A Murderous Game (26 page)

"Does the lady have a
name?" he asked, rubbing a finger over his lips to hide a grin. Moyer was
a consummate letch, and although the guy meant no harm, Gene tried not to
encourage him.

"Gooding," Moyer said,
"and she's sizzling. I'm talking hot-cha-cha, Simms." He glanced over
his shoulder then back, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Mad, too. Oh yeah,
is she mad.
Steaming."
He blew on his fingers and
shook them in the air.

The corners of Gene's mouth curled
up at the memory of their first encounter. "Send her in." His nerves
tingled, and he felt a rush of anticipation course through his veins. One of
the challenges had come to him. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Less than a minute later she blew
into his office, sashaying sass and, just as Moyer had said, a whole lot of
sizzle. He stood up. "Miss Gooding, this is an unexpected pleasure. What
can I do for you?"

"Let me give you the fit for
prime time version, Detective. And I do use that term lightly. If you truly
believe Abby Carpenter had anything to do with her ex-husband's murder, you've
either got your head buried up your own personal waste expulsion device, or you
are the aforementioned orifice." She flashed a smile that managed to be
scornful and oddly seductive at the same time. "Take your pick,
Detective."

Gene extended an open palm toward
the chair next to his desk. "Would you like some coffee?" he asked,
biting back a chuckle at her colorful description. "It's hot, but that's
the only recommendation I can give it."

"This isn't a social
visit." She made sitting down look like an X-rated ballet. "I'm not
going to let you frame my friend." She crossed one leg over the other,
prompting a pagan drumming to take up a beat in his head. "As much as I'd
enjoy watching you embarrass yourself if you try to base your case on Abby's
old diary, I can't sit still while you harass her when I know for a fact you're
dead wrong." She made impatient, jerky little circles with her right foot.
Boom, boom, boom
.
The rhythm began to pump
through his blood.

He sat back down and turned his
chair sideways, facing her. Leaning one elbow on the armrest, he forced his
eyes to stay focused on her face and not the mile long legs that were making
his fingers itch and his throat go dry.

"Framing and harassment, for
shame," he mocked. "I'll need to work on my image." He contrived
to look repentant. "As to my embarrassment, I hate to disappoint you, but
there isn't anything in your friend's diary I haven't seen, heard, or—" He
paused. Damn it, what the hell was he saying?

"
Done
?" she
suggested with a low, affected drawl. It sounded more like a purr as it rolled
over him. He shifted position.

"Detective, don't you know
anything about young girls or their dreams?" She gave him a sideways
glance and batted thick fanning eyelashes.
Tease
, he thought. She'd
probably practiced that look until she'd perfected it, and he had no doubt she
used it with deliberate intention to taunt, torture, and intimidate. He'd be
damned if he'd let her see he was no less immune than the droves of men who
probably salivated in her wake.

"Abby had a horrible crush on
Gage Faraday when we were teenagers, but it never developed into anything
beyond that. Everything you read in the diary was a product of her
imagination."

"You're saying she made it
up?" He slanted a dubious brow. "That she wrote about an affair that
never happened?"

"Of course she made it up. At
the time of their supposed liaison, every girl down the shore wanted Gage
Faraday. And although she's a beautiful woman now, if you saw pictures of Abby
when she was fifteen, seventeen, even nineteen, you'd realize how ridiculous it
is to believe everything she wrote was true. He was an older guy who had his
pick of older girls. Why would he go after a gawky fifteen-year-old kid?"

She reached up and twirled the
pearl stud in her ear with long, highly polished fingernails he could almost
feel digging into his back. "What you read was nothing more than an
adolescent girl's fantasy." She gave him a wicked grin that mocked as
surely as she'd intended. "Haven't you ever fantasized about anything,
Detective Simms?"

He rubbed the back of his neck and
ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Never one to back off from a
challenge, he met her gaze straight on. The silence crackled, a hot wire
snapping dangerously between them. The air oozed tension, all of it sexual,
none of it appropriate, dripping over them thick and sticky and hot as a sultry
August night. Under other, far more private circumstances, he might be tempted
to explore it a little further.

