Crime Seen (23 page)

‘‘I can fix it!’’ I said as Dutch stood up, his face turning a purplish hue.

‘‘Bring . . . me . . . a . . . mirror,’’ he growled. I gulped and shook my head no. ‘‘Fine,’’ he said and yanked the towel from his neck as he moved to go around me.

I put two hands on his chest and said, ‘‘Wait! I swear I can fix it!’’

‘‘I can’t believe I
let
you do this to me,’’ he said, his expression a mixture of anger and dread.

‘‘It’s not that bad!’’ I said, then lunged for his waist, desperate to keep him from looking in the mirror.

Dutch dragged me to the bathroom. I didn’t let go until he was a foot away from the mirror—and then I ran for it.

Chapter Nine

I hung out in my bedroom until the swearing stopped. Then I heard my front door open and close—okay, maybe it did slam a little. After waiting a few extra seconds, I opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked out. ‘‘Dutch?’’ I said tentatively. ‘‘Yo, Dutch!’’ I called a little louder. Eggy came to the door and sniffed at my feet. ‘‘Did he leave?’’ I asked Eggy, who replied by wagging his tail.

I sighed as I stepped out of the bedroom and picked him up. ‘‘I’ve really done it this time,’’ I said to him. Eggy pumped his tail harder and gave me a slurpy kiss. He agreed.

Just then I heard the front door open again. I tightly gripped Eggy, preparing to bolt back into the bedroom. We both listened as the TV went on. We waited to see what would happen next. Nothing but the sounds of a ball game filled the silence.

Finally, I worked up the nerve to venture out into my living room. I found Dutch sitting on the couch with an FBI baseball cap pulled down low on his head. Little tufts of hair poked out under the hat and I worked
very
hard not to giggle. ‘‘You want some dinner?’’ I said when he didn’t look up as I entered the room.

‘‘I called for Thai food from my cell,’’ he said. ‘‘Should be here in twenty minutes.’’ Dutch’s tone was low and even, which meant he wasn’t just pissed—he was super-pissed.

‘‘Great,’’ I said as I set Eggy down. ‘‘How about a beer?’’ When in doubt about how to proceed with a very pissed-off boyfriend, offer alcohol—
lots
of alcohol.

Dutch gave me one curt nod.

I hurried into the kitchen and pulled out two beers, and then I grabbed a frosted mug from the freezer. Uncapping the beers, I went back to the living room, set a coaster on the table in front of Dutch, and poured his beer into the frosted mug. When he failed to thank me, I went back to the kitchen and put the chips into a decorative bowl, carrying them and the salsa out to him. ‘‘Nothing goes better with beer than chips and salsa!’’ I said brightly.

Dutch grunted and switched the channel to CNN.

I sat down in the leather chair next to the sofa and Eggy jumped into my lap. We all sat in silence watching the television until the doorbell rang. ‘‘I got it!’’ I said, jumping to my feet and hurrying to my purse. ‘‘This one’s on me,’’ I said to Dutch, who continued to moodily stare out from under his cap at the flickering light of the set.

I paid for the Thai food and took it into the kitchen. There, I put a healthy portion onto a dinner plate and began to walk it out to him, then stopped and swiveled back to the fridge, where I grabbed another beer. ‘‘Here you go,’’ I said as I set the plate and beer down in front of him. I waited several seconds for Dutch to say ‘‘thank you,’’ or ‘‘you’re the best,’’ or ‘‘I appreciate it,’’ but I didn’t get so much as a grunt.

With a heavy sigh I went back to the kitchen and got my own plate. Taking it back to my chair, I sat down and ate with Dutch in silence. Finally, after an hour, I got up the courage to say, ‘‘I solved your case today.’’

Dutch slid his eyes to me, then moved them back to the TV.

‘‘I know who killed Cynthia Frost.’’

That was the ticket. Dutch clicked the MUTE button and turned his whole head to look at me. He didn’t say anything; he just waited for me to continue.

‘‘I tracked down Cynthia’s daughter today,’’ I said, nervous under his steely glare. ‘‘And I convinced her to let me try and contact her mother using Theresa. We were able to make a connection and Cynthia replayed her murder for me.’’

‘‘Go on,’’ Dutch said quietly when I paused.

‘‘I got a really good look at the man who killed her. His first name is Ray and I never heard his last name, but I could work with a sketch artist and give you a good idea what he looked like.’’

Dutch unclipped the cell at his belt and flipped it open. Punching a few keys, he said, ‘‘Hey, Uli, it’s Dutch. I know it’s late on a Friday, but any chance you’re free to come to Royal Oak and do a sketch? My girlfriend is a professional psychic, and she says she has a good description of the guy that murdered Cynthia Frost.’’ There was a pause and Dutch said, ‘‘Great. Here’s the address . . .’’

