Picture Me Dead (37 page)

“Well, the signs do just say ‘Nick's,'” she said with a smile. “You're working late. Very late. You're usually day shift, right? You dusted Jake's boat for prints?”

“Not officially,” he said.

She smiled. Maybe she
was
paranoid, but so was Jake Dilessio—and he was a seasoned homicide detective. “I know he thought someone had been on the boat. He's a friend.”

“Jake's a friend of mine, too,” Skip said with a shrug. “No matter what he's got going, he takes time if someone else is in trouble, so…well, I figured helping him unofficially was the least I could do.” He shrugged again. “Can't say as how I'm really going to help him, though. I didn't get much of anything. Looked as if everything on his desk had been pretty carefully wiped clean—which is what I think he suspected. I've got a few prints, but I bet good money that they're going to prove to be Jake's.”

“Well, anyway, helping him out is good of you.”

“Yeah?” He looked relieved that she apparently didn't intend to tell anyone else at headquarters what he'd been up to. “Since you live here, you can give Jake back his key for me, right?”

“Sure.”

“Actually, will you lock her up for me, too?”

“No problem.”

“Well…good to see you.” The way he looked at her as he handed her the key, she wasn't sure he was glad to have seen her at all.

“Nice to see you, too, Mr. Conrad.”

He grinned then. “Actually, I am ‘Officer' Conrad. But call me Skip.”

“You went all the way through the academy before getting into the forensics department?”

He shook his head, offering a rueful grin. “I hopped into this position the first opportunity I had. When I became an expert everyone seemed to need, I finished up my studies. You'll do it, too. And congratulations. I hear we've hired Rembrandt.”

“I'm not that good,” she assured him.

“Well, we're glad to have you anyway. Good night.”

He waved and walked off the boat and down the dock. Ashley turned to lock up, then took a look inside the cabin and winced. Fingerprinting was a messy exercise. She hesitated, then decided that she should clean up.

She wondered if he would be angry that she was invading his realm.

She should just lock it up and go….

But she didn't. She went in, closed the door, headed to the kitchen, and dug around until she could find a sponge and cleanser. When she'd finished with the kitchen, she went on to the living area, the master cabin and the second bedroom. She had to admit, the place looked really good when she was done.

She was crazy, she knew. She should head back to her room and get some sleep, but she was too restless.

She walked back into the kitchen area and helped herself to a bottle of juice from the refrigerator, then leaned against the counter. A pad and pencil lay by the counter phone. She picked up the pencil and began drawing idly.

A picture of Karen.

She flicked the page. A picture of Len.

Once again she turned the page, then sketched the scene of the accident, putting in every detail she could recall. This sketch, she realized, was her best. Time had made her mind clearer. She'd wanted details—and she had them. They just didn't seem to help her.

She turned the page again and drew a head study of David Wharton.

Then she grew impatient with herself and anxious for Jake to get back. She set down the pencil and looked around the cabin. She'd done a good job.

Except for the carpet.

She hesitated, then shrugged. She'd gone this far. Surely he had a vacuum cleaner.

He did. She found it stowed in the cabin closet.

The machine roared to life. Satisfied at last, she switched off the vacuum. As she did so, she heard footsteps on the deck.

“Jake?”

There was no answer. She frowned, wondering if she'd been imagining that someone was after her all along. She stayed very still for a long time and heard nothing at all.

Shaking her head, she returned the vacuum to its place. But she felt uneasy in the confines of the houseboat, so she hurried out on deck. She locked the door, pocketed the key, then hesitated again.

Lights and noise were coming from the bar. Someone with a yen for country music had been popping their quarters into the jukebox.

The water seemed peaceful and serene. The boats rocked in their slips, water lapping against their hulls.

She found herself walking around the narrow deck that circled the cabin. After a full circuit, she looked up toward the bar again. The terrace was still lit, but there were no customers sitting in the night-lights and moonglow.

She heard a splash and turned quickly.

As she did, she felt a rush of wind, then a powerful surge against her back. It lifted and threw her.

Caught off guard, she went flying over the port side of the boat into the expanse of ebony water that rippled eerily in the shadow and glow of the moonlit evening.

As she plunged into the darkness, she heard a whoosh and felt something plunge behind her.

I
t was at the end of dinner, just before lock-up time for the night, when everything was simply going by rote, that the siege of panic swept over Peter Bordon. His fork was halfway to his mouth, the din in the large hall was customary, and men were moving about, getting ready to return to their cells, when something suddenly changed. But only inside him. To his left, Carson and Byers were arguing about cigarettes. To his right, Sanders, the one-time CPA for a major corporation, was taking delight in a basket he had shot during his exercise session. There was nothing obvious going on to create such a sudden terror in his bloodstream.

