Killer Chameleon (23 page)

I'd never had occasion to sleep on my couch, and after spending the night on it, I swore at the first opportunity, it would be history. I hadn't expected to be able to sleep at all; I couldn't turn my head off, working out how to get the chameleon's real name and what the hell to do once I'd gotten it.

Peeking from behind all the upheaval in my brain was the fight with Duck. It wasn't our first set-to. I just prayed it wouldn't be our last.

The clock above his desk moved like a snail through syrup. The last time I'd looked at it, it was three-twenty. When I woke up, I knew the apartment was empty. Duck was gone. No coffee, no note, no nothing.

“So be it,” I said, and consoled myself in the shower.

I was wrapped in a towel, trying to decide what to wear, when the phone rang. I sprinted to answer it, planting my still-damp fanny on Duck's side of the bed.

It was my beloved. “Take this number.” No “good morning,” “how'd you sleep?” or anything else. I grabbed a pencil and notepad from my everyday purse.

“Yes?” Two could play this game.

He rattled off a number. “DePriest's parents,” he said, and hung up.

I spent thirty seconds feeling weepy. It was no fun having Duck mad at me. I blew the next fifteen railing at myself for wanting to cry, and the fifteen seconds after that trying to adjust to the knowledge that Plato dePriest had parents. I'd never imagined him as a member of a family. Screwballs like Plato were hatched, not born.

It was an upstate New York number. I checked the clock. Eight-thirteen. Hopefully, they were awake.

The voice that answered the phone sounded alert and full of piss and vinegar. “Meow, the Cat House. Prissy speaking.”

Cat House? “Uh, hello. I was trying to reach the dePriest residence.”

“You've got it. Can I help you?” A decidedly feline voice yowled in the background. “Hush, Roger. Mommy's on the phone.”

I figured the best course of action was to cut to the chase. “My name in Leigh Warren and I'm—”

“Oh! Our Plato's friend! How nice of you to call. How's he doing this morning? We haven't talked to him yet.”

I wondered if I needed to do some pussyfooting of my own. “That's why I'm calling, Mrs. dePriest. I stopped by his house yesterday and he didn't answer. It worried me.”

“Oh, you poor thing. I can imagine what you thought. Plato's in George Washington University Hospital. He tripped over some equipment—no doubt you know what his house is like—and broke his leg, quite badly since they've got him in traction. We just left there yesterday, had to get back for the cats. We raise Siamese, and they get so put out when we're away. Please go see him, Leigh. He's got his laptop but I'm sure he'd appreciate seeing a friendly face.”

I exhaled a sigh of relief and promised I'd see him as soon as I could. I'd just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again.

It was Bev. “Mornin', sunshine. You up?”

“Up and squeaky clean. Thanks again for the loan of your car and driver.”

“Glad to do it. Lookit, darlin', I called a friend who works at Arena Stage and asked about
August Flames.
Only one male in the whole play. There are several roles for women our age and the cast was mostly Equity, but some were local amateurs, so your crazy woman might have been in it. He's pulling the cast photos for me, but has a late-morning appointment downtown. Think you could make it to Arena by eleven?”

I perked up. “You bet.” I assumed that Tina had bought the Corvette back here.

Bev gave me her contact's name. “I'd go with you, but we've got a tech rehearsal this morning. I'm at the Marriott at Thirteenth and Pennsylvania so leave me a message, let me know how it went, okay?” Bang! She was gone.

Fifteen minutes later I was dressed and ready to go, with a couple of hours to kill before going over to Arena Stage, which wasn't that far away. I wanted to check the cast photos before seeing Thackery and Evans. With luck, and I admitted I'd need a lot of it, I could present them with a name and a professionally done head shot.

I nibbled on toast and guzzled some orange juice, then decided to change my footwear. My navy tunic and slacks would probably look dressier if I dumped the boots. In the guest room, I unearthed the box marked “Shoes,” and removed my black Ferragamos. Properly shod, I was about to leave the room when I spotted the two boxes Neva had signed for earlier in the week. Assuming they were wedding gifts, I'd wanted Duck and me to open them together. Since I couldn't be sure when we'd be opening anything together now, I got the scissors from the lap drawer of my desk and started snipping tape.

The contents of the smaller box contained a slinky black peignoir, so silky and sheer that wearing it would be next door to being nude. I checked the card. From Janeece. It said,
This ought to prime his pump
. No lie, assuming I ever got to wear it. I returned it to its cushion of tissue paper, and tackled the second box. In it was a smaller one. In that, one smaller still.

