Like No One Else (24 page)

Paulo was faintly amused. “You've thought of everything, haven't you?”

Donovan flashed a grin. “If the husband didn't have the perfect alibi—being stationed in Iraq—I'd be looking at him for the murder. You know how crazy those soldiers are. Maybe even crazier than you.”

Paulo's answering smile was distracted. He was thinking about the little boy he'd seen in the photograph above the Ramirez family's fireplace. Dark eyes shining with laughter, a happy, infectious grin stretched across his face. Paulo thought of how Jayden Ramirez's life would never be the same again if his mother was convicted of murder and sent to prison for the rest of her life.

And then he thought of the weeping couple he'd watched on the news last night, their faces ravaged with grief, their lives forever shattered by the senseless act of violence that had claimed their daughter's life.

And he remembered why he'd started drinking all those years ago.

“Hell,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face and pushing out a deep breath.

Donovan said, “I think we need to pay another visit to Kristin Ramirez, find out why she didn't think it was important to tell us she'd once threatened her now-departed neighbor.”

Paulo nodded. “Give me a minute. I need to return some calls.”

After Donovan left the office, Paulo reached for the phone on his desk. As he lifted the receiver, his gaze landed on the gruesome crime scene photos scattered across his desk. He paused, realizing that the reason he'd instinctively dismissed the possibility of a female perpetrator was that in his experience women didn't kill in such a manner—with brutality, with cruelty, with a virulent hatred for their own gender.

In his gut he knew that Kristin Ramirez wasn't the monster they were looking for.

But then a chilling memory surfaced. Another time, another place.

And he reminded himself that when it came to finding Maribel Cruz's killer, no one could be overlooked as a suspect.

No one.

 

The stranger's heart was pounding.

Anticipation snaked through his veins, heating his blood as he crept stealthily through the darkened loft, moving like a shadow from one room to the other. He touched everything he could, letting his hand linger on a pink leotard draped over a wicker hamper. It still held the warmth of her body. And her scent. A heady, alluring scent that went straight to a man's glands. Shamelessly he reached into the hamper and curled his fingers around a pair of black panties. Closing his eyes, he pressed the scrap of silk to his face and inhaled her erotic, feminine scent as greedily as a smoker inhales nicotine. Lust thundered through his body. He lowered the underwear to his crotch and rubbed it against his straining erection, pretending he was thrusting into the real, live woman.

Quivering inside, he slipped the panties into his pocket, the latest souvenir to be added to his collection. He'd been taking little keepsakes from her loft for weeks now, and so far she seemed none the wiser.

The thought brought a sly smile to his face as he continued prowling around the large bedroom that was not as neat as Maribel Cruz's, and was only slightly less cluttered than the blonde's. Tommie Purnell enjoyed nice things. When she saw something she liked, she rarely stopped herself from getting it. Everywhere he looked he saw charming little knickknacks, things she'd purchased from boutiques during her travels abroad. Exotic candles arranged on a stack of wooden chests, a string of pearls spilling from an antique jewelry box, a tasseled footstool beside the bed, a collection of Parisian hat boxes filled with everything from a red beret to vintage linens. A pair of pink threadbare toe shoes, dangling on ribbons hung from a corner of the vanity mirror, had been signed by some Russian ballerina whose name he recognized, but couldn't pronounce.

As he stood at the foot of the four-poster bed, he imagined what it would be like to have her soft, supple body pinned beneath his. He imagined what it would be like to taste her. To feel the heat of her silky skin rubbing eagerly against him. To hear her moan and to see her writhing in ecstasy and opening her legs as he plunged into her, claiming her as his own.

As he reached down to stroke his throbbing cock, his vision cleared, bringing into focus the empty bed with the undisturbed covers. He frowned, his erection subsiding as he remembered that she hadn't slept in her own bed last night. She'd spent the night at the cop's apartment, letting him kiss her, touch her, do unspeakable things to her.

Jezebel,
the stranger thought with renewed fury.
Faithless whore!

He'd followed her last night, had watched as she parked in front of Sanchez's apartment building and climbed out of her car, a rush of wind tossing her dark hair about her face and shoulders. He'd been tempted to take her right then and there. His pulse had quickened at the thought of sneaking up behind her and seeing the abject fear on her face before he snatched her away.

But he'd resisted.

Soon he would make her pay for her sins. For her wanton ways.

