Swimsuit Body (20 page)

“Confused, hurt. Couldn't you have told him you'd think about it at least?”

“I panicked,” she moans.

“I noticed.” Unfortunately, so had everyone else in the restaurant. “On the bright side, he didn't take it as a no. He's hoping you'll come around, even if he doesn't want to talk to you right now.”

“I can't marry him.”

“Why? Because you always said you'd never get married? Or because you've seriously considered and rejected the idea of marrying a man who loves you and who you claim to love? A decision, I might add, that would have women on two continents scrambling to be next in line.”

“You think I should marry him.” She narrows her puffy eyes at me in reproach.

“As I told you before, I think you should keep an open mind.”

She crumples the towel and tosses it in the bin. “Keep talking, and I'll make it the ugliest bridesmaid dress you've ever seen. Pink satin with ruffles and bows and ginormous puffy sleeves.”

I grin at her. “I'd walk down the aisle naked if that's what it took.”

“Then he'd think he was marrying the wrong girl.”

We start to giggle, and soon we're laughing so hard, tears are streaming down our cheeks. It breaks the tension, and possibly a fingernail when an older lady comes in to use the bathroom and then can't exit fast enough after she's done. She must have thought we were drunk. “We should get back, or Bartosz will think I'm talking you off the ledge,” I say when our giggles subside.

She sighs as I lean in to pluck a stray eyelash from her cheek. “And I was supposed to rescue
you
.”

“That won't be necessary. Bartosz is behaving himself. He's actually quite charming.”

“The night is young.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Later that night, I Skype with Bradley. We haven't spoken in days—he's currently in the Arghandab district of Afghanistan, covering some heavy military action—so there's a lot to catch him up on, starting with my trip to Montana (the expurgated version) and ending with Rajeev's ill-fated marriage proposal. “It was awful,” I say. “There he was down on one knee with everyone watching, and Ivy … You'd have thought she was running from a burning building.”

“Poor guy.” Bradley's face creases in sympathy. “Though I have to say, he brought it on himself.”

“You mean he shouldn't have popped the question in front of all those people?”

“Well, yeah. But he also broke the cardinal rule.”

“And what's the cardinal rule for proposing to one's girlfriend?”

“Don't, unless you're sure of what her answer will be.”

I arch my eyebrows at him. I'm reclining on my bed, wearing my Angry Bird pj's, with my head propped against the headboard and my legs stretched in front of me. Hercules and Prince are curled on either side of me and my Mac Pro is nested on the pillow that covers my lap, the only thing warming my lady parts. “And how does a confirmed bachelor like yourself know so much?”

Bradley ended his previous relationship with an orthopedic surgeon named Genevieve when she wanted to take it to the next level. Never mind that she was perfect for him: smart, talented, gorgeous, and with a gazillion frequent flier miles from her volunteer work for Doctors Without Borders. His attitude was,
Why ruin a good thing by putting a ring on it?
(Bradley and Ivy would make a good couple.) Naturally, I supported his decision, but now that I'm the girlfriend, I see it more from Genevieve's point of view. Recently, she emailed Bradley with the news that she was engaged to be married. I was happy for her, but it left me feeling hollow inside, wondering if this is all I'm ever going to have: a long-distance relationship in different time zones.

“How do you think I got to be a confirmed bachelor?” he replies lightly. Bradley thinks we're on the same page, for which I have only myself to blame—I may have given him that impression initially and I haven't disabused him of it since. In truth, the reason I'm still single at the age of thirty-six is because I have yet to fall in love with a man who's the marrying kind, and I won't settle.

“His heart was in the right place,” I say in defense of Rajeev.

“So how was it left?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Marriage isn't for everyone.”

“I'm well aware of that.” An edge creeps into my voice. “But how can Ivy know if it's right for her if they've never even lived together?”

“Let's say they move in together. What happens when she realizes it was a mistake six months or a year from now? They'll both be worse off than they were before.”

“That's
if
and not
when
. Sometimes these things work out.”

“And a lot of the time, they don't.”

Why are you so damn pessimistic?
I almost snap before I remember that I have no business being annoyed at my boyfriend. He's always been honest with me and, in fact, he warned me in the beginning that he wasn't the white-picket-fence, two-car-garage kind of guy. I change the subject before the debate can turn ugly. I tell him about my dinner with Bartosz. “He's hoping I'll do him the honor of becoming his next blonde. Good thing Ivy was with us on the ride home. I only had to fend him off for the five minutes it took us to get to my house after we dropped her off.”