I stopped, ice crystals forming in my veins and visions of letter bombs exploding in my head. I checked the outer carton. UPS. Typewritten labels. Return address: M. Smith, a five-digit number on Jeff Davis Highway, Arlington. I knew a Marian Smith and had worked with a Melissa Smith. Melissa had moved, but I wasn't sure it had been to Virginia.

Sitting back on my Ferragamoed heels, I tossed some mental dice. Melissa knew I was getting married. And the box had not been handled with tender loving care since I'd received it; it had been tossed around, had survived a ride in Tank and Tina's Explorer, and hadn't blown up. It was very light, about the same weight as the peignoir, and had arrived before last night's pointed threat on my life. I'd chance it. Carefully.

I exchanged the scissors for a box cutter, slitting the transparent tape carefully. With the flaps now free, I retreated to the kitchen, got the broom, and stationed myself on my knees behind my old rolltop desk. Reaching around it with the broom handle, I nudged the flaps of the box open. No explosion. I could just barely see inside. Newsprint? I poked the interior. Nothing.

Time to bite the bullet, I hoped, not literally. I eased from behind the desk, put the broom aside. Clippings from newspapers. I flipped through them. Reviews of the Shakespeare repertory's performance from every place they'd been since mid-April. And scribbled in the margins of each,
Bitch!
Or
You owe me!
Or
This was supposed to be mine!
And others of that ilk. She'd coveted the roles of Juliet, Regan, Lady Macbeth. And I'd kept her from them.

Belatedly, I thought about fingerprints. Dusting the outer box would be a waste of time, but the inner ones all had a glossy finish. I repacked them and took the box into the living room. An aspiring actress, for God's sake. A crazy, wily aspiring actress who blamed me for missing what she must have considered the audition of her life. She'd obviously hit a dry spell if she was free to stalk me day and night, changing characters with apparent ease.

I passed the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, then backed up a step to gaze at myself. As soon as I left this apartment, I'd be a walking target. She knew what I looked like. But who would she be today? I had no way of knowing. The least I could do, if only to save my own neck, was to make it harder for her. I was no actress, but in my early years with the department, I'd spent more than one night walking the streets, playing the prostitute for unwary johns. I must have been fairly good at it; Vice had more than half a dozen arrests to thank me for. Unfortunately, I wasn't equipped for role playing of any kind now, but I knew where I could get whatever I needed, since it was the same source I'd used back then. Thank God today was Saturday.

I went to the phone, dialed, heard it ring five times, then the answering machine did its thing.

“Janeece,” I yelled. “Pick up!”

It worked. “Leigh?” she answered groggily.

“Yes, it's me. I've got a favor to ask.”

“Name it.” She yawned.

“Bring me all your wigs and every bit of makeup you have. And I mean PDQ. I've got to be out of here by ten forty-five.”

I could hear her sitting up. Her bed squeaked.

“You goin' out on the block again?” she asked. “You can't be. You're an engaged woman, betrothed and shit. What kind of games are you playing, girl?”

“Tit for tat, Janeece. Tit for tat.”

16

BY THE TIME I LEFT TO MEET BEV'S CONTACT AT
Arena Stage, I had eyelashes. I'd always coveted Duck's, which were indecently long for a male, and now I had some too, dark, swoopy things that made me feel as if I was peering from under a pair of awnings. I also had shoulder-length sandy brown braids, D-cup breasts, and, God forbid, hips. I fought like a tigress against the hips, since I already have fanny aplenty, but Janeece insisted that if I was going to play the game, I needed to go whole hog. Which is initially the way I felt under all that padding. But she was right. I bore little surface resemblance to me. Add the two-inch platform shoes with the Kleenex stuck in the toes to make them fit and I wouldn't be walking like me either.

I knew I'd passed muster when Chet showed up with the keys to my car and didn't recognize me when I answered the door.

“Uh,” he said, staring at me as if he still wasn't sure of my identity, “you can see a little of the spray paint on the sides but it sorta looks like it came that way new. The only way to get rid of it is to get an all-over paint job.”

I thanked him, exchanged his car keys for mine, and realized that I was still in a bind. I couldn't use my car. It would be a dead giveaway.

“No big deal,” Janeece said, cramming yet more tissues down my bra. “I'll drive you over to Arena, and from there to a rental agency.”

“Oh, yeah, as if they'll rent me so much as a kiddy car when they see my driver's license and compare it to the bimbo standing on the other side of their counter.”

“You do not look like a bimbo,” Janeece said, clearly insulted. “You just don't look like you. Tell you what. I'll take the rental and you use mine.”

Drive her Cadillac? I was speechless. Nobody drove Janeece's Caddy. Nobody. Not even her assorted husbands. She was making the ultimate sacrifice.