Soon
, he consoled himself. But not yet.

First things first.

The police had yet to discover the blonde's body. No one loved her the way Maribel Cruz had been loved. It would be another day or two before anyone would even think to come looking for her. But he'd known that when he chose her. He knew he would have to wait a little longer to experience that same thrill rush he'd felt on Monday night as he'd stood watching the police officers and evidence technicians coming and going from Maribel's house, driven by a sense of urgency he'd found almost pitiable.

He knew his gratification would have to be delayed at least another day. But he didn't mind. He was a patient man. He'd had plenty of practice waiting, planning, hiding in the shadows. Biding his—

Suddenly he froze, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He thought he'd heard her voice out in the stairwell.

No! It can't be!

He threw a panicked glance at his digital watch. Seven thirty. He was supposed to have another thirty minutes before her last class ended. Why was she coming upstairs
now?

And then suddenly he realized that the music had stopped playing on the floor below. He'd been so caught up in his fantasy that he hadn't even noticed. She must have dismissed her students early that night. How could he not have been paying attention? How could he have been so careless?

He gnashed his teeth, angry and disgusted with himself. After all his hard work, the careful planning and preparation he'd done, one stupid mistake on his part could ruin everything.
Everything!

He listened hard, ears straining over the thundering beat of his heart. And then he heard the soft, distinct click of a lock being turned.

His heart jumped to his throat.

She entered the loft, talking quietly on her cell phone.

His gaze darted across the room to the window. If he tried to climb back down, she would hear him and call the police. He couldn't take that risk. He had to find somewhere to hide until she went into the bathroom to take her nightly shower.

Thinking fast, he slipped quietly into the large closet and took cover behind a row of designer clothes. The minutes ticked past as he huddled in the darkness, sweat beading on his upper lip and forehead, nerves stretched to the breaking point.

If she discovered him hiding there, he'd have to kill her.

He had no other choice.

He waited, breath held in his lungs.

And then he heard her footsteps.

Light and brisk.

Coming straight toward the bedroom.

“I'm so sorry this happened, Zhany,” Tommie said as she walked down the hall to her bedroom. “I can't even imagine how difficult this has been for you and your family. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“There is,” Zhane murmured. “You can pray for a miracle.”

He sounded so weary that Tommie's heart constricted. He'd called her half an hour ago to tell her that his nephew had taken a turn for the worse overnight. Kadeem had needed another blood transfusion and was running a high fever from an infection caused by the bullet shattering part of his intestine. He was hanging on by a thread.

“Are you sure you don't need anything?” Tommie asked gently. “You've been camped out at the hospital since yesterday. I could stop by your apartment and get a change of clothes for you, then bring some food for you and your family.”

“That's okay, sugarplum. Visiting hours are over for non-family members, and I already ran home this afternoon and packed an overnight bag. And we had dinner—”

“From the cafeteria?” Tommie asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

Zhane chuckled. “No, not the cafeteria, Miss Finicky. Zeke ran out and got pizza for everyone. And I didn't even have to loan him the money.”

Tommie smiled. “There's hope after all,” she said, stepping through her bedroom doorway and flipping on the light switch. She made her way to the bathroom, and with the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, she tugged down her leggings and sat on the toilet.

“And speaking of hope,” Zhane said, “the detective assigned to our case has been giving us regular updates all day.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He started by calling us last night and apologizing profusely for not returning our calls sooner.”

“That's good,” Tommie murmured, grateful for Paulo's intervention and pleased that Detective Mendiola had kept his promise to him. “What did he say about the search for Chauncey?”

“He said they have several strong leads that they're pursuing, and he promised us that they were doing everything they could to find Chauncey.” Zhane paused. “Are you
tinkling
while I'm on the phone?”

Tommie grinned sheepishly. “I had to go really bad. You know how much water I drink.”

“Uncouth,” Zhane pronounced, but she could tell he was grinning. It warmed her heart to know that he could still have a sense of humor during such an emotionally trying time.

As she flushed the toilet and washed her hands, Zhane told her, “Richard says I won't be able to perform this Friday since I missed another rehearsal tonight.”

“What?” Tommie cried, outraged. “You're going through a family crisis, and
this
is how he shows his compassion and support? How dare he!”