I cleaned up the dishes while we waited for Uli to show up. Dutch continued to ignore me in the living room, so I did a little tidying up around the house. After all, I didn’t want Uli to think I was a slob.

The doorbell rang about the time I was putting the vacuum away. Dutch got up to answer it. He greeted a beautiful woman of about fifty with wavy brown hair and soft ebony eyes. She wore a gorgeous lavender pashmina over a white silk blouse, skinny jeans, and high heels. Her jewelry was large and chunky, and her hands had slender fingers and prominent veins. She looked every bit the artist and I instantly liked her. ‘‘Welcome,’’ I said as Dutch made the introductions.

‘‘Lovely to meet you,’’ she said in a thick German accent.

I’d noticed that Uli did a double take when she looked at Dutch. After coming in and setting down her bag and sketch pad she turned to him and said, waving to his head, ‘‘What has happened to you?’’

Dutch’s face turned a shade of pink as he replied, ‘‘My gal here decided to trim my hair while gabbing on the telephone.’’

Uli’s hand flew to her mouth as she attempted to stifle a giggle. ‘‘I see,’’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘‘After we are done with the sketch, I shall fix for you.’’

‘‘Thanks, Uli, but I’d hate to put you out—’’

‘‘I shall fix for you,’’ she interrupted firmly. ‘‘I was hairstylist back in Germany. I cut many heads. I do good job.’’

Dutch gave her a tight smile. ‘‘Why don’t you and Abby get started? There’s better lighting in the kitchen.’’

‘‘Ja,’’ she said and followed him into my kitchen.

She and I sat at the table while Dutch went back out to smolder in the living room. While she was setting out her pencils and such, I whispered, ‘‘Can you really fix his hair?’’

‘‘Ja,’’ she said. ‘‘I shall fix for him. Next time do not talk while you cut with the scissors.’’

‘‘Believe me, that’s the last time I’ll be allowed anywhere near him with so much as a toenail clipper.’’

Uli started by asking me about the general shape of Ray’s face, nose, lips, ears, and eyes. She offered several sketches of just those features so that I could pick the ones that looked similar.

She asked me to sit next to her as she drew so that I could guide her in the basic shapes and shading as she went along. A little into the process I noticed a frown form on her face, and she began to ask me a few questions about Dutch and me, like had I ever been to his office and met any of his coworkers or his boss. I hadn’t, and I couldn’t figure out why she seemed particularly troubled by that information. ‘‘So, you had a vision of this man and that is how you know he is the one who murdered Cynthia?’’

I told her all about my session with Bree and Theresa and how I’d been sucked back into the energy of that event. I described what I’d seen, how Cynthia seemed to know her killer, and that his name was Ray and that he had snapped her neck like a twig. Uli’s brow furrowed and there seemed to be deep concern in her eyes, but she continued to sketch per my instructions.

Within about an hour she had a really good sketch going, and after two it could have been a black-and-white photo of the guy. ‘‘That’s him!’’ I said when I saw the final picture. ‘‘Man, Uli, you are really good at this!’’

‘‘Ja,’’ she said, but there was a look on her face that was hard and firm. ‘‘Dutch,’’ she called over her shoulder, ‘‘we are finished.’’

Dutch came into the kitchen looking like he was in a slightly better mood, but that could have been because of the third beer he’d sucked down. As he glanced at the sketch his face changed too, matching Uli’s in its seriousness. He studied the sketch long and hard, then glanced at me and asked, ‘‘Are you positive this is the man you saw?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ I said, giving him a curious look. ‘‘That’s the guy who murdered Cynthia.’’

‘‘What are you going to do?’’ Uli asked Dutch.

Dutch rubbed his face with his hand. ‘‘Damned if I know.’’

I scowled. I hate being left in the dark. ‘‘Can someone please explain to me what the heck is going on?’’

Uli ripped off the page from the sketch pad and left it on the kitchen table. ‘‘I won’t say a word until you decide what to do,’’ she said to Dutch. He nodded and then she grabbed him by the arm and pushed him into the chair she’d been sitting in. Turning to me, she said, ‘‘I will need a towel and scissors.’’

I looked back at Dutch, who just kept staring at the sketch on the table. I threw my hands up in the air and muttered, ‘‘The scissors are right over here on the counter. I’ll be right back with the towel.’’