I choked up. “You're a good friend, Janeece.”

She ogled me, horrified. “Don't you
dare
cry, girl! That mascara's not waterproof! Come on. You're gonna be late.”

As it was, it wouldn't have mattered. Beth's contact was gone but had left the
August Flames
cast photos with a chunky young woman who introduced herself as Sunny. Her name suited her personality.

“You know Beverly Barlowe?” she bubbled. “I saw her in
Lysistrata
when I was in high school. She was absolutely fantastic. Here, have a seat. You wanted to look at these?” She handed over a file of eight-by-ten glossies.

I flipped through them quickly. Lots of females, none even closely resembling the she-devil. I showed Sunny my photos, hoping she might recognize the face.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “This is my first season here. I'd ask a few old-timers but they're getting ready for the matinee. Your snaps won't copy all that well—they're really grainy—but I could make a set and show them around between performances. I mean, being that you're a friend of Beverly Barlowe and all.”

I expressed my appreciation, let her Xerox the photos, left my phone numbers, and returned to the parking lot.

No Caddy. No Janeece.

A blast from a horn announced her approach from Sixth Street just as a reedy man with a Dennis the Menace cowlick jogged toward the theater from the opposite direction.

Waving, he shouted, “Shelly? Long time no see.”

I turned and peered at him. “Excuse me?”

He blinked, then flushed as he slowed to a walk. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else. Is this your ride?” He jerked his head toward the Caddy, which had purred up behind me. “Have a nice day.” Legs pumping, he backed away and disappeared behind the building.

“Who was that?” Janeece asked as I got in.

“Don't know. He thought I was someone else. Where'd you go?”

“Around the block to see if I spotted anybody tailing us. Any luck in there?”

“Not yet, but the woman I talked to copied my photos and will show them to people who've been there longer than she has. I've just discovered something. Panties for a size ten don't fit over size fourteen hips. I might as well be wearing a thong.”

“Deal with it, because you look fab.”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” I growled. “I'm sweating under all this stuff. Might as well be having hot flashes. And my feet are killing me.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” she said, grinning. “Let's go get us some fancy wheels.”

She meant it literally, turning into an agency that handled upscale models. I began to sweat even more. I'd intended to reimburse her for the rental, since she was doing it as a favor to me. Fortunately, she decided on the fanciest Mercedes on the lot, at which point she relieved me of all responsibility by insisting on footing the bill. I wasn't about to argue with her.

“Hell, girl, this will be a test drive for me,” she said, smiling sheepishly. “I've always wanted a Mercedes, and this will give me a chance to see how it performs. Take good care of my baby,” she said, and sped away.

I settled behind the wheel of the Caddy, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and pulled into traffic, driving like a very senior citizen in unfamiliar territory. Gradually I became accustomed to the smoothness and the power, and wondered if I'd ever be satisfied with my own plain-vanilla vehicle again.

Thackery was waiting for me at the First District station, his desk as neat as if the Merry Maids had just left. He didn't recognize me. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“It's me. Leigh Warren. Sorry about the disguise, but I figured it was one way to prevent our perp following me.”

“Jesus,” he said, scanning me head to toe. “If it doesn't work, it won't be for lack of trying. Kennedy's message says our girl got in touch with you last night and you've figured out who she is?”

“I figured out where I met her, what she does, and why she's been after me, but not her name yet. She's an actress and—”

“An actress?” He blanched, eyes widening.

“What's wrong with being an actress?” I asked, curious about his attitude.

He flushed. “Nothing. So how did you meet her?”

I managed a fairly succinct narrative of my encounter with her during the gas leak evacuation, my reunion with Beverly and company, noting the twitch of Thackery's eyebrows when I mentioned Helena and Debra's names, which he obviously recognized. I gave him a verbatim recitation of the telephone call and her threat, as he scribbled furiously on a lined pad.

“She was sorry about the old lady,” he repeated. “Which could mean anything, but definitely puts her in the picture. Good. Go on.”

I finished with a description of my conversation with her in her teenage persona in front of my building, the connections we'd made with the aliases she'd used thus far, and how adept she must be at what she does.

“No one decorating the tree realized that she and the middle-aged woman with the West Indian accent were one and the same. And I took her at face value. She looked, talked, and acted like a sixteen-year-old. And I feel like a first-class fool. I didn't even recognize her.”

He rubbed a finger over his top lip. “Well, at least we have someplace to start. I'll have someone type this up and print it out for you to sign. She's piling up a list of things we can charge her with, but I have to be honest. Whether this belongs to Violent Crimes still depends on the results of the autopsy, and after the deaths in last night's fire, the M.E.'s may not get to Ms. Hitchcock as soon as we hoped.”

