Dead In Red (17 page)

“You’re here,” she said with pleasure.

“I am.”

“Come in.” Maggie opened the screen door and
immediately a dog planted its nose in my crotch. “Holly!” Maggie
admonished and pulled her golden retriever back by its collar. “I’m
sorry. Dogs like to—”

“I know,” I cut her off, and offered the dog
my hand as an alternative. She sniffed my fingers and I must’ve
passed muster for she licked them enthusiastically.

Maggie eyed the brown grocery bag in my
other hand. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“It’s not much. Just an icebreaker. That is,
if you’ve got ice. I need to borrow your fridge, or maybe freezer,
too.”

“Sure. Come on into the kitchen.”

I followed her up the stairs to the second
floor apartment. If I was unimpressed with the outside of her home,
the inside changed my mind. Contemporary leather furniture stressed
comfort. Signed lithographs lined the walls—the ambiance peaceful
and laid-back with a southwestern flair. For an absurd moment I
wondered if I should introduce her to Cyn.

Maggie led me into the cozy kitchen with its
butter yellow walls and frosted-glass-fronted cabinets. She leaned
against the white Formica counter. “It’s all yours,” she said with
a sweep of her hand.

I set the grocery sack on the counter. “So,
what do you like to drink?”

“I’m strictly a gin-and-tonic kind of girl.
At least when it’s hot out. Winters, I revert to whiskey
sours.”

I thought as much. “It’s the taste of
juniper that attracts you in summer.”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“Then let me make you a surprise. But first
I’ve got to wash my hands. Dog saliva and a good drink don’t go
together.” Maggie laughed and pointed toward the sink.

She watched as I withdrew a bottle of
Beefeaters gin, a pint of Perry’s French Vanilla ice cream, and a
liter of club soda from the grocery bag. “I need ice, a tall glass,
a shot glass and an ice cream scoop.”

Maggie gave me what I needed before hauling
out the remains of what was once a five-pound bag of ice. She
radiated pure delight as I added ice, measured the gin, plopped in
a scoop of ice cream, and topped it with club soda. I gave it a
quick stir before pushing the fizzing glass toward her.

Maggie’s expression was enigmatic as she
picked up the glass and took a tentative sip. Then her eyes widened
and a smile lit up her face. “Wow, you are a good bartender.”

I wish I could’ve taken credit for the
drink. “It’s called a silver stallion.”

“Tastes like magic.” She took another sip.
“Is this your way of lowering my inhibitions?”

“Do I really need to?”

She looked away, blushing. “I guess not. Are
you having one?”

“I’ll take a beer, if you’ve got one.”

She crossed to the fridge and came up with a
bottle of Labatt Blue. “Want a glass?”

“It’s not necessary.” I cracked the
cap and held it out for a toast. “
Na
Zdrowie!
”

Maggie’s glass touched the bottle.
“Cheers.”

We watched each other drink, then Maggie
said, “Let’s go sit down.”

She put the ice cream and ice in the freezer
before leading me back to the living room. Her second-floor
apartment was as hot as Hades, but a fan pointed at the couch
recirculated the air. We sank into the sofa’s depths, and Holly
stood before Maggie, looking expectant.

“You had your dinner,” Maggie said, but
Holly didn’t seem interested in our drinks. She maneuvered herself
between the coffee table and us, sitting down so that her warm body
pressed against my right leg. I petted her head and she turned her
dark brown eyes on me. I didn't know dogs could smile.

Maggie set her drink down. “Holly, it’s too
hot for that. Go lie down.” The dog obediently got up, trotted
across the room to a plaid cushion and settled herself on it,
perching her head on her crossed front legs, letting out a loud,
doggy sigh.

I wiped my sweating beer bottle against my
equally damp forehead. “Hot in here.”

“You, or the air?” Maggie asked, her eyes
glinting.

“Both.”

She picked up her drink again, sipped it,
not meeting my gaze. “My bedroom is air-conditioned.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

She flashed a glance my way. “I’m not
usually this forward. It’s just—”

I set my beer down, clasped her moist palm.
A current passed between us. Her gasp was more surprise than
pleasure—that came a few seconds later.

“Oh wow,” she muttered, her breaths coming
fast and shallow. Mine had picked up, too. We looked at one another
for a moment, then I pulled her to me, kissed her. She returned it
with equal vigor, the hunger I’d sensed days before building inside
her.

