Every Move She Makes (32 page)

"You think I don't know what to touch or not touch? Or
that I'll disturb any precious evidence that Scolari might have left?"

"I'm sorry." He told the officers to allow me in, and I ignored the fact
that I had to ask permission to get into my own place. I told myself
that he was simply worried about Mathis. The man was his partner, after
all. When I entered my bedroom, everything seemed in order. Until I took
a closer look at my bed. The pillows I'd covered with blankets were
pulled out. I picked up

one, saw nothing but a single feather floating down.

Which meant there was a hole in the ticking. On closer examination, I
realized there were four holes. Two entrance, two exit on the other
side. And on the mattress as well. I didn't bother looking beneath the
bed to see if the rounds had pierced the hardwood flooring. Instead, I
called my landlord. There was no answer, and then I remembered Mathis
telling i-the when I was in the hospital that they were visiting
relatives in Ohio. I only hoped they didn't return to find their kitchen
sink had two new drain holes. It didn't take me long to put on some
jeans, a sweater, dry socks, and soft leather boots, then gather a few
things and throw them into a garment bag. I thought about taking a
shower, but didn't want to do so with officers waiting outside my
bathroom door, anxious for me to finish so they could examine and dust
the windowsill. Besides that, the steam was bound to take forever to
evaporate, which would make dusting near impossible. As I started out of
the bedroom, I remembered the list I'd been making of victims and
possible connections to the case. One of the evidence techs was waiting
with a very annoyed look on his face. I felt like telling him my taxes
paid his salary. I'd heard it enough. I stopped myself, for the simple
reason it wasn't a good idea to tick off the people throwing around the
black dust. I'd been to scenes where that happened, saw the damage they
could do by accidentally spilling graphite, or dusting things that
didn't need dusting. Not a pretty sight. "Sorry, guys, let me look in
one more place." I checked behind the nightstand, found the list I'd
made, stuffed it into my pocket. "Thanks." And I was out of there.

Torrance stood guard in the kitchen, dressed once more in his own shirt.

His dark slacks were still wet. His jacket hung over the chair, right
where he'd left it before this latest nightmare started. As I
approached, he handed me my purse. "Anything missing?" I opened it,
glanced in, saw my weapon. The rest was incidental, since I knew this
was no random cat burglar that happened upon his place. "Doesn't look
like it. But there are a few new holes in my pillows." "I've called one
of our teams in. They're going to stay here until Berkeley's finished
collecting evidence.

We'll come back tomorrow for anything else you need.

Do you have any idea how the suspect gained entry?" "Are you saying you
don't?" I didn't mention that he was the one who was supposed to be
standing guard.

"I have a theory. One you don't want to hear." I waited.

"Scolari hid somewhere. Waited for the opportunity, which happened when
I relieved Mathis after I got back tonight.,"

"That's ridiculous. Scolari wouldn't do this."

"Regardless, someone has, and you're not staying." He held the door
open, his actions telling me he would consider no other options. "For
the record, I'm leaving because someone is trying to kill me-someone,
not Scolari. And I'm tired of being uprooted."

"And I'm not?"

"Point taken," I said. We drove to the hospital, checked in on Mathis,
and learned his only injury was the blow to his head. He hadn't seen who
hit him. After being reassured by the doctor that he suffered from a
concussion but otherwise seemed fine, we left. Neither of us spoke on
the drive back to the city. My guess was that, like me, Torrance was
busy trying to figure out what had happened and how it was possible. I
thought about Scolari's page, telling us to head to the Cold Ox, the bar
where McAllen had spent her last night. We crossed the Bay Bridge, and
at first I thought we were headed to the Hall of justice. There was a
cot in the locker room as well as showers. But Torrance took the
financial district exit instead. As we passed the pyramid-shaped
Transamerica building, I glanced over at him. "WHERE are you taking me?"

He signaled for a left turn. "You do want to sleep tonight, don't you?"

He pulled into the parking garage below the Holiday Inn at the edge of
Chinatown. He parked, popped the trunk, got out.

I followed suit. "The Holiday Inn? You're kidding."

"My place is too small, and it doesn't have room service. You have any
better ideas?" He pulled an overnight case from his trunk.

"Not a one." Besides, it beat Motel 6.

At the front desk he requested one room, two double beds, got the
government rate, and within minutes we were stepping off the elevator
onto the fifth floor into a room with a view of Portsmouth Square, and
beyond that, Chinatown. He turned the lock, put on the safety latch,
then threw his bag on the bed by the door. "You want to shower first?"

"Sure." I took my duffel bag into the bathroom, shutting myself in. I'd
long ago stopped shivering, but my skin was thoroughly cold, and I stood
a long time under the hot spray of the shower, too tired and numb to
think about anything but the feel of the heat penetrating my body.

Thawed, I toweled off, pulled on my sweats, brushed my teeth, then
vacated the bathroom. While Torrance showered, I combed my hair, shut
off the lamp, climbed into the bed near the window. I drifted off,
vaguely aware of the bathroom door opening, light spilling into the
room. "Thanks for catching me," I said. "When we jumped from the roof
"Thank you," I thought he said. Thank you for what?

I fell asleep before an answer came to mind.

