to spend part of the evening reviewing the catalogue and looking at pictures of male clients to see if there were any matches for me.”

Sean was too shocked to say anything. Aidan coughed and jumped up from his seat to look out the window, studying the street below with apparent interest. Both men worked hard to look normal.

“It’s not funny.” Her voice was defensive.

“I’m not laughing,” Aidan said, but he didn’t turn around.

Sean shook his head. “I can’t believe someone like you would have trouble finding a date.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t say I had trouble
finding
a date. I just have trouble finding someone I
want
to date. Big difference.”

“Amen to that,” Sean muttered under his breath.

He hadn’t been out with a woman in months, since just after the end of his last relationship. He’d quickly grown tired of the casual partner-swapping of D.C.’s singles scene and had buried himself in his caseload with few regrets.

“Look, I don’t think we should be focusing on the dating service,” she said in a voice that was intended to close the subject. “I could have been picking up my dry cleaning.”

Sean almost smiled. Temper made her eyes sparkle and added color to her face. His witness was obviously beginning to feel better.

Aidan, having gained control of his laughter, turned back from the window. “Hang on a sec. Where is this dating service located?”

“It’s not far from Dupont Circle—you can walk there
easily from the metro.” Claire gave them the address and cross streets.

The men exchanged a quick glance. Sean mentally ran through the various routes a pedestrian could take between the Circle and the address Claire had given. One of the shorter ways went directly through the schoolyard where the murder had occurred.

“Did you plan on walking?” Sean asked.

“Yes. I was going to take the metro to Dupont Circle, walk to the dating service, then take the bus home to Georgetown. We expected the meeting to take several hours, but the bus runs pretty regularly along that route.”

“Do you normally walk around the city at night? Alone?” Though Sean’s tone was calm, his eyes narrowed at the thought of a solitary woman walking the dark streets of Washington, D.C. As a cop, he knew exactly what happened to some of those women. Claire had been lucky. His case files were full of women whose luck had run out.

Claire’s chin shot up at Sean’s deliberately neutral tone. “Yes, I do. I’m not stupid, nor am I a child. I just refuse to live in fear. I stick to populated areas and well-lit streets. If I have to leave them for some reason, I carry pepper spray in my purse.”

The detectives traded looks again. Sean’s theory for why the pepper spray had been at the crime scene had just been confirmed.

Then Sean thought of something. “Were you carrying a purse?”

“Of course.”

“Where is it? It wasn’t with you at the club where you were found, and we didn’t find it at the murder scene. Are you sure you were carrying it Friday night?”

“I must have been. I never go anywhere without it. Maybe I dropped it and someone stole it?”

Sean thought about it but dismissed the notion. If someone had come across her purse on the street, he or she might have stripped the wallet of cash and credit cards, then stuffed everything in a Dumpster somewhere. But Sean didn’t think so. He remembered being on the murder scene and the gut feeling he’d had that the killer liked to keep trophies.

“What’s usually in your purse?” Aidan asked before Sean could.

“The normal stuff—wallet, compact, checkbook, house keys.”

“Did you have a driver’s license or other ID in your wallet?” Sean asked.

“Of course.”

Sean’s eyes narrowed. “Did it have your current address on it?”

Claire nodded. “I’ve lived there for over five years. Why?”

“We need to get your locks changed,” Aidan interrupted. “It’s a good idea after you lose your keys.”

“You’re right,” she said, nodding absently as she thought about it. Great, some punk off the street could have her keys and address—another thing to worry about. Then she picked up on the undercurrents of what Sean and Aidan weren’t saying. “You guys think the killer has my stuff?”

“We don’t know that,” Sean tried to reassure her.

Mentally he cursed her quickness. They would have to work fast to stay ahead of her, but he admired the fact that she was picking up his unspoken worries despite her concussion. He’d always found smart women sexy.

Steady, man. You’re working, not trolling.

Sean reminded himself that Claire was a witness in a homicide investigation. His job was to work with her to close the case, nothing more. That was the way it had to be, regardless of how attractive she was to him, with her wild raven hair and intelligent black eyes.