“First kiss,” she whispered, eyes wide with
growing anticipation.

Despite the heat, a delightful shiver of
longing ran through her—through me. Dizziness and desire whirled
through me—a rush like I’d never known. She leaned in to kiss me
again. “It’s more comfortable in the bedroom,” she breathed.

“I’m all for comfort.”

She pulled me up from the couch, led me
toward the back of the apartment. As she reached for the door
handle, I stopped. She looked up at me, puzzled. I drew her close,
nuzzled my nose against her ear. “Don’t tell Brenda everything,” I
whispered. “Let’s save this for just us.”

She kissed me again and opened the door.

I didn’t go home that night.

# # #

CHAPTER 14

I sat at Maggie’s kitchen table, the
newspaper spread before me, nursing my second cup of coffee when
her phone rang the next morning. “You wanna get that?” she called
from the other room.

I pushed away from the table, grabbed the
kitchen extension. “Maggie’s house.”

“Jeff?” It was Sam.

“How the hell did you find me this
time?”

“I asked—”

“Yeah, yeah, my brother.”

“Maggie’s house, huh? Sounds like you got
lucky. How’d you like to bat a thousand?”

“How so?”

“I’m going to interview a contact this
morning. Thought you might want to tag along.”

“What’s in it for you if I do?”

“I dunno. Maybe you could play human lie
detector for me. Tell me if this guy’s hosing me.”

“You don’t trust your own instincts?”

“Of course I do, but I figure it can’t hurt
for you to tag along. You might get something he doesn’t want to
share with me—if you know what I mean.”

“Just who are we going to talk to?” I
asked.

“A cop wannabe. Jailer in the county lockup.
He called and asked if someone wanted the inside scoop on Craig
Buchanan. I told him I’d meet him since I can’t get to Buchanan.
You know they won’t let a reporter talk to a suspect until after a
trial. Think we might sway the pool of jurors.”

“I did know that. But shouldn’t Buchanan
have been transferred to the county psych unit by now?”

“Apparently he talked to this guy before
they shipped him out.”

“Any reason why he waited so long to contact
you?”

“No one else bit. He’s got a bit of a
reputation. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

“Did you tell your contact you were bringing
a psychic along?”

“You’re a fellow reporter. A stringer.”

“Gee, suddenly I feel empowered. When?”

“An hour. Meet you at your brother’s
house?”

“You got it.”

* * *

Maggie had
made other plans for later in the morning, so we said a quick
good-bye, sealed it with a kiss and a vague agreement to meet again
sometime soon.

She’d radiated happiness when I left
her.

So did I.

I lay low when I returned home. Snuck in the
back—went straight to my own room, showered, shaved, changed and
was standing in the driveway when Sam’s SUV pulled in. Never saw
Richard, never saw Brenda, and I heaved a sigh of relief at not
having to explain why I hadn’t called to let them know I wouldn’t
be home the night before.

“Where are we going?” I asked Sam when I
jumped into his car and buckled my seatbelt.

“To Starbucks. I hope you like coffee.”

As Sam backed the car down the drive, a big
black motorcycle blasted down the street, heading south. “Hey,
catch up with that guy, will you?”

“What for?”

“Just do it.”

Sam tromped on it, tires spinning, his
Lincoln Navigator earning its reputation as a kick-ass vehicle.
“What’s going on?” he asked again as we roared down the quiet
street.

“I got a hunch about that bike.”

By the time we reached the Y where LeBrun
Road runs into Saratoga, there was no sign of the biker. “Now
what?” Sam asked.

I shook my head, exasperated. “We head out
for Starbucks.”

Sam took the right fork; that would take us
back to Main Street. “What was that all about?”

“Somebody on a big black bike tried to run
me down the other day. I guess I’m just paranoid.”

“Or smart to be careful.”

We turned right on Main and I explained what
had happened, making light of it. I was glad when Sam went into his
grand inquisitor act, asking me about Maggie in as many ways as he
could possibly phrase one question. I resisted his attempts to
wheedle information from me until we ended up on Transit Road and
ordered our preferences. Sam paid—no doubt on an expense
account—and we sat down at one of the tables. Some kind of new age
music played in the background. Nice. Mellow. Very Saturday
morningish.

