Wink of an Eye (29 page)

I laughed. If I had worn a hat, I would have tipped it as I left.

 

CHAPTER 26

I pulled away from the mayhem surrounding the sheriff's office and drove to a mom-and-pop store about a mile away. I parked near the side of the building but left the motor running with the cold air blowing straight into my face. The temperature outside had to be in triple digits and I was supposed to take Tatum to the sinkholes tomorrow to take some pictures? How drunk was I when I agreed to that?

I opened the browser on my cell and opened my most frequently used app. I carefully keyed in the tag number on Sophia's Mercedes and within seconds had her address. I plugged it into the GPS, then settled in for the ride to Odessa.

The whole “partner” thing did concern me. The last thing I needed this evening was to come face-to-face with a significant other. But dammit, I was worried about her, and she wouldn't answer her freaking phone. If he was there, maybe we could mumble our way around an awkward situation. After all, Sophia and I had worked together on this investigation, so it was technically a business visit. If I kept telling myself that, maybe by the time I got to Odessa I'd believe it.

Highway 302 had to be one of the loneliest places on earth. Or maybe it was just west Texas in general. The forty-minute ride seemed like four days. I drove into town and circled around the
Record
to see if her car was there. It didn't surprise me that it wasn't. I rekeyed Sophia's address from the current location. ETA eight minutes.

The Arbor Crest Luxury Apartments was a sprawling complex spread out on several acres. A lush green lawn and flowering shrubs gave it the appearance of a country club. Beside the office that doubled as a clubhouse was a well-kept tennis court. Like someone was really going to play a round of tennis when it was 115 degrees. The majority of cars in front of the clusters of units were high dollar, free of soccer ball decals or “my kid's an honor roll student” at blah-blah elementary. Sophia's neighbors were, like her, professionals who made decent salaries, probably preferring to keep to themselves than to attend the once-a-month social at the clubhouse.

Sophia's apartment was one unit from the back of the complex. I parked in the empty spot beside her car, hoping that one, her husband/boyfriend/significant other usually parked in the same spot, which meant he wasn't home or didn't live there altogether, or two, there was only one designated spot per apartment, which meant I really was parked in someone else's spot. I took the steps leading up to her apartment on the second floor by twos and knocked hard on the door.

“Sophia—it's Gypsy.” No response. I knocked again. “Sophia. I need to talk to you. Please open the door.”

I heard shuffling around inside the apartment but the sound wasn't moving toward the door.

“Sophia. Come on, I just want to make sure you're okay.”

A text alert came through on my cell. It was from Sophia.
I'm fine. Go home.

At least I knew it was her shuffling around inside. I sent a reply.
Not happening. Open door.

After a few minutes, I knocked again, more gently this time. “Sophia … please open the door. I'm not leaving until you do.”

A few minutes of silence went by. I leaned against the door and took in the surroundings. The stairs leading to the second floor ended at a landing large enough to classify as a deck. A large cluster of potted plants dominated a corner near the railing overlooking the parking lot. A thick strand of ivy wove around the railing and climbed a gutter spout like a trellis. I could see Sophia took great care of the plants as their leaves were vibrant and shiny. It might cause her great pain to lose one. Not that I wanted to cause her any more pain—I just wanted her to open the door.

I went over to the corner and hoisted one of the pots to the railing, tipped it just to the point of dropping it, and snapped a picture with my phone. I sent the picture to Sophia with the text:
Open the door or else.
I returned the plant to its nesting place and patiently waited for a reply. Several minutes went by and no response. She either cared nothing about the plant or she wasn't in any mood for joking around. I banked on the latter.

I sat down and leaned against the door, deciding I was going to wait her out. I held my phone out in front of me and snapped another picture, typed
not going anywhere,
and hit send. About thirty minutes passed before I heard movement in the apartment.

She finally opened the door and stared down at me. “You don't give up, do you?”

I stood and stretched my legs. “Not without a fight.”

