Killer Chameleon (8 page)

He'd also brought my laptop. “Picked it up from the shop on my way home from work,” he said, plugging it in and connecting the phone cable to the wall jack beside my bed. “It'll give you something to play with until you feel better.” He disappeared for a moment and returned hefting one of the easy chairs from the living room.

“What are you doing?” I asked, the mug of soup warming my hands.

“Making sure I'm gonna be comfortable. If I've got to sleep sitting up, it ain't gonna be on that director's chair there.”

“You're staying? All night?”

“Of course. Gotta take care of my sweetie.” He settled in the chair and arranged his face with a beatific smile. I melted inside, and it had nothing to do with the hot soup or my temperature.

He'd brought paperwork with him, so I finished the soup, popped a cough drop in my mouth, and powered up the laptop. It had been in the shop for two weeks, so I knew I'd have a hundred e-mails to delete about Viagra, weight loss products, mortgages, and miracle potions to increase my penis size. I was wrong; there were only seventy-one of them.

“You got any interest in these?” I asked, angling the monitor so he could see them.

“Dunno,” he answered. “You think I need them?” His eyes began to smolder.

I knew that look, and he knew I knew that look. Considering the effect it had on me most of the time, one of these days I'd probably be able to blame it for however many children we had running around.

“Reckon not,” I said hurriedly. Being horny was one thing, horny and contagious quite another.

I deleted the offending messages and settled back to open the rest. A series of messages sent daily for the last ten days made me growl, since they appeared to be to me from me. It wasn't the first time, always someone hawking something with a “click here” at the bottom. I highly resented the misuse of my name. And one a day? There was no attachment so I opened the earliest of them.

It was short and simple:
Dear Bitch, I HATE you!
No signature, no link to click. I rubbed at the nape of my neck. The itch was back.

Closing the message, I opened the next day's, a variation on a theme.
Dear Bitch, I HATE you intensely!
The remainder were repeats, each with a different adverb and a slightly larger font. The message dated three days ago went further, adding,
I intend to make your life as miserable as you've made mine. That should give you something to think about.
The next day's:
Clever, wasn't it?
The one after that:
I've just begun!
The last of them, today's date:
Did you enjoy last night? Were you afraid? Wet your pants, maybe? Get used to it.
The font was enormous, only one or two words to a line. This woman was crazy.

“Duck.” He glanced up from the booklet he was reading. “Mark your page and take a look at these.” I placed the laptop across his thighs. “Start with the earliest date and go from there.” I watched as he read each one, his posture becoming more and more rigid.

When he was done, he sat back, his focus in the middle distance. “This is one lunatic son of a bitch. Willard needs to see them. Forward them to him with a note of explanation. To me too. I want the department shrink to see them.”

“I'll forward them to Plato too.” My fingers were crossed under the blanket; Duck had decidedly mixed feelings about Plato dePriest, a lunatic of another sort who laid claim to every phobia in the medical encyclopedia. He was also a genius and knew more detours around firewalls, passwords, and computer databases than anyone on the globe. He'd been instrumental in helping me find my Ourland/Umber Shores family and considered me a friend. He didn't have many, by his own choice.

“You figure he can trace these back to the sender,” Duck said.

I nodded. “Each comes from a different dot com or whatever. If anyone can do it, Plato can.”

“Okay. In the meantime, did you find out anything about the people decorating the tree last night?”

I filled him in on my conversation with Gracie and the two females unaccounted for.

He passed the laptop back to me, his expression grim. “Libby Winston is the one from Jamaica, right? The one I met outside the day we were going to see Dr. Ritch?”

“Oh, jeez.” I'd forgotten I had told my grandmother I'd come out to see her and my grandfather. I'd have to call them. “Yes, that was Libby. Why?”

“I'm going to talk to her, see if she knows who the woman with the accent was. What's her apartment number?”

I gave it to him along with Mr. Trotter's in case he or his granddaughter knew anything about Gracie's Georgia Keith. I doubted Georgia had had anything to do with any of this but would consider it unfinished business if we didn't check.

“Gracie Poole's in three-seventeen,” I added. “Since you're official, she might tell you more than she told me. I'll call her and let her know you're coming.”

“Good idea.” He got up and probably without thinking, leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Be back shortly.”

By the time he returned an hour later, I had made my apologies to my grandmother, had received an update on how my granddad was doing with his new knee, and had promised on the head of my firstborn child that I'd come to see her as soon as humanly possible. I'd also left a phone message for Plato to expect the forwarded e-mails, with a request that he see if he could track them to their sources.

I heard the key in the door and levered myself to a sitting position. Duck came into the den with a thermal mug and a plate, its contents covered with a napkin. “Cookies from Ms. Poole, and some Jamaican concoction for colds from Ms. Winston,” he said, placing them on the bookcase that served as a nightstand. “They told me to tell you and Janeece to call them if you need anything. Nice ladies. Ms. Poole's apartment is something else. Speaking of which.”

He sat down, and I detected cookie crumbs on his sweater. “I like the way you rearranged things. Looks better. By the way, how did you and Clarissa get along?” I could see that it was killing him not to smile.

