Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (21 page)

He set the case down on the white quilt covering his neatly made queen-sized bed. How, I wondered, did he do it? Didn't we just mess up that bed a few days ago? If it had been my bed, the sheets would still be on the floor, the mattress halfway off its frame.

His wistful sigh said we could mess it up again if I just gave the word. My answering smile was all he needed. He reached out and enfolded me into one of his deep hugs.

"Harder," I said. When he obliged, I burrowed my face into his neck, deep enough so I could feel his steady pulse against my open mouth. I licked at the pulse, and then, ever so gently, nibbled at the tendon in his neck. His breath strummed at the erotic tug of teeth on vulnerable skin. He pulled back to look me in the eyes. "Just so I'm not making a wrong move here, exactly what is it you're doing?"

"Making it up to you for putting up with me?"

I could feel his warm smile on my mouth as his hands worked underneath my T-shirt, his fingers coolly climbing the ladder of my ribs until he came to the obstruction of my bra. With his lips lazily nibbling mine, he slid his fingers around the edge and deftly unsnapped it, releasing the last possible objection. I sighed against his mouth and pulled away to lead him to bed where I could make it up to him the best way I knew how.

Chapter twenty:

After Caleb left for work the next morning, I punched in the cell number from Jan's business card.

I barely had time to say, hello, when she gushed, "Oh, my God, Lalla! It's all over the news, but of course I don't believe you had anything to do with leaving him to die in the trunk of your car."

"Right. Why would I do that anyway? If I had a gun in my hand, I couldn't have forced him into that trunk. "Then I winced as I remembered that Jan, aka Margarithe Delacorte, was also a reporter. I could see tomorrow's headline:
He was Impossible to Control—Unless I Held a Gun to his Head!

"I know Del wasn't easy, but who would hate him so much that they'd put him in a hot trunk to
die
?" she asked. Uh-oh, I'd walked right into this one. She was fishing for information and I couldn't afford to have her misquote me.

"Gee, I can't tell you anything, Jan. I was out cold through most of it."

"Well," she said, her voice trembling, "if there's anything I can do, all you have to do is ask."

What was this? I thought she'd be handing out prizes to the person who finally took him off the planet.What was it she'd said about him?
He'll abuse your trust then leave you bleeding all over the carpet like the rest of us who get in his way.
Well, damn. I'd completely missed the signals. She wasn't talking about the newsroom politics. They'd been involved, and knowing Del's take on women, she'd taken the breakup harder than he did. Maybe there was something she
could
do for me.

"Jan, do you by any chance have keys to Del's place?" There was a lull over the phone line, then, "I'm that easy to read, huh?"

"Can we talk about it at his place?"

"I don't know if I can go back there. It's just too painful."

"I'm hoping he left some clues that will help us find out who killed him."

"Oh, of course." I could hear sniffling over the line. "Give me half-an hour, okay? I'll meet you there."

"Uh, Jan, I might have a little problem with that."

"Oh." She giggled, then sniffled again. "I suppose you do. Give me the address and I'll pick you up. We'll go through his apartment and look for clues," she said, her voice a limp sigh. "Del would've wanted us to."

I was choking up a bit myself.

There was not one single brook, vista, or rambling stream running through the maze of look-alike apartment complexes that ran between Standiford and Pelandale. Still they all had names like Shadowbrook, Mountain Vista and Sweetwater printed on wooden signs to distinguish one from the next.

We pulled into Meadow Brook. Covered parking, grassy well-kept grounds, units by the pool, and as anonymous as a Catholic girl's school uniform, which, knowing Del, would be just the way he liked it. I felt the tears well up again and tamped them down. Jan handed me a tissue, and we exited the car, blotting our leaking eyes. Damn his hide for dying!

At number 512, she pointed to the scuffmarks on a planter box with dried geraniums. "I never did have the key, but I know where to find it. I told him it wasn't safe, that any kid could do it too, walk right in and take his stuff. But he just laughed at me.

"Del says…" she gulped down her tears and continued, "said I shouldn't stress over the apartment, not when we were moving, anyway. He was starting at the Chicago Tribune
in December, and I was going with him—you have to step up on this planter to reach the ledge. I'm wearing heels, but still, too petite,
n'est-ce'pas
?"

I looked at her five-foot-three inches in strappy heels, then shrugged and went up on tiptoe to feel around the ledge.

"Got it," I said, dropping down again.

She gave me a quick mile. "I guess that's the compensation for being a bean-pole."

So as not to rub it in, I didn't mention that compensation for beanpoles these days ran in the six figures, and handed her the key.

Jan never had to slouch her way through high school, and with her curvaceous figure she practically invented the term "juicy". She also had a track record for back seat romances that was the stuff of jealous whispers all through our senior year. I couldn't say how she did with men since then, but if Del Potts was any indication, I'd say her expectations had fallen on hard times. But, then maybe Del's sex appeal lay in his journalistic prowess.

Inside was no big surprise: dying houseplants, newspapers and books littering the coffee table, the sink full of dirty dishes, and somewhere, the distinct aroma of a clothes hamper overflowing with sweaty gym socks.

Jan dropped the key into her bag and honked into a tissue. "He wasn't much of a housekeeper."

She walked over to a houseplant, pinched off a couple of stiff brown leaves and fussed with the remaining few stems. "We were always upstairs anyway. I know I acted like I hated him, but now I understand why he did it."