She looked horrible. Still wearing the blood-spattered clothes she was wearing in Denny's office, the whites of her eyes were as red as the bloodstains. Small splotches of dried blood were still caked on her face like bad makeup. She was barefooted.

I followed her in and closed the door behind us. She sat down on the floor in front of the sofa, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was indifferent, almost robotic. She wasn't angry; she was still in shock.

“I was worried about you.” I sat down in one of two wingback chairs across from the sofa. I wasn't sure of the situation with the partner and I didn't want the visit to be any more strained than it was.

She gently rocked back and forth, her arms still wrapped tightly around her legs, staring at something only she could see. I had a pretty good idea of what it was she was seeing over and over again.

There was an open laptop on the coffee table with a pile of notes beside it. “Goin' to make your deadline?”

It took her a moment to answer. She pushed a hand through her hair, then shrugged. “It's going to take more than one article to tell this story.” She sighed heavily. “I'm sorry—I'm not much of a hostess. Would you like a beer or something?”

“Sure.” Truth was, I didn't want anything but for her to be okay.

She pulled herself up like it required a great deal of effort, then shuffled over to the kitchen area. The apartment was industrial-style with brick walls and exposed duct work overhead. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel. Custom-matted and framed black-and-white photographs were the decoration of choice. The overstuffed sofa and the two wingback chairs were the color of expensive vanilla ice cream spotted with bean flecks, not the cheap shit that's sold in a plastic bucket.

I moved over to the sofa to take a look at what she had written and stared at an empty white page in a blank Word document. I don't really know what I was expecting, but the coldness of the empty page was jarring. I skimmed idly through some of her notes while waiting.

The kitchen couldn't have been more than thirty feet away, separated from the living room by a white brick wall. Sophia could have run down to the local store for the amount of time that had passed.

I found her leaning into the counter beside the refrigerator, her back to me, her shoulders softly shaking as she quietly cried. She jumped when I touched her, then turned and fell into my arms. The crying soon became hysterical as she kept repeating
the blood, all the blood.
I held her tight, softly stroking her hair, telling her it was going to be okay.

I could feel the sharpness of dried blood still in her hair, and the slickness of specks of brain matter. She still had Denny's blood on her arms and hands. I scooped her up, forced her legs around my waist, and carried her to the bathroom.

The shower was a stand-alone with a frosted-glass door. She was still propped around my waist, her arms clinging tightly around my neck, still crying when I carried her into the shower and turned on the water. I adjusted the temperature until the water lightly beating against her back was just a shade cooler than hot. She relaxed slightly and it was enough to allow me to pry her legs lose from around my waist and help her stand. Gently, I removed her blouse and tossed it behind me as I batted back the water spraying straight into my own eyes. The water swirling around the drain had a reddish tint as Denny's blood washed away.

I removed her pants, then my own shirt and pants, adding them to the growing pile of blood-stained clothes in the back of the shower. There we were, standing in her shower, warm water washing over us, her in her bra and panties, me in my boxers, and I
didn't
want to make love to her. I wanted to take care of her, to wash the blood off of her, to hold her.

The crying settled into an occasional sniffle as I washed her hair, then her face, then her arms and hands. She reached out and lightly ran a finger across my cheek, then sadly looked at her finger. The streak of dried blood turned bright pink, then faded and disappeared.

I quickly scrubbed the remaining blood from my arms, then lifted my face to Sophia, batting the water out of my eyes. “Clean?”

She slowly nodded. At that moment, my heart couldn't have been any larger. It encompassed my entire body, my whole being. I could feel it exploding in my head and throbbing in my toes.

I lightly ran my hands over her wet hair, smoothing it down, pushing the slick strands behind her ears. Wetness glistened on her bronze-colored skin like tiny jewels. Her warm, mocha eyes were now heavy-lidded and tired instead of panic-filled and horror stricken.

I reached behind her and turned off the water, then gently removed her bra. I held her arm for balance as she stepped out of her panties. I tossed my boxers onto the bloody laundry pile at the back of the shower.