Half an hour later Uli was finished with Dutch. His hair was a little shorter than he usually kept it, but I had to admit, he looked damn good. He’d insisted on holding a mirror while she cut his hair, to track her progress so as not to be caught by surprise, and when she was done he gave her a relieved nod of approval. ‘‘You did a great job,’’ he said to her. ‘‘Even better than my barber.’’

Uli smiled as she packed up her pencils and her sketch pad. ‘‘If you want me to cut again for you, just ask. I have small salon in my house.’’ She handed him a business card. ‘‘But don’t tell anyone else. You know how the bureau frowns on these things.’’

‘‘No worries,’’ he said as he stuffed the card into his wallet. ‘‘And thanks again for coming by.’’

Before leaving she turned to him and placed a hand on his arm. ‘‘If you decide to do nothing with the sketch, then I will understand.’’

Dutch nodded. ‘‘Thanks, Uli, but there’s no way I can let it go. I just have to figure out who I should trust with this intel.’’ After Uli left, I stood in front of him with my arms crossed and my toe tapping. ‘‘What?’’ he asked.

‘‘Who’s the guy in the sketch?’’

‘‘It’s better if you don’t know,’’ he said.

‘‘Would you like me to turn on my radar and try a few guesses?’’

Dutch narrowed his eyes at me and finally blew out a sigh. ‘‘The man in the sketch is a younger version of the ASAC, Raymond Robillard.’’

My jaw dropped. ‘‘He’s your
boss
?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Dutch. ‘‘And the fact that you’ve never seen him and couldn’t have just pulled his face out of thin air gives that sketch a lot of validity in my book.’’

‘‘What the heck was the FBI’s ASAC doing with a CIA operative?’’ I asked. ‘‘I mean, how did they even know each other?’’

‘‘Ray is ex-CIA. He switched houses when his boss and the SAC, Dan Winston, came over too. Back in the eighties he was Cynthia’s peer.’’

‘‘Why the hell would he assign you to work a case where he murdered someone?’’

Dutch smiled wryly. ‘‘Two reasons. One, who would ever think of the guy ordering an ongoing investigation as having anything to do with it? And two, since I’m the rookie, he could rest assured that a seasoned agent wouldn’t be assigned. It gives everyone the impression that Robillard is still trying to solve the case when in fact he’s just blowing smoke.’’

‘‘And if you did find something incriminating, he could redirect you or pull the case from you before it went too far.’’

‘‘Bingo,’’ Dutch said. ‘‘I’m absolutely positive that he never counted on Cynthia making contact with my girlfriend and giving an eyewitness account.’’

‘‘You are so lucky to have me in your life,’’ I said smugly.

Dutch rubbed his head. ‘‘And I’m even luckier to have a sketch artist for a barber.’’ I swatted at him and he laughed, then grew sober again. ‘‘This is going to be a hell of a case to prove,’’ he said to me. ‘‘Is there anything else that Cynthia said in the vision? Something that might help me nail Robillard?’’

‘‘She had something on him,’’ I said as my radar began to hum. ‘‘There was a manila folder on the table right before he killed her. He took it after he broke her neck.’’

Dutch sat down heavily on the couch. He looked tired and troubled. ‘‘Any idea what she had on him?’’

Before answering him I came over to the couch and sat down too. I focused hard on that folder and what it might contain. A tiny whisper of a thought floated to me. ‘‘There’s a connection to Las Vegas. And somewhere in Asia—I think it’s Thailand.’’

Dutch reached for the pen and paper on my side table and jotted a few notes. ‘‘Anything else?’’

I nodded. ‘‘Oddly, there’s also a connection to San Francisco here too.’’

‘‘Got it.’’

Goose bumps formed on my arms. ‘‘Dutch,’’ I said quietly.

‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘Be really careful, okay?’’

He gave me a smile, then set the pen down and pulled me into his arms. ‘‘You got it, doll.’’ And he kissed me long and deep.

The next morning I met Candice at the gym. We were both still very stiff and sore, so most of the paces she put me through involved light weights with lots of stretching in between. I had to admit that as we left the gym I felt a lot better.

‘‘Feel like breakfast?’’ she asked as we got to our cars.

‘‘I always feel like breakfast,’’ I said to her. ‘‘I could go for an omelet at Spago’s.’’

‘‘Cool,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll see you there.’’

Candice pulled out of the parking lot ahead of me and we traveled northbound on Woodward Avenue. As we approached Thirteen Mile I got a prickly sensation along my arms and my radar began to hum a warning. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw something that made my breath catch. A black Hummer with some front end damage was weaving through traffic, accelerating in our direction. ‘‘Shit!’’ I said as I noticed the scratches and dents to the Hummer’s grill.