“If he laid a hand on you …” Bradley's voice deepens to a growl.

“Oh, he laid a hand on me all right. Four fingers of which are still intact.” I'm exaggerating. Fortunately for us both, I turned my head when Bartosz was kissing me good night, and what was shaping up to be a wet one landed on my cheek instead.

Bradley's face relaxes in a smile. “Pity the poor man who messes with you.”

“And you have the scars to show for it.” Bradley and I had a “meet cute,” as they say in Hollywood. I mistook him for a squatter at one of my properties and hurled a vase at him as he was coming out of the shower, only to discover afterward he was the visiting son of the owners, not a homeless man. It didn't result in bodily harm only because of Bradley's quick reflexes.

It's 12:30 a.m. by the time we sign off. I nudge Prince to get him to scoot over so I can crawl under the covers, and he rolls onto his back, inviting me to scratch his belly. I oblige, muttering, “Men. You think all we're good for is to keep you happy.” I lie awake in the dark long after I've put out the light, reflecting on my pitiful love life. I've forgotten what it feels like to have Bradley's arms around me, while the memory of my night in Montana with Spence is all too vivid. I grow aroused at the memory of his lips on mine, our bodies tangled together on the sofa. Combustible is the only word for it. Sort of like when I set fire to his Camaro.

I'm awakened in the middle of night by the sound of Prince growling beside me. Then I hear another, fainter sound: the creaking of floorboards in the hallway. I bolt upright, wide awake, my heart pounding.
Someone is in the house.
I break out in goose bumps. Prince is still growling. My cat's yellow eyes glow in the dark. “Who's there?” My voice emerges as a faint whisper.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. It's not there. Of course it's not there. It's plugged into its charger in my office. What now? I can't call 911. And my gun is in my office along with my cell phone. Did I remember to set the house alarm before I went to bed? I think so, but I'm not sure. I cock my head, listening. I'm not hearing the sound now. I slip out of bed to investigate, while Prince and Hercules both wisely opt to stay put. The recent attempt on my life is uppermost in my mind as I peer into the darkness, looking for something I can use as a weapon. The lamp on my nightstand? No. I'd have to pull the bed away from the wall to unplug it, which would alert the intruder—if it
is
an intruder—to the fact that I'm awake. The pottery candlestick on my dresser? Not heavy enough. In movies, there's usually a baseball bat handy in situations such as this, but I don't play baseball. I do work out on occasion, however, which reminds me of the body bar that's in my closet. Double the length of my arm and weighing ten pounds, it could inflict some damage.

I ease open the door of the closet and wince at the creaking of its hinges. Craftsman bungalows don't have walk-in closets unless they were remodeled at some later date, and mine is no exception. As a result, it's crammed full with clothes, shoes and boots, an old tennis racket, a plastic bin that holds gift-wrapping paper … Shoes in shoeboxes are stacked on the shelf along with boxes of old photos. I wriggle my hand through the tightly packed clothing that hangs from the clothes rod, groping for the body bar that I dimly recall having propped against the wall in back. I freeze when I hear the creaking sound again. Not my imagination. And not the noise of an old house settling.

Someone is out there.

My heart climbs into my throat, and a chunk of ice lodges itself in the pit of my stomach. I reach deeper into the closet, thrusting my head in among the dresses and slacks and blouses on hangers that smell of deodorant and fabric softener. Where the hell is that body bar? Has it really been that long since I last worked out? Yeah, this is what happens when you let yourself go. You die.

I hear the snick of a door latch and feel a gust of cooler air from the hallway. Prince erupts in a fit of barking. (Too bad he's not a Rottweiler.) I drop into a crouch, the beating of my heart matched by the frantic barking of the dog. I have only a few seconds before the intruder notices that my bed is empty and that the closet door is standing open, by which he'll cleverly deduce my whereabouts. Do I make a run for it? Something tells me I wouldn't get very far and that I would fare better if I were face-to-face with the intruder. But how can I defend myself without a weapon? I'm wearing my big-girl panties, but fortitude alone isn't enough, especially when you're so scared you're about to pee those panties. I'm shaking with fright. The blood roaring in my ears seems loud enough to wake the dead, the ranks of which it appears I'll soon be joining.