After I stepped out of the shower, I found towels in the laundry cabinet behind the bathroom door. I wrapped one around my waist, then wrapped Sophia in one. She was like a small child after a full day of hard play, exhausted and relaxed, allowing me to dry the wetness from her body with no protest. I ran the towel over her hair and asked if she wanted to blow dry. She shook her head slowly. I left her for a moment to find her some comfortable clothes, returning with fresh panties and a white tank top I found in a tall-boy dresser in the bedroom. After helping her dress, I carried her to the bed and tucked her under the white down comforter. When I started back to the bathroom, she grabbed my hand.

“Don't go.”

“I'll be right back. I promise.”

I went back into the bathroom and rung out the pile of laundry as best I could. I found her washer and dryer in a hallway utility closet. I dropped the clothes in the washer and hoped the blood would wash out without leaving a stain of bad memories.

I wondered what size her partner wore and if he kept any clothes at her place. From what I had seen of the apartment, Sophia lived alone. It was definitely a woman's place.

I went back to the bedroom and was going to ask about the partner but she reached behind her and pulled back the comforter. I dropped the damp towel and climbed in behind her. She was curled into a fetal position, and pushed herself backward until she was snuggled against me. She pulled my arm across her, our fingers wrapped around one another's.

She smelled so clean, so innocent. Like it was really possible, I tugged her closer and nuzzled her neck. I felt her breath settle into a steady rhythm, a rhythm that matched my own. Once I knew she was sound asleep, I closed my own eyes and drifted off to a world that included Sophia Ortez.

*   *   *

I wasn't expecting her to snore. Unless I've got a bottle of Black Label in me, I'm a pretty light sleeper. Comes with the territory. And I've
slept
with my share of women. Even woken up in the middle of the night and crept out unnoticed. But Sophia Ortez, possibly the sexiest woman on earth, took the prize for snoring. Deep, lip-smacking, wet gasps that rattled the blinds. It was not a Barry White moment.

I was happy she was sleeping so soundly. I wished I could catch an hour or so before daybreak. I was picking Tatum up at ten and taking him to the sinkholes. After that, I figured I'd check in with Ranger Rick. And somewhere in my schedule for the day, I was going to have to include a nap.

My stomach was past empty and protested unheard above Sophia's sleep apnea. I eased out of bed, wrapped the towel around my waist, then headed to the kitchen in search of food.

There were a couple cans of soup in the pantry, a few cans of tuna, some wheat crackers, and a box of Cocoa Puffs. I checked the fridge for milk. Bingo. I checked the expiration date. Still good.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal and ate as I checked out the apartment. I was curious about this partner she had breathlessly mentioned while ripping my pants off the other night in Rhonda's front yard. I thumbed through a few pieces of mail she had in an organizer in the corner of the counter. All addressed to Sophia Ortez. The apartment's décor wasn't ultra-feminine, but it definitely wasn't masculine, either. It wasn't even middle-of-the road compromise. It was all Sophia. No two people can have the same taste in
everything.
The flat screen television was moderate, connected only to a cable box and DVR, no PlayStation 3 or other game consoles to raise the testosterone level. The bookshelf was jammed with reference and self-help books geared toward women's interests. The few fiction titles were thick paperback romance novels, their spines frayed and faded. I grinned as I imagined Sophia propped up in bed, that fluffy down comforter covering her bare legs, thoroughly lost in a book that had a guy in a white pirate shirt on the cover.

There was no indication anyone other than Sophia Ortez lived in this apartment. Maybe it was one of those friends-with-benefits relationships? Maybe he was a fellow journalist, someone she worked with—like a
partner
in crime?

The snoring could explain a lot. Maybe he had tried to stay over, maybe even move in, but valued a good night's sleep over good sweaty sex. What an idiot.

I went back into the kitchen and spotted a coffeemaker tucked into the corner of the counter. I scrounged around the cabinet until I found a can of coffee and a bag of filters. While the coffee brewed, I dug our clothes out of the washer, then tossed them into the dryer.