He set his fork down, afraid that the mystery meat they called an entree would go flying across the room otherwise. His muscles were tense, his hands, his feet. He was afraid that his lungs would lock, that his heart would freeze and cease to beat. In his life, he'd never felt such an insane, unreasoning fear.

Maybe it had been coming on for a long time. He'd never been a man to know fear. He'd spent years believing in his own invincibility, his charisma, his ability to manipulate the minds of others. He didn't feel fear, he created it.

But, like everything else, it had been an illusion.

And there, with just days to go before he knew he would appease the parole board and be set free, he learned not just fear, but absolute terror. Suddenly the freedom he had craved, worked for, planned for, was a chilling prospect.

Sweat was breaking out on his brow.

Sanders, at his side, stopped speaking about basketball and the fact that, if nothing else, prison had taken away the paunch he had gained in his twenties. He was staring at Peter.

“Hey, you all right, Mr. Bordon?”

“Fine. Hit a piece of gristle in this mess,” he managed to mutter. Once again, he looked around. Every one of his fellow inmates looked like a menacing killer. Sanders' smile made him look like a madman. Carson was grinning and looked like a werewolf about to devour its prey.

Peter forced himself to calm down. The police didn't know. There had been no proof. Nothing left behind. He had always known how to be careful.

But it wasn't the prospect of the police discovering the truth that had sent the terror out to paralyze his system.

After all this time.

And all these years.

 

Ashley kicked hard, trying to create space between herself and the threat. Her lungs were burning. She'd been caught off guard. She had to get a gulp of air.

She propelled herself beneath the boat, then broke the surface on the starboard side. A second later, she gasped out a scream, then sucked in a massive lungful of air as viselike arms wrapped around her legs and dragged her under. Squirming and fighting wildly, she went down. She couldn't see in the water.

Then, suddenly, she was released. She kicked upwards, breaking the surface in time to see a head bobbing in front of her.

“Ashley?”

“Jake?”

“Damn you, Ashley.”

“Why are you yelling at me? You attacked me!”

“Why were you skulking around my boat in the dark?”

“I wasn't.”

“Looked to me like you were.”

She wanted to kick him, but he was too far away. Besides, her legs wouldn't have the power to hurt him against the pressure of the water. He was already swimming the few feet to grasp the ladder at the back of the boat. She followed him. When he reached a hand down to help her up, she was too affronted to accept. She ignored him and climbed on board under her own power, straightening to confront him where he waited, dripping onto the deck.

“Someone pushed me off the boat,” she told him.

He shook his head. “There's no one here. Except for you, and when I came aboard, you were already in the water. I assumed you were whoever has been coming aboard the
Gwendolyn.
”

She was dripping, as well. She pulled a piece of stray seaweed from her hair.

“I came by to ask if you'd found out anything. Your friend, the fingerprint man was here.”

“Skip.”

“Yes, Officer Conrad. Like an idiot, I got it into my head to try to clean the place up for you. Then I came topside, and I heard something. I went to see, and I was pushed overboard.”

“Ashley…look for yourself. The docks are empty. There's no one here.”

She folded her hands over her chest. “Right. So if I were to go by logic and appearances,
you
pushed me.”

“You know I didn't.”

“Right. But you think someone has been on your boat. That's why you had the fingerprint guy out. So why should it surprise you that they were skulking around and pushed me overboard? And then disappeared. Somewhere.”

He turned, staring at the water. “Shit,” he said softly. He left her standing there and leapt to the dock with a lithe, flying leap that would have done a martial artist proud. He ran along the dock, still staring at the water. She stood there, shivering and uneasy.

When he returned, it wasn't by the dock. She saw him dive into the water, then start swimming back in her direction.

“What are you doing?” she demanded when he was close enough to hear her.

He climbed aboard.

“If someone was here and didn't leave by the dock, then he—or she—had to swim away.”

“Then you believe I was pushed?”

“I only go in the water here to scrape the hull. I can't imagine you'd jump in for a pleasure swim.”

“What do you think the person is looking for?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Something I have that I don't know I have. Or something they think I have that I don't.”

“Did you find anything?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. If they'd come up here, there should have been wet footprints on the dock, but there aren't any. The problem is, whoever it was could have stayed in the water a long time and come up almost anywhere in either direction. Not to mention the fact that there are hundreds of boats in the vicinity. But I will find out what's going on.”

“I'm sure you will. And how very kind of you to believe I might have known what I was talking about.”

He turned, heading for the door to the cabin. “Do you want to stand there dripping all night?”

She was about to tell him exactly what to do with himself, but he added, “You're welcome to the first shower.”

She shook her head, gritting her teeth, and walked forward. Water streamed from his pocket as he reached for his keys. His eyes touched hers as he opened the door. “Sorry. I just hated thinking I had a criminal and then found out I'd tackled you instead.”

“I'll just bet it feels better to tackle a criminal.”

“I didn't say anything about how it feels,” he returned.