An image of Delilah's dead body flashes through my mind, and I summon the courage to rise from my crouch. If I can't die with my boots on, I can die on my feet surrounded by boots at the very least. I thrust my hand deep into the recesses of my closet … and feel my fingers close, blessedly, around the body bar. I wrestle it free from the folds of clothing that it's caught on, and in a bold move, I leap from behind the door while simultaneously taking a swing aimed at the intruder, whom I can't see but who I know is nearby from the proximity of the creaking noises. The bar whistles through the air instead of connecting with flesh. I see a blur of movement in the darkness—a fleeting impression of a figure clad in dark clothing and a ski mask—before I'm knocked off my feet by a hard kick to my kneecaps. Then suddenly all hell breaks loose. I'm lying on the floor when my cat and dog launch themselves at the intruder in a fury of barking, hissing, and spitting. I hear a grunt, as if at the pain of sharp teeth sinking into an ankle. I let out a scream loud enough for the neighbors two doors down to hear. Over the chorus of barking, yowling, and shrieking, I hear the percussive note of footsteps thudding as the intruder beats a hasty retreat, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

I curl up in the fetal position on the braided rug that covers the floor, where I remain huddled until I feel rough tongues licking me. I drag myself upright. Prince wriggles onto my lap and Hercules meows loudly as he winds back and forth, rubbing his body against mine. “Good dog. Good kitty,” I whisper, my fingers tangled in the Yorkie's fur as I stroke my cat with my other hand.

Finally, I get up. I go to my office down the hall and get my phone. I don't call 911, though. Instead, I dial a number from my contact list. A sleepy male voice answers. “Tish? What's wrong?”

I start to cry. “S-somebody just t-tried to k-kill me,” I manage to get out between gasping breaths.

“Do you need me to call an ambulance?” The voice is alert now. Calm and controlled, buffering my hysteria.

“No. I … I'm okay.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. I'm home. Can you come?” I squeak.

“I'm on my way,” says Spence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Spence arrives just as the uniforms are pulling up in front of my house—he must have called them en route. He asks questions, then leaves the uniforms to fill out their report while he canvasses the premises inside and out. Whoever the intruder was, he (or possibly she) knew his way around home-security systems because mine had been disabled. There's no other sign of disturbance. “We'll do a door-to-door as soon as it's light out,” Spence says. “One of your neighbors might have noticed something.” But if my screams had roused the Nuyens or Mrs. Caswell, what would they have seen except a masked figure fleeing? If the intruder was smart enough to disable my alarm, he would have parked someplace where his or her vehicle wouldn't be spotted.

It's after three A.M. by the time the uniforms leave. I'm so wiped out I don't protest when Spence leads me back to bed and lies down next to me with his body spooned against mine. Secretly, I'm glad for his arms that hold me tight until I've stopped shivering and have drifted off to sleep.

When I wake the next morning, he's gone. On the nightstand is a note.
I asked Frontpoint
—the home-security company that installed my system—
to send someone. Keep your doors locked in the meantime.

I call Ivy, and she insists on coming over. She fixes me breakfast between gasps of horror and exclamations as I describe the scare I had last night. “Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?” She puts a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me. The toast is slightly burned and the eggs are rubbery—Ivy is not the greatest cook—but she's here, which is all that matters.

“No, it was too dark.” I shudder at the memory and pull my robe more tightly around me. “It wasn't Olivia Harding, though. I don't think anyone who was eight months pregnant would be that nimble.”

“She could have an accomplice. Her husband or someone who was working for her.” Ivy sits down opposite me, helping herself to a triangle of my slightly burned toast when she notices I'm not eating. She nibbles it while Hercules and Prince sit at her feet, looking up at her expectantly. You'd never guess from the way they're licking their chops that they had their fill of treats earlier, as a reward for saving my life last night. Prince may be the size of Toto, but he has the soul of Lassie. As for Hercules, I never doubted his fearlessness or the deadly aim of his claws. “But why
you
,
that's what I don't get. You're not a material witness, so you're no threat to anyone.”

I consider this as I sip my coffee. “No, but I've been asking questions. Also, at Bartosz's party, I hinted I knew something about Delilah's murder that I wasn't at liberty to disclose,” I remind her. 
“Do you think it was Brent Harding that attacked you? It would make sense, if he's an accessory after the fact in Delilah's murder.”

“Maybe. I can't be sure. I didn't see his face.”

“Did you tell Spence what you told me—that you suspect Olivia and Brent?”

“Yeah, but he didn't take it seriously. He thinks the only thing that's creepy about Brent Harding is his face work.”

“He may see it differently after what happened last night.”

“He came right over when I called. That's something.” I warm at the memory of his body spooned against mine. I felt safe in his arms, knowing nothing else bad could happen as long as he was with me.

“He cares about you.”

