With Deadly Intent (5 page)

Simon glanced at her bare ring finger. “Oh, I didn't realize you were married.”

She lifted her chin. “Following my divorce a year ago, I took back my maiden name.” The
clink of their eating utensils sounded loud in the tight silence that followed. After an
awkward interval, she gathered her thoughts and went on. “Dad says even Oren's mother
didn't know Elise well. She had come visiting with Oren only a few times. Aunt Helen
said Elise seemed to resent her for some reason.”

Simon's lips thinned to a taut line across even teeth. “Elise resented all women.” His
gaze dropped and he seemed to have gone off into some other world of his own. After
awhile, he added, “Living, or dead.”

Amy waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she said, “Do you think she could have
defended herself against an attacker?”

“Possibly. Elise was five-eight and well built, but her Dresden-china type of beauty"—he
paused for a moment, his brows drawn together, then went on—"made you think she was
fragile ... and she wasn't.” For a second, it seemed as if he was about to elaborate on
his remark, but he turned his attention to his food instead.

Amy repressed an urge to shout at the man. One minute he told her more about his life
than she wanted to know, the next he turned into the proverbial sphinx. “Her beauty must
be natural. We found no make-up except a lipstick in the apartment.” She twirled strands
of fettuccine around her fork. “Evidently, she was different from the beautiful women
I've known.”

Simon glanced up. “Oh? In what way?”

“Seems to me most of them go in for expensive jewelry.” She smoothed a wrinkle in the
table cloth. “Elise had only cheap junk.”

“Junk! Elise never wore anything that didn't have a three figure price tag. Good God, I
gave her a square-cut emerald ring and bracelet that set me back six month's pay.” His
eyes narrowed. “She had cases crammed with necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Diamonds,
rubies, sapphires.” He cleared his throat. “She expected men to give her costly
presents.”

In her mind, Amy dug through the tiny cardboard box that held her stuff. She found two
broken watches, a locket her father had given her, and a charm bracelet she'd had at age
fourteen. Perhaps her expectations hadn't been high enough. “Did she make a good salary
as Dr. Tambor's nurse?”

“She didn't say. I know she had a charge account at a couple of shops on Fifth Avenue.”

“Hm-m-m.” Amy speared a clam and chewed as she thought over his remark. “Maybe she got
overextended and had to cut back. Most of her clothing came from K-Mart.”

Simon choked on the swallow of water he'd taken and began to cough. When he regained his
breath, he said, “Something's haywire here. We're not talking about the same woman.” He
pushed his plate to the side and tossed his napkin on the table. “Look, maybe we can
help each other.”

“Oh...” she said on a rising note. “In what way?”

“You want to know more about Elise, right?”

“Learning a homicide victim's habits and lifestyle is always helpful in solving a case.”

He blew out his breath. “I own a condo on Western Avenue. Elise and I lived there.” He
passed both hands over his face as if he were doing a dry wash. “I haven't been inside
the place since I walked out six months ago and went to London.”

He glanced at the check the waiter had laid on the table and pulled several twenties from
his wallet. “Elise wasn't very organized, she's bound to have left some of her things
behind.”

His gaze lifted and caught hers in a silent plea. “To be honest, I need the moral
support, and you might find something helpful. What do you say? Are you game?”

Amy contemplated his offer. Was the man on the up-and-up, or could this be a ruse to get
her into his apartment? The absurdity of her question nearly produced a snicker. A man
with Simon's sex appeal wouldn't need to concoct excuses. Most women would come running
at a crook of his finger. Still, she'd better take a few precautions. “Mind if I call my
father first?”

A smile spread across his face. “No, of course not. Tell him hello for me.”

She used the pay phone at the back of the restaurant. “Got any encouraging news about
Oren?” she asked, after they'd greeted each other.

“His attorney entered a ‘not guilty' plea at the hearing,” her father said. “Helen and I
are trying to arrange bail.”

“Have you had a chance to talk to him?”

He made a sound of disgust. “The sheriff's not letting anyone near him except his lawyer.
What are you up to this evening?”