She ducked slightly as she entered the cabin. He came in behind her, heading to the galley area to peel off his soaked jacket and kick off his ruined shoes. “The best shower is in my room.”

“Actually, I think I'll just sprint back to my own room. I don't have any dry clothes here,” she reminded him.

“I own a clothes dryer,” he told her.

“Wow. Tempting.”

He unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall, then moved toward her. “I know something that's even more tempting.”

“You're being just a little bit egotistical, aren't you?”

“I wasn't referring to me.”

He reached her, pulling her close and slipping her sodden shirt over her head. “My wet shirt is tempting?” she inquired skeptically.

“You bet.” A spiral of heat shot through her as he lowered his lips to her throat.

“Not that wet trousers aren't tempting, too. And,” she added lightly, “the seaweed on your socks and that smell of motor oil…I'm all aquiver.”

“You are, you know.”

She ignored that. He was tugging on the wet button of her jeans, too frustrated with his task to volunteer more. She slipped her arms around him. Her breath was coming a little too fast. “Detective, you're keeping something from me.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Jake.”

His arms enfolded her. His fingers slipped up her back, finding the hook of her bra. “This stuff you wear…” His words were husky and garbled as he lowered his head, nuzzling the rise of her breasts above the lace of the bra. “Great underwear.” He gently fingered the shoulder straps then, causing the garment to fall to the floor at their feet.

“Jake…”

He moved back an inch. “Okay, how about I seduce you with my eloquence? Carnegie has arranged for twenty-four-hour official police protection for your friend.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“He's doing this for you?”

“If I say yes, will you be more tempted to stay?”

“I'm staying no matter what you tell me,” she informed him huskily.

It was Jake who paused then, not moving away, but taking the time to talk to her. “I have to take off really early tomorrow. I want to be on the road by four. I got a message from one of Bordon's fellow inmates. I checked out the number, and it was legitimate. I think Bordon is afraid of someone, and he said he wants to talk to me. Unless he's pulling some kind of a con on me. Whatever the situation, I have to go. But I'll be back tomorrow night. Maybe late, but I'll be back. And then I'll look into the situation with your friend, Stuart Fresia. Carnegie has some information that I need to look into more deeply. I promise you, I swear to you, that we'll get it figured out.”

Her limbs seemed to grow cold again. She should take whatever she could get. She needed the help, and there was no reason to refuse it. Except…except for the way she felt about him.

“You—you don't have to do that, you know,” she heard herself say stiffly. “You don't have to take on work that isn't yours for my benefit. Looking into Stuart's case just because he's my friend,” she added. She could have kicked herself. She needed and wanted all the help she could get. “I won't let it go,” she told him. “I'll never let it go, because I know Stuart. But you're not…required to feel the same way.”

“Don't you go doing anything,” he told her flatly.

She felt her temper bristle. “I'm obviously not an idiot. I was one of the top trainees in my class.”

“Ashley, no one is doubting your intelligence. But diving into things without knowing what you're doing is dangerous.”

“Because I'm a woman.”

“For anyone. Anyone without experience and training.”

“Right. 'Cuz you started out with experience, of course.”

“Ashley, do me a favor. Sit back and give me a lousy few days. I don't want you diving in headfirst because you really don't know what you're doing. And, yes, I
do
know. And as to Stuart's case, taking it on won't just be a favor to you. I'll look into it because it might have been an attempted homicide. And I'm hoping that by tomorrow I'll have some answers regarding the Bordon murders. And Cassie Sewell.”

“And your partner?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “And Nancy.”

They were both still standing there, dripping. Almost touching. Seconds ticked by, and they remained, staring at one another.

“You really need those answers, don't you?” she asked.

“I really want those answers,” he replied.

She was quiet for a moment, watching him.

He still wasn't touching her, but he was so close she could feel his warmth; the dampness of his flesh seemed to brush her own. He leaned forward, pressing her against the wall behind her, bracing them both, where they stood, and when he spoke, there was emotion in his voice, as if the moments of banter had been cast aside. “I want the answers, yes, because if anyone ever deserved for the truth to be known, it was Nancy.”

She lowered her head suddenly afraid. She had rushed into this, thinking she could indulge in reckless desire and come out unscathed. She wasn't even hearing what he was saying to her; she was far too hypnotized by the aura of this man she had known for so brief a time. But that time had been intense. She knew she had been attracted to him from more than a physical standpoint, though that particular appeal was in the ascendant at this particular moment. But there was so much else about him to admire. She knew he took work seriously, that he wouldn't take the time to humor a whim of hers no matter what he felt for her sexually.

She also knew that there had been something lacking in him. An ability to give himself completely, maybe, because the past had been shadowing him no matter how he had tried to shake it. She wondered if his words were a strange form of commitment to her, but she didn't want to try to test them. She was shaken, frightened of the passion, of her own desire to be with him. Not just to sleep with him, but to
be
with him.