There was a time I would have protested heatedly. But if actions speak louder than words, Spence's actions last night—and prior to that, I realize looking back—had disproven the old adage, that a leopard doesn't change its spots, to which I'd clung. “Either he's changed, or I've mellowed.”

“Or maybe he was always a nice guy, and you pushed his buttons so you wouldn't have to see it.”

“What is this, Psych 101? Speaking of nice guys …”

Ivy's face falls at the reference to Rajeev. “No, he hasn't called. And he hasn't returned any of the eight hundred messages I left.” She sighs and breaks what's left of her toast triangle in two pieces, feeding them to the dog and cat. Prince inhales his half, while Hercules licks the butter from his.

“A man has his pride.”

Ivy sighs again, staring glumly into her coffee cup.

We're interrupted by the bleating of the ringtone on my phone. It's Brianna. It seems she's left several messages on my voicemail and she became concerned when I didn't call her back. I explain that I slept in, and when I tell her why, she makes all the right noises, fretting aloud like an elderly maiden aunt until she's assured that all the doors and windows in the house are secured. She tells me not to worry about a thing on the work front, she's got it covered. That I don't doubt. She orders me to take the rest of the day off. “Yes, boss,” I reply with a small smile.

The guy from the home-security company shows up as Ivy is leaving to go to work. He makes the necessary repairs, but even with my system up and running again, I don't feel safe. It's horrible knowing you're not safe even in your own home. I can't go on living in fear, I realize, seeing the bogeyman in every shadow. Because the next attempt on my life might succeed.
Think, Tish.
I sit for a long while, still in my pajamas, drinking my umpteenth cup of coffee as I stare sightlessly out the window at the backyard, lost in thought, until an idea forms. By the time I've showered and dressed, I have the outline of a plan.

I leave a message on Spence's voicemail before calling the number for the station, where the desk sergeant informs me he's at the hospital. Visiting the officer who was wounded in the armed robbery that went down earlier in the week, I imagine. Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling up to Dominican Hospital in a cab. I feel as though I'm treading a well-worn path as I cross the atrium-style lobby, remembering my daily trips to see my father when he was in the oncology ward on the fourth floor. But that was then, and this is now. There had been no hope for my dad. But my situation isn't hopeless, not if I
do
something rather than wait for the killer to make his next move.

My pulse quickens at the bold plan I have in mind.

As luck would have it, Spence steps from one of the elevators as I'm approaching. But he's not wearing a visitor's badge. He's holding the hand of a little girl with his blond hair and blue eyes who could only be his daughter. He seems surprised to see me before concern registers on his face.

“Tish, what are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“I'm fine. I was looking for you, actually, but I see I caught you at a bad time.” I smile down at his little girl. She has a bandage on her chin and a bloodstain on the Hello Kitty T-shirt she's wearing.

“My daughter had a little accident,” he explains.

I bend down so that I'm eye level with her. “Hi. My name's Tish. What's yours?”

“Katie,” she says brightly. “I got stitches!” She points to the gauze covering her chin. “Colby pushed me, and I fell on my
face
. There was blood
everywhere
. Daddy took me to the doctor to get fixed. Look what I got!” She shows off the Beanie Baby she's holding, a purple frog.

“One of the bigger kids got a little rough on the playground at school,” Spence explains.

“Did you arrest the kid?”

He smiles. “I will if he ever pulls a stunt like that again.”

“Noooo, Daddy,” Katie corrects him. “I
told
you, we were
playing
. Colby's my
friend
.” To me she says, “I didn't cry. Only a little. I'm not a crybaby like Ryan.” Ryan is her little brother, I recall.

“That's right, sweetie. And when Ryan's your age, he'll be just as brave as his big sister.” Spence strokes Katie's small blond head, and she looks up at him adoringly. I feel a pang, witnessing the tender moment between father and daughter, wishing I'd had that with my own dad. “Is there something you want to talk to me about?” he asks in a low voice as I walk out with him.

“Yes, but …” I cast a meaningful glance at his daughter.

“We can talk after I drop Katie off, if you want to ride with us.”

On the drive to her house, Katie chatters on about how brave she was, and how she won't cry when she gets her ears pierced on her birthday. “Because then Mommy won't let me,” she adds solemnly.

“We told her she had to wait until her next birthday,” Spence explains when Katie becomes engrossed in playing with her Beanie Baby. “I still say she's too young, but Barb says if we make a big deal of it she'll do it on her own when she's older and it won't just be her ears that are pierced.”

“In other words, you caved.”

He gives a rueful chuckle. “It was the threat of a belly ring that did it.”