She told him about Simon and his suggestion. “What do you think? Should I go?”

“Sure. Why not? We need to find out all we can about Elise.”

He paused for a double beat and she could almost hear his brain cells enumerating the
possibilities. He longed to see her married and happy so he could look forward to a
grandchild. This impromptu dinner was the nearest she'd been to a man in over a year.

“Simon's intelligent,” her father said quickly. “And ... and personable too as I recall.
This may be a real lucky break, Amy.”

“Don't count on it. Dad.” She berated herself for being so abrupt with him. The mess
she'd made of her life wasn't his fault.

“Oh? Well, a change of pace never hurt anyone. Right?”

“Look who's talking. You're the-closest thing to perpetual motion I know.” She wished him
a good night and returned to the table to gather up her things. “Let's go.”

The cab driver acted as if he'd taken his training at the Indianapolis Speedway. He
jetted down Columbia spraying gutter water over a gray clump of street people huddled in
a debris-strewn doorway. Sheeting rain filmed the windows and she recognized only a few
of the weathered brick buildings they zipped past. Fifteen minutes later, the cab
skidded to a stop in front of a tall building.

An uneasy silence prevailed as the elevator whisked them upward and deposited them on the
sixth floor. Simon fumbled through his keys. After two attempts, he managed to find the
right key, trigger the lock, and wave her inside.

He slammed the door behind them, setting into motion dozens of crystal teardrops that
hung from the cobwebby chandelier overhead. Each facet caught the light, spreading
shimmering shafts over stark white walls.

Simon glanced around as if surprised. “Never saw it so clean. Elise must have had someone
come in and do the cleaning,” he said, his voice unnaturally gruff. Squaring his
shoulders, he strode across jet black carpet, and threaded his way between a white satin
sofa of Olympic proportions fronted by a glass coffee table of equal size. On the table,
dust filmed artificial fruit spilling artfully over the edges of a pedestalled lead
crystal bowl—grapes carved of polished jade, amethyst plums, carnelian peaches.

“Elise redecorated the apartment when she moved in.” He went to a window spanning the
living room's end wall, and drew back variegated gunmetal drapes. Amy joined him; and
caught a blurred glimmer of lights reflecting off Elliott Bay's inky waters.

“Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains must look spectacular from here.”

His inner stress cut furrows in his cheeks and pulled his features out of line. “Yes ...
yes, they are. Julie and I couldn't afford the place, but after we saw the view...” He
spread his hands. “When she got pregnant, we used to sit here in the evenings and ...
and make plans for us and the baby.” His Adam's apple jerked convulsively. He opened and
closed his mouth several times before he said in a strained whisper, “We were going to
call him Jason, after my father.”

Amy touched his arm. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.”

“No, I've spent a helluva a lot of money on psychiatrists just to learn I'm badly in need
of some therapeutic exorcism.” He turned toward the hall. “Come along. I'll give you the
ten cent tour.”

He opened the door of a room containing an ancient oak desk, an equally battered file
cabinet, and shelves loaded with books. “Once upon a time, I intended to write a novel.
One that'd make the publishing world forget all about Hemingway.” He laughed—a bitter,
humorless sound. “That was back when I could honestly call myself a writer.” His mouth
twisted. “Foolish dream anyway.”

He pointed to the next door. “That's the bedroom. You might find something of Elise's in
the closet.”

Amy looked up at him. “Aren't you coming?”

He shook his head. “I can't ... not just yet. I'll wait in my study.”

Amy pushed open the door and entered a white-walled room dominated by a king-sized bed. A
photograph album lay open on the black satin spread. Ragged edged pages were strewn in
every direction. Snapshot after snapshot of Simon and a slender woman lay scattered
about. In each picture, someone had torn off the woman's head and tossed the scraps into
a pile.

Although Amy didn't remember making a sound, she must have. The next thing she knew Simon
stood beside her. He stared down at the desecrated photos of the woman who must have
been his beloved Julie, and his face paled.