Her entire body seemed to stiffen,
as if she'd suddenly sensed danger, and with a sudden jerk she looked away. Had
he imagined a brief flash of fear in those deep sable eyes?

Interesting.
She flirted with fire but was afraid of the flames. Was all that sauce a
smokescreen, and if so, for what? He tucked the observation away. It was a
distraction, one he'd think about later.

"How do you know it isn't
true?" he asked, getting back on track. "And if she made it up, why
didn't she just tell me that yesterday?"

"I'm not sure why she didn't
tell you, probably because she was so shocked to see you with her diary. I know
she made it all up because I was there when Abby's heartless father publicly
humiliated her in front of dozens of people by accusing Gage of statutory rape,
forcing her to admit she made everything up so the bastard wouldn't press
charges."

"Why should I believe you?
You're her friend. I get the impression you'd be willing to say anything to try
and protect her."

Gooding smiled with smug assurance.
"You're right. I'll do whatever I can to protect her. But you don't have
to take my word about the diary being a fantasy. I can give you the names of
several other people who still live in the area who can verify what
happened."

He leaned back. "Why don't you
start from the beginning and tell me everything you know about your friend's
relationship with Gage Faraday and your claims about the diary?"

She did, recounting what she termed
the diary debacle and more. She was a showcase of emotion—humor, sympathy,
vengeance, and sassy sarcasm.

Gene watched her eyes, her mouth,
her fingers, observed all her gestures, looking for inconsistencies. He
listened for the inflections, the wavering, and the fillers that might give her
away. In the end, he wondered how anyone could lie so convincingly. They
couldn't. Rachael Gooding had told him the truth; he believed it. And if
necessary he could check the story out with some of the other people she said
were present at the time.

He still considered Carpenter and
Faraday his primary suspects, but it was conceivable when Carpenter said she'd
only known Faraday a little over a month she hadn't intentionally lied. If
their prior association had been as one-sided as Gooding said, Carpenter might
not have considered it relevant.

"Let me ask again. If all this
is true, why didn't she tell me the diary was a fabrication yesterday when she
had the chance?"

She made brow arching look like an
audition for Broadway. "She didn't really have much of a chance before
Gage was able to rescue her from your harassment. And even if she had, would
you have believed her? From what she told me last night, you did everything but
come right out and accuse her of murdering Dick. And a word of advice, someone
needs to smack that partner of yours up the side of his face."

"Baker gets a little excited
sometimes. He's young," Gene said. She started to sit forward, and he held
up a hand. "I spoke with him."

Somewhat pacified, she sat back
with a muffled harrumph.

He shifted the puzzle pieces again.
If Carpenter had told the truth, then Billings
or her ex had to have lied. Most likely it had been the ex, but if it had been Billings, why would he
claim the Carpenters had been on the verge of reconciling if they weren't?

Simms tugged his bottom lip.
"Tell me, Ms. Gooding." He leaned back and brought his ankle across
his knee. "Have you ever met Harold Billings?"