“When did you become Ward Cleaver?”

“When I became a parent. I don't want my kids doing the same dumb stuff I did.”

We arrive at the house, a modest ranch painted beige with coffee trim, situated on a quiet, tree-lined street south of town, and I wait while he takes his daughter inside. He appears tense when he climbs back in the car. He starts the engine, then stares straight ahead as it idles. “God, I hate this. Every time I walk through that door …” He shakes his head, looking bereft. “My kids used to ask when I was coming home. They've stopped asking. I don't know which is worse.”

“You'll always be their dad. That will never change.”

Spence smiles wanly. “Feel like taking a walk?” he asks as he's backing out of the driveway. I nod, and he drives to where his street dead-ends at a cliff that looks out on the ocean. We get out and follow a footpath that leads to a beach access. We make our way down the wooden staircase to find the beach deserted except for a lone fisherman and a woman walking her dog. Surfers ride the waves, and farther out at sea, sailboats glide. We take our shoes off and stroll along the packed sand by the water's edge, the surf washing over our feet with each wave that rolls in.

“The guy from the security company came,” I inform him. “Thanks for thinking of that.”

“I wish there was more I could do.” He sounds frustrated.

“Any luck with the neighbors?”

“Lady next door, Mrs. Caswell, heard your screams. She thought she saw someone when she looked out her window, but she didn't get a good look, so she couldn't give us a description.”

Just as I suspected. “Dark clothes, ski mask. Not much to go on, even if she'd gotten a better look.”

“I haven't given up.”

“Yeah, but what are the chances? If it's the same person who killed Delilah, he's as good as gone. Or he's hiding in plain sight.”

“It's still an active investigation.”

“Which is rapidly becoming a cold case.” He doesn't contradict me, which emboldens me to go on, “What if there was another way?”

“Like what?” He cuts me a wary look.

“What if you were to set a trap?”

“A trap?” he repeats, frowning.

I sketch out my plan, which seems more far-fetched as I voice it than when I was formulating it in my head. “I'm invited to a dinner party Bartosz is hosting next Friday, and chances are Delilah's killer will be there, too, if it's the same person who drugged me at his last party.” I step over strands of kelp that form a braid along the tide line. The sand is cold against the soles of my feet, but that's not why I'm shivering. “Let's say I was to hint that I know something about Delilah's murder.”

“Didn't you already do that?”

“Yes, but I kept it vague. This time I'd say it was information vital to the case.”

“I'd have made the arrest by now if you had vital information.”

“Not if you were holding off until you had the evidence to back it up.”

“Good point.” He nods, and I see the respect in his eyes. He's starting to realize I'm more than a pain in the ass—the pest who shows up at crime scenes—that I actually have a knack for this.

“The killer would be desperate. He, assuming it's a man, has already come after me on two separate occasions. He'll try again, possibly even that night, if he's spooked enough. Which is where you come in. As soon he makes his move, you move in and make the arrest.”

Spence stops and turns to face me, the wind that's blowing off the ocean flattening his short blond hair on that side of his head. The lenses of his wire-rims are lightly misted with sea spray, but I can see the concern in his eyes. “You'd be taking a huge risk. I couldn't ask that of you.”

“You're not asking. I'm offering.”

He shakes his head. “It's still a risk. I couldn't guarantee your safety even with police protection.”

“I'd be safer than I am at home,” I point out. “And from what you've told me, the chief is desperate enough to try anything. Let's face it, it's not like you have a whole lot of other options.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yeah, I do. Or you'd have a suspect in custody by now. Come on. What do you have to lose?”

I'm surprised and touched when he answers in a soft voice, “You.”

My throat tight, we walk in silence to where the beach ends in a rock jetty before we head back. Sandpipers scatter at our approach, whole flocks moving as one like the shadows cast by the clouds that scud overhead. Spence stops to douse a burned-down campfire that is still smoldering. We pause to watch as the fisherman reels in his catch and a surfer glides gracefully into shore on his board. The climb up the steep wooden steps has me panting by the time I reach the top.

I pause to catch my breath. “I'm getting old.”

“With any luck,” Spence mutters.

I refrain from commenting. Patience isn't my strong suit, but I can see from the expression on Spence's face, as we walk back to his car, that he's debating with himself, so I wait for him to come to a decision. “All right,” he says at last. “I'll run it by the chief, see what he has to say.” He pauses when we reach his car. “In the meantime …” He pulls out his wallet, from which he extracts a driver's license—mine, I see when he hands it to me. “I believe this belongs to you.”