“What fire?” I asked, feeling very much out of the loop. If I'd been in uniform, I'd know, if only courtesy of station house chitchat.

“A catering company out in far Northeast late last night, definitely arson, perhaps homicide too. A couple of bodies turned up, so far unidentified, at least not formally. But that'll probably take precedence over Ms. Hitchcock. We know who she is.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for Clarissa and wondered how this development would affect her plans for a memorial service. Tina wouldn't be pleased either, but she knew the drill. This would definitely come first.

My statement arrived sooner than I expected it and I read it over, corrected a typo, and signed it. Outside, I debated what my next stop should be and decided to go see Plato, wishing I hadn't promised his mother that I would, since considering where I was and where GW University Hospital was, it would take me a year to get there in lunchtime traffic. Now I was obligated.

It only took three-quarters of a hour. It was also the first time I'd been to this hospital since they'd moved into their new digs in 2002. I was impressed and, by the time I found Plato's room on level four, relieved that he had been brought here. It was bright and airy enough to ameliorate his claustrophobia. Knowing him, however, it had probably ramped up his agoraphobia instead. Plato's phobias were legend, genuine, and debilitating.

There was a “No Visitors” sign on his door. Anxiety coursing through my veins, I stared at it, wondering if his condition had worsened since his parents had left.

“Can I help you?”

A sleepy-eyed young man in a white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck stood at my elbow.

“I'm here to see Mr. dePriest but . . .” I jerked my head toward the sign. Hoping to make him a little more free with information, since it was obvious I wasn't family, I said, “I'm a close friend. How is he?”

“He's got them?” Nurse or doctor, whatever he was, he seemed genuinely suspicious, one brow arching cynically.

“Them what?”

“Friends.”

I couldn't help it. I burst into laughter.

“LEIGH? THAT YOU OUT THERE? HELP!” Plato.

Mr. Lab Coat rolled his eyes and pushed the door open for me.

Plato, in the bed nearest the door, was propped on one elbow, his right leg suspended in a metal frame held aloft by yet another frame attached to the head and footboards. His curly, dark hair, unkempt at the best of times, was more so than usual. He stared at me. “What's with the braids and stuff? You've gained weight. Never mind. GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

“Mr. dePriest.” The lab coat had followed me in. “For the hundredth time, you're in a hospital. Please keep your voice down.”

“I'm not a cretin,” Plato snarled. “I know where I am, a TORTURE CHAMBER!”

“Oh, for God's sake, Plato, can it,” I snapped at him. “Just shut the hell up. The man's right. There are sick people up here.”

“Don't you think I know that?” He shuddered. “All those germs!”

It was my turn to roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “Thanks,” I said to the nurse/doctor. “I can handle him.”

“Want a job?” he asked me. He glared at Plato, then left the room.

I shed my coat and draped it over the back of the chair by the bed. The other bed was vacant; I could guess why.

“You're being a pain in the ass, aren't you? Plato, these people are here to help you. It's not their fault you broke your leg. How is it?”

He flopped back, tears in his eyes. “It hurts. How'd you know I was here?”

“I went by your house. You didn't answer, so I called the number you gave me and talked to your mom.”

“They left to go feed the damned cats,” he grumbled. “I
hate
Siamese cats. Do you know what it's like to have yowling Siamese cats as brothers and sisters? They used to climb me like I was a jungle gym.”

“I assume they wouldn't have if they hadn't liked you,” I said, hoping he didn't know I hadn't the slightest idea what I was talking about. Cats in general, I know. Siamese, I don't. “Tell me how you broke your leg.”

That, at least, diverted him long enough to forget about his fur-bearing brothers and sisters. His fall had happened about as I'd envisioned. Plato had enough computers to open a store. Normally the floor of his workroom was clear so he could scoot from one workstation to another in his rolling chair. But he'd had to move a desktop to make room for a new one, had left the old one on the floor, had forgotten it was there, and had tripped over its monitor.

“Two months I'll have to be in this damned thing,” he said mournfully. “I can't be away from my computers for two months, Leigh. I've got my laptop but I'm going nuts here. And I'm sorry, but I fell before I was able to finish tracing your e-mail. What's with that, anyway?”

I'd lost track of how many times I'd gone through it but did it again, in case he saw something the rest of us had missed.

“Sorry I let you down,” he said. “I'd already written off the computers in the libraries. Too much traffic. But I might have been able to get somewhere with the church. Perhaps the other places too. A community center, and some sort of private club.”

“How could she have gotten permission to use a computer in a church? It's not as if they'd be that accessible.”

“You wouldn't think so, would you? Saint Something in Northeast—”