Zhane sighed. “It's all right, sugarplum. It's probably for the best. I wasn't feeling up to performing tomorrow night anyway, what with Kadeem lying in that hospital bed and fighting for his life. I'd never forgive myself if he died and I wasn't here to say good-bye. You felt the same way about your grandmother.”

“I know, sweetie,” Tommie murmured, still miffed about Richard Houghton's insensitive behavior. “I understand completely where you're coming from. But the decision not to perform should have been yours, not his.”

“Now, you know that's not true,” Zhane countered mildly. “Richard is the artistic director.
He
has to decide what's best for the company. The show must go on.”

“That may be so,” Tommie grumbled, too incensed for magnanimity, “but you tell that son of a bitch that if
you
won't be performing tomorrow night, I won't be there, either.”

Zhane choked out a laugh. “Now, that's not very nice of you, boycotting the performance when you know how much Richard always looks forward to having you there.”

“That's too damned bad,” Tommie said mutinously as she stalked out of the bathroom. “He should have thought about that before he decided to behave like an asshole. Please give my apologies to the rest of the company.”

Zhane sighed. “All right,” he reluctantly conceded, knowing better than to argue with her when she'd made up her mind about something—right or wrong. “Well, I'd better go back upstairs before Ma comes looking for me to bum some money.”

A sympathetic grin tugged at Tommie's mouth. “That might be a good idea.”

“What're you about to do?”

“Head back down to the studio to work on some choreography for my West African dance class.”

“Sounds lovely. I'll be there with you in spirit.”

“Back at you, sweetie. Call me if you need anything, and I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital.” She made a long, noisy kissing sound that made Zhane laugh before he hung up.

Still smiling to herself, Tommie tossed the phone onto her bed and stepped out of her pointe shoes. As she started to remove her dance skirt, she felt a cold tickle on the back of her neck.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder toward the darkened entrance to the walk-in closet. The fine hairs on her nape lifted. Her skin prickled.

She sensed someone in the room with her, sensed someone breathing nearby.

Don't be ridiculous. There's no one here but you.

Tommie frowned. She'd been edgy and out of sorts all day, ever since Roland Jackson's unexpected visit that morning. After ballet class she'd remembered to ask Mrs. Calhoun if she knew how long he'd been living in Houston. According to Mrs. Calhoun, Roland had joined her church five months ago. A humble, deferential young man with a thirst for knowledge, he'd made such an impression on the church elders that they'd taken him under their collective wing and began grooming him to serve the ministry as a deacon. Mrs. Calhoun couldn't recall when Roland had relocated from San Antonio, or what had prompted the move. But she'd assured Tommie that, in light of what she'd learned about him that morning, she would be keeping a close eye on him from now on.

Smiling at the thought of Mrs. Calhoun's unquestioning loyalty, Tommie padded across the large room to her armoire, where she pulled out a black sports bra and matching spandex shorts. She quickly undressed, trading her sweaty leotard and leggings for the clean bra and shorts.

Once again she sensed a whisper of cold breath against her skin, a hint that something was wrong. Out of place.

She turned, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she scanned the empty room. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing seemed out of place. Yet she couldn't shake the ominous feeling that she was being watched.

Calm down
, she ordered herself.
No one's watching you. You're being paranoid!

Still, she couldn't help thinking about Maribel Cruz, a single woman who had lived alone, who had been found stabbed to death in her own home. Tommie wondered whether Maribel had heard a noise or sensed her attacker's presence before he'd struck.

And then she remembered that it was only two nights ago that she'd found her front door unlocked. Mrs. Calhoun was fairly certain she hadn't forgotten to lock the door. Tommie was certain
she
hadn't, either.

That could leave only one chilling possibility. Someone had broken into her loft.

And the intruder, whoever he was, had returned.

Tommie swallowed hard, fear splintering through her body.

Don't panic! You don't even know if someone's really here!

She strained to listen, not moving a muscle, hardly daring to breathe.

Outside, she heard the sigh of the wind rustling the leaves of the giant oaks in the front yard.

Inside the loft, she heard nothing but silence.

But she glanced quickly around the bedroom, searching for something she could use as a weapon. If only she'd followed through on purchasing a gun and taking shooting lessons, as she'd planned to do after her sister was terrorized and assaulted four years ago. But after moving to New York, Tommie had gotten sidetracked with pursuing her ambition of becoming a professional dancer, and eventually she'd just convinced herself that violent crime couldn't strike twice in the same family.

She frowned, silently cursing her own willful naiveté.