"The
obnoxious sludge that works with Abby?"
She lifted her chin.
"I know him. I don't like slimy little creatures so I try to avoid them if
possible." She was back in her groove. "But since he and Dick were
friends, and Abby is my best friend, I've had to stomach my share of encounters
with the creep. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular. I
was going to ask what you thought of him, but I think I already got my
answer." He made a mental note to do a little digging on Harold Billings.

~~~

Abby and Rachael huddled together
under the green and red awning in front of the Westville Café as they waited
for a cab. So far, this spring had been one of the rainiest Abby could
remember.

The weather hadn't kept people off
the streets. Most of the restaurants along Walnut seemed even more crowded than
usual. There must be a lot of conventions in town, she thought, averting her
gaze from a group of men who checked her and Rachael out as they walked by.

A couple of minutes later a cab
pulled up to the curb to let out a fare, and the two women hurried out from
under the awning to snag it.

Abby came to an abrupt halt, her
hand going to her breast as the long, muscular form of Detective Simms unfolded
from the backseat. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up as he stepped up
to the sidewalk.

"Well, well, if it isn't
Sherlock," Rachael mocked with a throaty drawl.

Simms head snapped around, a
guarded expression on his handsome face. When he saw them, he gave a slight
nod, one corner of his mouth curling up in a half grin.

"Ladies," he said, his
dark eyes going from one to the other although Abby thought they seemed to
linger on her friend a few extra seconds.

"Are you following us,
Simms?" Rachael asked, hiking her chin so it appeared she was looking down
her nose at him, a difficult feat since, despite topping five-eight, Simms
still had at least six inches on her.

"Should I be?" Angling
his head, he returned the challenge with a hiked brow that made Abby wonder if
she'd missed something.

"Are you?" Rachael
returned, her tone containing a definite bite that bewildered Abby even more.

Simms grinned and a dimple carved
his cheek. "No, I'm not following you, Ms. Gooding. Even I have to take
time off for an occasional meal." He glanced toward the Westville Café and
asked, "I've never eaten here. Do you recommend it?"

Abby glanced over her shoulder.
"We've been coming here almost every week for a couple of years, so I
guess you could say we like it."

Simms cocked his head as if
considering her response. He glanced toward the restaurant again, an unreadable
expression in his eyes. "Have you," he said, almost to himself.

"Dining alone?" Rachael
asked. "I suppose it must be difficult for someone like you to make
friends," she quipped, and Abby sensed her friend was on a roll. "I
mean, people are probably afraid to talk to you for fear they'll somehow
incriminate themselves in something. I doubt you've ever had a normal
conversation with anyone, Detective, where someone actually could let down
their guard."

He stuck his tongue in his cheek.
"I manage an occasional casual exchange."

Feeling uncomfortable, Abby caught
Rachael's wrist. "The cab's waiting," she said, hoping to cut short
whatever private battle these two had engaged upon.

"Enjoy your dinner," she
said to Simms and gave Rachael a tug. Angering the man with insults didn't seem
like a good idea when he already thought she'd murdered Dick.

"Yes, Detective," Rachael
quipped as Abby tried to pull her toward the cab again, "enjoy your—"

"Gene." A woman's voice
called from several feet away. Abby and Rachael turned in unison to see an
attractive blonde hurrying up the sidewalk toward them. Her gaze flicked over
them briefly before landing on Simms.

"Sorry I'm late," she
said as she sidled up to the detective. Rising on her toes, she planted a not
so platonic kiss on his lips. "I hate to think you've been standing out
here in the rain waiting for me." She smiled seductively. "How will I
ever make it up to you if you come down with a cold?"

Simms lips curved sensually as he
looked down at her. "I'll think of something," he drawled. His tone
left no doubt as to the payment. He turned, and placing his right hand over the
woman's hip, led her into the restaurant without looking back.

"He just got here,"
Rachael called out as the door closed behind Simms and the woman. She snorted
as if disgusted by the whole scene. "And you can't catch a cold from the
rain." She rolled her eyes.
"Airhead.
I hate
the way some women make fools of themselves over men."

Abby gave her an appraising glance.
"What's with you? Every time you're around that guy you go on the attack.
I don't think we want to make an enemy of him."

"I don't like him,"
Rachael snapped hotly. "And I can't believe you're defending him when he's
trying to railroad you into a murder charge."

"He's just doing his job. And
I wasn't defending him. I just don't understand what it is about him that turns
you into a snarling pit bull."

"Yeah?
Well, maybe if he did his job instead of wasting time with some ditzy bimbo,
he'd be able to find Dick's murderer and stop harassing you."

"Get in the cab," Abby
said, wondering if Rachael had told her everything about the little impromptu
visit she'd made to Simms that afternoon.

As they pulled away from the curb,
Abby studied her friend. Rachael's arms were crossed tightly, and she was
gazing out the window. She mumbled something about
stupid
, something,
something
,
make it up to you
, something. Abby shook
her head and looked away. She had too much on her mind right now to worry about
Rachael's mood.