The following morning I awoke to see Torrance hidden behind the
Chronicle in the armchair by the window. He turned the page, lowered the
paper a few inches, and I found myself fascinated by the planes of his
unshaven face. I watched him for a few minutes, trying to understand
what made him tick. I wasn't sure if I'd ever understand him, or if I
ever wanted to. The man was M and if I associated with him in any way
after this nightmare came to a close, I would be branding myself. There
was enough pressure being the only female homicide inspector without
that added burden. Yet the fact that he knew it, had even pointed it
out, said much for him as a man. If I were a better person, I wouldn't
care what others thought, the LVMANAGEMENT Control label be damned. I
wanted him in bed, but I wasn't willing to pay the price, and he knew
that. Apparently, he wasn't willing to pay the price either. He'd
demonstrated a stronger resolve than mine on several occasions. Last
night included. I knew few men who wouldn't have taken advantage of the
situation of complete privacy in a girl's apartment. Or a hotel room.

The bruise to my ego made me wonder if I wasn't good enough, sexy enough
for Torrid Torrance. Then I recalled the moment he stepped from the
shower last night, and thanked me-after I thanked him for catching me. I
couldn't help my small smile at the view he must have had, me wearing
nothing but a wet T-shirt while hanging above him from a roof. I
couldn't help thinking we had as strange a relationship as any.

Pantyhose, bathroom sinks, and tiled roofs on rainy nights.

He glanced over. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah." I sat up, took a moment to acclimate myself and rearrange my
thoughts. The drapes were wide open, revealing a blue sky filled with
puffy cumulus clouds. In the square below, a few men played chess on
boards built into the table. Normalcy. "You hear how Mathis is doing?"

"He'll be released soon. Doing fine."

"Good." "Breakfast? We have about forty-five minutes. The Mead-Scolari
task force is meeting this morning."

"Bagel.,,

"No latte?" "That goes without saying." He picked up the phone, placed
an order to room service while I dragged myself into the bathroom to
dress. Only the rumpled bed beside mine gave evidence that the man had
actually slept a wink. When I came out he nodded to the Chroy2icle. "I
saved that for you." I picked up the newsprint and looked at it. "You
said you wanted to see what Evan Hilliard was so upset about. Second
page at the bottom." I opened the paper. He tapped a small article
announcing that Montgard Pharmaceutical Research of Arkansas was buying
Hilliard Pharmaceutical. "I don't get it," I said. "Why would he be
upset about that?" "Good question." The article went on to explain that
Montgard became interested In Hilliard Pharmaceutical after Hilliard
discovered some rare plants in the rain forests of Central America that
held the potential cure of a number of cancers and other maladies. No
news there. What caught my interest was the mention that further forays
into the jungle for more of the same proved impossible, because that
particular rain forest where the plants had been found was destroyed.

"Did you read this about the rain forest?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'm seeing major dollar signs here," I said. "Money motive."

He leaned back in his chair, regarding me. "I'm listening." "Let's say
this miracle plant does what they say it does." I folded the newspaper
and tossed it onto the table. "What if someone thought those little
seeds found with the Ice Man were, oh, the last remaining seeds of this
socalled plant?"

"I suppose it would make those seeds invaluable."

"And Ice Man had them. Someone killed for them."

"The same someone who shot at us last night?" he asked.

I thought of the bullet holes in my bed. Of Mathis injured, in the
hospital. "I don't know." The task force was seated when we arrived, and
I stepped in, carrying my stacks of homicide binders, photos, and
autopsy reports. Everyone's gaze seemed locked on my actions. Torrance
drew an extra chair for me, placing it beside his own. Sitting in the
back of the room, watching,

was the Chief of Police-as if there weren't enough pressure on me.

"As you know, Inspector Gillespie has been asked to be a part of this
team," Torrance announced quietly. No one said anything, and he went on
to brief everyone about last night's incident. "At this time, we're not
sure who is responsible. Gillespie, however, does have a new theory to
present regarding the case. Inspector?" Their gazes shifted to me once
more. I felt like an academy graduate at my first oral board to become
an officer. Just be yourself, my father had told me back then. I started
with the homicide of the frozen John Doe, then proceeded on with the
details of each case, including my findings from the comparisons of the
autopsy photos. I'd sent them to forensics. Dr. Meyers verified my
suspicions, and now it was up to me to convince everyone here. "There
are, of course, similarities in the MO of the doctor's homicide, but the
differences are too great to be ignored." I passed around the autopsy
photos of the Slasher victims, as well as the doctor's autopsy photos,
explaining my findings. "Look at the entrance wounds in comparison to
the exit wounds. Doctor Mead-Scolari's wounds are indicative of a
serrated knife-unlike the smooth-bladed knife wounds found on the other
Slasher victims." One by one, they examined the photos. When all were
done, Reid took a second look, lined each up side by side, just as I had
done yesterday. "Forgive me if I don't understand how this relates,
Inspector," he said. I wondered if his formal tone had to do with his
boss's presence, or with our faux date the other night. "So he changed
knives." "A possibility," I conceded. "But he also changed hands. Each
of the Slasher victims was killed by someone more than likely holding
the knife in their left hand, and holding the victim from behind.