“Just fine. I like her. You lied to me about her age. I'll get you for that. And we need to talk about our furniture, but it can wait. What did you find out?”

He scooted down in the chair, legs extended. “A lot of nothing, on the face of it. First, Mr. Trotter said he'd never heard of a Georgia Keith. His granddaughter and any friend of hers he might know are on a class field trip to New York. Ms. Winston claims she has no idea who the visitor with the accent might be. She didn't ask any of her family or friends to come help decorate the tree; in fact doesn't remember even mentioning it to anyone. As for Ms. Poole, you were right; the badge did the trick. She gave me the names of all the class members who came and the friends whose names she remembered. She also gave me phone numbers, but I'll talk to Willard before doing anything with them. I don't want him to feel I'm trespassing on his territory or implying that he isn't doing his job.”

I sighed, considered eating a cookie, and settled on a zinc drop instead. “Well, at least we've eliminated a couple of avenues. I'm not sure it's worth it to pursue the identity of the teenager, although when I think about it, the stunts with the dog and cat poop are pretty juvenile. And for all we know, she might have been with the woman with the accent.”

Duck shook his head. “According to Ms. Poole, our Jamaican lady arrived shortly after the main group and stayed about an hour. The kid didn't show up until later. But they might have been related. Ms. Poole said there was a superficial resemblance.”

“Oh, terrific,” I grumbled. “Now what?”

“For you, nothing except getting better. I'll check on Janeece, then make some hot chocolate. Or would you rather try Ms. Winston's potion? She says it won't take much; I understand it's heavy on the rum.”

I poured half of it into the cap of my thermos and sniffed, a waste of effort since I couldn't have smelled a skunk parked on my pillow. “Worth a try,” I said. I took a swallow, fortunately a little one. A second later the top of my head blew off.

“Mercy!”

In an instant, my sinuses cleared and my nose began streaming. I grabbed a tissue. “This stuff is stronger than Chinese mustard!”

Duck's grin matched that of an imp of Satan's. “She said it would either kill you or cure you. You're supposed to drink it down, cover up, and prepare to sweat. I'll take the rest of it in to Janeece. I want to see that blanket all the way to your chin when I get back.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my eyes watering. If this stuff drained all other superfluous fluids as rapidly as it had my eyes and nose, by tomorrow I'd be five pounds lighter and dehydrated.

I don't know how long Duck was gone. By the time he returned, I was as high as a Georgia pine and too sleepy to do anything other than throw a foolish smile in his general direction. That was it. I was gone.

When I awoke the next morning, so was he. He'd left a note saying he was heading home to change and go to work, and he'd check on me later.

I heard sounds of stirring, and Janeece opened the door, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a squirrel with a cache of newly discovered acorns. Dressed for work, she was the picture of the professional woman in a navy suit, pale blue scooped-neck blouse, and heels high enough to give anyone else vertigo.

“Hi! Hope you feel better,” she said. “That stuff Liz sent did it for me. You need anything before I go?”

“Uh . . . no.” I sat up. “You're really okay?”

“Yeah. One of those twenty-four-hour viruses, I guess. Tell Duck we're even. Staying the night was above and beyond the call of duty. He was so sweet, talking me to sleep. Marry the man, roomie, because if you don't, I will. See ya.” She wiggled fingers at me and left.

I took stock. I did feel better, also completely wrung out. Only then did I remember two events of the previous night or perhaps the early hours of the morning. The first was waking up soaked to the skin and Duck helping me change pajamas, after which he'd also changed my damp sheets. The second thing I remembered caused momentary paralysis as I started to get up—I had roused enough to see Duck on the phone and reporting afterward: “Plato says that each of the e-mail messages was sent from a different computer. He tracked a lot of them to public libraries in D.C. and northern Virginia.”

“That's all?” I remember responding.

“That's as far as he's gotten. One thing's for sure, babe. He agrees with me that this woman is nuts and we've got to start taking this business seriously.”

6

I SPENT THAT DAY TRYING TO DRUM UP ENOUGH
energy to do something productive and failed. Duck phoned to see how I was feeling, and, at his suggestion I began a journal of sorts, laying out everything that had happened so far with times and dates.

“We're assuming that the dirty tricks began with that first deposit outside your old apartment,” he said, “but just in case, try to remember anything out of the ordinary for the last, say, couple of months.”

I was so wiped out that I couldn't think straight. I managed to get the list done between naps, but could not guarantee it was all-inclusive. The phone was a nuisance, one wrong number, three hang-ups, and a call from Salina's letting me know that some new Mephistos had arrived. I had no idea what Mephistos were but thanked her for the information, since if I'd blown her off, I'd have had a guilty conscience and Nunna's voice in my ear.
Those folks are only earning their keep, honey, so be polite.

By six, I threw in the towel, called Duck and told him to go home tonight, put my grandparents off one more day, and went to bed for good. I awoke the next morning a match for Janeece's Little Mary Sunshine persona. I felt like me again. After a breakfast worthy of a long-distance hauler, I was good to go, determined to finish the move to Duck's or die trying. I caught him at work to tell him so.