“Bloody bitch!” He ripped the spread off the bed, showering fragments of paper onto the
white carpet. “Dirty, conniving, black-hearted bitch.” He flung the wadded fabric into
the farthest corner, and clenched his fists at his sides. “I should have killed her.”

Amy urged Simon out of the condo. He came, stumbling like a man gone suddenly blind.
Through the thin fiber of his raincoat, she felt his muscles quiver and tense, quiver
and tense. Once on the street, she found a diner, steered him inside, and ordered
coffee.

He gripped the thick, brown mug tightly but his hands shook and hot liquid splashed his
skin. “It's no use,” he muttered, and lowered the mug to the table. “Why don't you go on
home? I'll work my way through this.” He grimaced. “I always do.” His gaze met hers for
an instant, and in the depths of his soft hazel eyes, she glimpsed a bleak,
heart-rending sadness.

“Humph!” she said, memories of her own sleepless nights bringing a bitter taste to her
mouth. “Don't try to kid someone who's been there.” She got to her feet. “Besides, there
are times when a person shouldn't be alone.”

She ordered a cab, insisted he get in, and gave the driver her address. We're just off
Broadway, Mitch had always told his friends, giving their four-story walk-up a New York
panache the crumbling, red-brick building didn't rate.

When they reached her three-room apartment, she poured him a healthy shot of bourbon and
clamped his fingers around the glass. “Drink up. You need something to warm your
insides.” She smiled faintly at the constant reversals in their roles. Poor Simon was a
natural born caretaker, too—a trait that had wounded her so deeply, she wouldn't wish it
on her worst enemy.

She took sheets and a blue print comforter from the hall closet. When Mitch had moved
out, she'd insisted he take the Lucite chrome and marshmallow Naugahyde furniture he'd
liked so much. She replaced them with a comfortable blue-gray corduroy hide-a-bed couch
and matching overstaffed chair from the neighborhood thrift store.

After making Simon's bed, she turned to look at him. His shoulders were bent and his head
hung loosely as if the effort of holding it upright were too much for him.

She moved to Simon's side and took his empty glass. “Would you like to tell me about
Elise?”

He jerked erect. “No! I wished to God I'd never met her, that I never had to think of her
again.” His body went slack, and he sighed. “But it looks as if that's not possible.” He
stood and took off his raincoat. “Go to bed, Amy. It's late and you need your rest.”

She started out, then came back. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I've been fairly self sufficient for most of my
thirty-four years.”

Amy grinned. “Yeah. Sure. That's two of us—and we're both damn liars. Get some sleep, you
look like a beached jellyfish.” She took a few steps and turned once more. “If you can't
sleep, and want to talk, just knock on my door.”

“I'll be fine.”

She was halfway down the hall when he called her name. She rejoined him. “Thanks.” He
combed his fingers through his hair. “Just being here is a big help. This"—he waved his
arm—"reminds me of my parents' home.” A wan smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
“There were six of us kids.”

“Must have been nice. I was an only child.”

“You can still get lonely.” A frown creased his forehead. “There's five years between me
and my brother. When you're a kid that's too wide a gap to breach. By the time you're
grown, it's too late.”

“Maybe that's why you're a writer.”

His eyes widened. “How'd you know about writers?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I grind out a poem now and then.”

“Publish any?”

“A couple back in college. Haven't had time for such stuff lately”

“I see...” He stretched out his long legs, settled his head on the chair's backrest and
closed his eyes.

She turned on a table lamp and switched off the ceiling fixture. “I'll put a toothbrush
and a disposable razor in the bathroom.”

He roused himself. “You must make a habit of picking up strays.”

She swung around and gave him a frigid stare. “Sure I do. At least three or four men a
night.” She turned on her heel and left the room.

Tuesday, October 25

Early the next morning, the sound of water drumming on the shower walls brought her
upright in bed.
Mitch?
She remembered Simon and lay back down. After her exit
last night, she was surprised he was still there. An image of him drying his lean,
muscular body on her towels drifted unbidden into her mind and gave her a peculiar
feeling in her midriff.