"Did what?"

"Broke up with me, of course." She tilted her chin in a defiant gesture. "I know it sounds egotistical, but I took my mama's advice to heart; it's the woman that picks the man, not the other way around. Once you understand that, you can never be hurt by falling for the wrong guy."

"Oh yeah? So what the hell happened?"

Tilting her head back to keep the tears from spilling, she settled her hands on the curvy hips and gave a quick laugh. "I screwed up."

"Uh-huh." I couldn't begin to see the attraction and said so.

She angrily backhanded her wet cheeks and said, "You should talk, Lalla Bains. You came home from New York City and married Ricky Halverson. I mean, really, Lalla. Every girl in town took a ride on that stallion."

Satisfied to see the barb hit home, she continued, "Yeah, I did Ricky. He made it sound like you were in New York and didn't care who he screwed. You should thank me, or that silly little bitch secretary you finally caught him with."

"And Del was different, how?"

"We're—we
were
both news hounds, same drive to get into the big time and out of Modesto. Then last week he picks this horrible fight, and he starts calling me ugly names." She turned to me, tears again threatening to spill. "And now he's dead."

"You're saying he knew he was in danger?"

"What an ass, huh? I'd like to have the chance to kick his butt all the way to Chicago."

My next question was interrupted by a noise. Jan heard it too, and putting a cautionary finger to her lips, cocked her head to one side. Then her breath quickened, and with a flick of her fingernails, she motioned for me to get out of sight.

"Are you nuts?" I whispered. "It could be a break-in. One of those kids you were talking about."

Shooing me towards the kitchen, she hissed, "Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

Not so sure she was right about this, I backed into the kitchen counter where my hand encountered the handle of a big, cast iron, egg-encrusted skillet. I hefted the pan up to shoulder height and waited.

She nodded her approval at my choice of weapon and went to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

Then, in a voice meant to lick honey off a lemon, she called, "Who's there?"

Who was this sexpot, and what the hell did she do with Del's grieving lover?

The floor squeaked and heavy steps shuffled against the carpet floor. I could tell someone was at the top of the stairs, but I couldn't see him.

From Jan's expression, I'd say the burglar was a familiar face. The change from go-getter newswoman to sex kitten was impressive. She did that hair-swing thing she used to do in high school, licked her already red lips and purred, "Well, look what the cat drug in."

Heavy footfalls slowly descended, and then I saw the back of a head, thinning dark hair at the neck of a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to show thick, hairy forearms.

Rodney.

"Hey, yourself," he said. His voice had a frightening intimacy to it that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. "What're you doing here?"

Jan dangled the house-key between her fingers. "I have a right to be here, as well you know. You'd better not have been pawing through my lace panties either, you big perv."

I shivered at the wicked sound of his laughter. Why was she antagonizing him like this? Didn't she know the guy was an animal? I had to give it to the girl; he stood at the bottom of the stairs looming ominously over her, his fists clenching convulsively and she didn't give an inch.

"I didn't have time to get into your panties, but we can make up for it right now." He grabbed a handful of her hair and jerking her head back, went for her mouth.

She twisted away from his kiss, pushing at his shoulders. "It's over, I told you that last week."

Last week? The ready grip I had on the skillet slipped a bit with
that
news. She'd been doing Del Potts
and
the detective? This girl sure got around. I steadied my hold on the heavy frying pan and waited for her signal to step up and bean the creep. Keeping his back to me, she ignored the anxious appeal in my eyes, and continued her shuffling dance with Rodney.

"You're never going to be over me, I'll see to that," he said, groping at her breast and slobbering her with wet kisses.

In another minute, he'd have her on the floor, tearing her dress off. I was doing my own fearful dance, edging out of my hiding place in the kitchen, side-stepping just enough to stay out of his line of sight, skillet in hand.

She was far too small to fight him off and size did matter when you had an animal like the detective to grapple with. Unable to control myself for one more pass around the maypole, I stepped up and double handed the cast iron pan at the back of his head. The impact vibrated all the way up my arms.

He went down, open mouthed and inert like a hairy bearskin rug.

I'd finally done it, committed battery on a police officer. Now my ass really was going to jail. "I didn't kill him, did I?"

Jan nudged him with her sandal. "He's got a hard head. But why hit him? I could've handled the big dope."

"That was handling? You were about to be raped. Besides, if he danced you around one more turn, he was going to see me, and I'm out on my own recognizance, well—sort of. I'm supposed to be at Caleb's, not here."

"Jeez," she said, looking at the unconscious cop. "How do men do it? I mean, keeping up with two men can really wear a girl out."

"But, Jan—Rodney?"

She nudged him with her toe again and giggled lightly. "He was useful. Besides, he had that
je ne sais quoi
thing, you know?"

Rodney was still out cold, snoring noisily. I could see some of it; girl reporter and cop. But, he was married, and dangerous. Okay, so he was useful, but still, Rodney?

I looked up and could tell that the mental wheels were now turning as she considered her next move—hang onto the memory of her beloved Del, or go with bucket of charm, Detective Rodney, who was still alive and
useful
.

I said, "We can't be here when he wakes up."

She thoughtfully bit at her lower lip. "You can't be here. I'm going to have to clean up."