If she were confronted by an intruder this very minute, she had nothing to defend herself with.

The thought sent another tremor of fear slicing through her.

Heart hammering in her chest, she peered into the gaping darkness of her closet, imagining she could sense a malevolent presence within, could feel a pair of reptilian eyes watching her, waiting to pounce.

Slowly she began edging toward the door. If she could just make it out of the loft, she could race down the stairs, run outside to her car, lock the doors, and call the police. She'd worry about what to say once she—

Riiing!

Tommie jumped, letting out a startled cry.

Her cell phone had rung. Heart in her throat, she hurried to her bed and snatched it up with trembling hands.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Girl, what's this I hear about you skipping out on Friday's performance?”

Relief swept through Tommie at the sound of Renee Williams's indignant, yet wonderfully reassuring voice. She let out a deep, shuddering breath and sank weakly onto the bed. “You talked to Zhane, I see.”

“I just got off the phone with him. I called to see how his nephew was doing, and before our conversation ended, he told me he wouldn't be dancing tomorrow. He also mentioned that you wouldn't be there, either. What gives?”

“I'm boycotting in protest of Richard's decision not to let Zhane perform. You and I both know Zhane is the most dedicated and most experienced dancer in the company. If anyone can afford to miss a rehearsal or two, it's him.”

“I know that's right. Hey, listen, I'm right around the corner from you. Do you want to grab a cup of coffee? Or were you in the middle of—”

“No!” Tommie all but shouted into the phone. At Renee's soft chuckle, she said in a calmer voice, “I mean, I'd love to get some coffee.”

“Sounds like someone needs a caffeine fix. Meet me outside in five minutes.”

“I'll be ready,” Tommie promised, already shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers and grabbing a sweatshirt draped across a chaise longue. She'd probably freeze her ass off once she got outside, but she didn't have time—or the inclination—to change into something warmer.

At the bedroom door she paused and glanced over her shoulder, surveying the silent, empty room. She felt no whisper of movement, saw no evil eyes glowing at her from the darkened closet.

It was all in your mind
, she told herself.

With one last lingering look, she turned off the light and hurried from the room, trying to shake the eerie feeling that she hadn't been alone.

 

Paulo was dead tired.

He'd spent the day catching up on paperwork, going over autopsy reports, and interviewing witnesses, all the while waiting for some lead that would break the Cruz case wide open.

The interview with Kristin Ramirez had not gone the way Donovan had hoped or planned. When he and Paulo arrived unannounced at her house, she hadn't looked surprised or terrified to see them; instead she'd looked resigned, as if she'd been expecting them at any time. With Isadora Ramirez hovering worriedly in the living room doorway, Kristin had admitted to accusing Maribel Cruz of sleeping with her husband and threatening her at the neighbor's housewarming party. She admitted she was wrong for not telling Paulo and Donovan about the incident the first time they'd interviewed her, but she hadn't wanted to upset her mother-in-law with the news that her favorite son had cheated on his wife.

When Paulo asked Kristin if she had proof of the affair, she'd closed her eyes, tears leaking out of the corners, and quietly explained how she'd come home early from taking her son to a birthday party to find her husband, Enrique, returning from Maribel's house. His clothes had been rumpled, Kristin recalled, and he'd smelled so strongly of sex there could be no mistaking what he and Maribel had been doing that afternoon. Not wanting to cause a scene in front of their son—who'd gotten sick at the birthday party, prompting their early departure—Kristin had waited until Jayden was safely napping before she'd confronted her husband. Enrique had denied any wrongdoing, telling Kristin that he'd promised to fix Maribel's leaky faucet before he deployed to Iraq. Kristin hadn't believed him, not for a second, but she'd decided to drop the matter for the sake of peace.

“He was leaving for Iraq in two days,” she'd whispered tearfully. “If something happens to him over there, I didn't want our last words to each other to be angry, hurtful words.”

But while she'd been willing to forgive her wayward husband, her generosity had not extended to the other woman. Kristin acknowledged that she'd wanted to hurt Maribel—had wanted to “yank every last strand of hair from her scalp and scratch her eyes out”—but she insisted that she hadn't killed her. And she had an alibi. On Monday morning she'd been trapped at the hospital until ten thirty covering for another nurse who'd gotten stuck in a major traffic accident on I–45. One call to Kristin's supervisor had confirmed her story.