“How are we supposed to know this guy?” I
asked.

“He said he’d be wearing a Bills cap.”

I looked around the joint. Two of the other
four male patrons were Buffalo Bills fans. “Should we raise a flag
or something?”

Sam scowled. “Shut up and drink your
coffee.”

I sipped my coffee.

“Oh, and when he gets here, make sure you
shake his hand.”

Sam hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d
wanted a human lie detector. He’d be damned disappointed if I
couldn’t sense a thing about the guy.

I drank my coffee. In fact, I’d drained my
cup and was about to start twiddling my thumbs when an acne-scarred
bozo in a Bills cap, T-shirt, and team red-and-blue striped
sweatpants entered the front door. I swear Sam actually
cringed.

“My crap-o-meter just flew into the red
zone,” I muttered to Sam.

“Don’t rub it in.” He stood, braved a smile
and waved the guy over. “His name’s Mike,” Sam said under his
breath.

Mike swaggered over with the confidence of a
high school jock who’d just made the big game’s winning touchdown.
But high school had been at least two decades ago, as evidenced by
the beer gut expanding his sweats. Mike’s confidence wavered as he
saw me at the table. “Who’s this guy?” he demanded. “I can’t afford
to lose my job because of this, you know.”

“You won’t lose your job,” Sam assured him.
“I keep my sources confidential. This is my colleague, Ernie
Pyle.”

I rose from my seat, offered my hand. Mike
shook it and I was immediately toasted with a blast of what I can
only describe as nonexistent hot air. At least fifty percent of
what he was about to say was sure to be pure horseshit—just what I
was sure Sam already suspected.

We all sat down.

“So what’ve you got to tell me?” Sam
asked.

“You wanted to know about Craig Buchanan,
the guy they got for murder in Williamsville.”

Sam nodded.

Mike crossed his arms over his puffed out
chest. “He’s certifiable. Gonna plead insanity.”

Sam gave me the fish eye, struggled for
composure and asked, “How does Buchanan feel about that?”

Mike shrugged. “Aren’t you gonna buy me
coffee or something? I at least deserve a coffee for what I’m about
to reveal.”

Who did this guy think he was, David
Copperfield?

“How do you take it?” Sam asked, sounding
bored.

Mike ordered the most expensive brew on the
menu board, taking great delight in his first sip. Then he settled
back in his chair, ready to regale us with his tale. He didn’t seem
to notice our lack of real interest.

“Buchanan,” Sam prompted.

“They dragged him in on a Saturday night.
Poor creep stank to high heaven. We hosed him off and threw him in
a cell ’til they could get a psychiatric evaluation.”

“And after that?”

“The shrinks were gonna put him on meds to
calm him down.”

This could take all day. “What did Buchanan
say about the murder?” I asked.

“He don’t know if he did it or not. Says he
found the knife in a Dumpster. Pretty thing. Silver sparkles in the
handle.”

I took in a sharp breath as an image
flashed in my mind.
A smooth, manicured
hand—firecracker red nail-polished fingers—holding the stiletto
knife. Gently waving it in front of a sparkling silver high-heeled
foot. Lightly tracing the blade along the ankle and up the shapely
calf.

Was this the same person who’d worn the red
stiletto heels or someone else?

I wasn’t sure.

Tuning back to the present, I found two
pairs of eyes staring at me.

“Go on,” Sam said, diverting attention back
to Mike.

“Buchanan said he used the knife to kill
rats. He’d build a fire in the parking lot behind the Burger King
and roast ’em then eat ’em.”

The horseshit had now begun. I tuned out and
pondered the significance of the new vision. I’d seen the murder
weapon. Big deal. It didn’t bring me any clearer understanding of
what had happened to Walt. My certainty about a number of things
wavered; was I seeing the knife and the shoes from perhaps the
killer’s perspective, not Walt’s, Cyn’s or somebody else’s?

I needed to thin out my list of possible
suspects. To do that, I needed to touch Cyn, or if not her,
something of hers, something personal, to see if I could home in on
the same aura—perspective—whatever. The only handy thing that came
to mind was her car. She left it parked outside the mill seven days
a week, so I would have access to the body, but I wasn’t sure that
would be good enough. I’d need to touch the seats or the steering
wheel.