“You do sound better,” he said. “But don't overdo. I want you in tiptop shape tonight.”

“Oh? Why?”

He lowered his voice, practically whispering. “Because I plan to jump your bones, that's why. We're gonna make the Kama Sutra look like a Girl Scout's manual in comparison. And before I forget, two things. I moved your car off the street last night. It's parked by the basement door so you won't have far to go to load up. And Helena Campion called you.”

“You're kidding.” Another country unheard from for years. We moved in different circles now that she'd joined one of the most high-powered legal firms in D.C. “You mean I slept through her call the other night?”

“No, she was trying to reach you at my place, thought we'd gotten married last month. She didn't get an answer there so she called here yesterday and asked me to give you the message. She's throwing a get-together for somebody called Bev the Beaver. She said you'd know who she meant.”

I whooped with laughter. “I do. She's an actress friend of ours. When and where?”

“Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock at Helena's. I have her new address. Evidently she's moved since the last time you saw her.”

I could just bet she had. The dump we'd lived in during law school was far behind and below her now. “Okay. I'll put it on my calendar. Go do some work. I've got packing to finish. See ya tonight.”

“You most certainly will,” he purred, and it was hang up or burst into flames. Kama Sutra, huh?

I took my time filling the last few boxes, even managing to put aside a few things to take to the Salvation Army. I had just sealed the last box when someone knocked at the door. I opened it and suppressed a groan. Just what I needed: Tank and Tina.

 

“SO, WHAT CAN WE DO TO HELP?” Tank, real name Bernard Younts, to which he rarely answered, stood in Janeece's living room looking around. “AND WHAT TIME DOES JANEECE GET HOME?”

Tina, his diminutive wife, punched him on the shoulder. “One, you're not talking to your granny and nobody's deaf here,” she said, “so keep your voice down. And two,” she added, eyes narrowed, “it's none of your damned business what time Janeece gets home. Swear to God, you're absolutely foolish about that woman.”

“Maybe a little,” Tank admitted, with a sheepish grin. “Just not as foolish as I am about you.”

I gazed at the two of them, antenna a-quiver. Not that I wasn't glad to see them; it's just that the timing was a bit suspicious. I detected Duck's fine hand in it somewhere. Both cops with the D.C. Metropolitan Police, Tank and Tina were charter members of Duck's fan club and, as a result, had a rather proprietary and protective attitude about me. At times it could be a nuisance. I'm ashamed to confess that it took me a four-second beat to admit that at the moment, their intrusion and assistance were more than welcome.

“How about helping me get all these boxes down to my car? Tina, if you could babysit the car between loads, that would be great.”

“I can carry stuff, too,” she said, looking insulted. “I'm as healthy as I've ever been, thank you very much.” Tina had recently had a miscarriage, an event that, for the first time, had put a dent in her tough-girl armor.

“Gimme your car keys, Leigh,” Tank said. “Where are you parked?”

“Around back.”

“Okay. And you, bride of mine, are not lifting any of these boxes, and that's all there is to it.” He stacked three together and hefted them easily.

“Don't tell me what to do.” Tina whacked him on the shoulder again and glared up at him. Well over a foot and some shorter than Tank's six-four, -five, or -six, depending on whether he was slouching and she was in heels, Tina was the boss, bullying her husband and leading him around by the nose. And he loved it. A chocolate fudge–hued Mr. Clean with the build of a weight lifter, Tank was a gentle giant whose size generally intimidated most people. Not Tina. Her fiery temper was enough to serve as an equalizer. She rarely used it, but just knowing it was simmering down there under that small frame tended to keep him in line.

It had taken me a while to become comfortable around Tina, the only woman who made me conscious of my height and weight. But I knew because I'd asked that Tina was a size two. Two, for God's sake! She was in yellow today, slacks that fit like a second skin and a cable-knit turtleneck sweater that made her deep mahogany complexion seem to glow. In other words, she didn't look like someone who'd come prepared to work.

“I can carry a box down if I want to,” she said, scowling, then lifted her chin haughtily. “It just so happens that I don't want to. Come on, you're wasting time.”

I placed the key ring on one of Tank's sausage-sized fingers and told him where to find the car. “By the time you get back, I'll have this last box labeled. I sure appreciate this, guys.”

“No problem.” Tank smiled down at me. “Nothing's too good for Duck's lady.”

Tina rolled her eyes, then grinned. “What can I say? He's right. Come on, man.”

While they were gone, I wrote “Shoes” on the one remaining box, crammed my robe and slippers into a shopping bag, and patted myself on the back for a job well done. After checking the closet and all the drawers in the little chest in the den, I made one last perusal of the bathroom and found a few things I could simply drop into my purse. I was on my way out of the bathroom when I heard a knock at the door.

Tank came in, his face full of thunderclouds. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but somebody's spray-painted your car. You won't be able to see to drive.”

“What?”

I swore my way downstairs and out the basement door. The only time a resident could park in back by the Dumpster was when we were loading or unloading something. Unfortunately, this area wasn't visible from the street or the first-floor apartments on the rear, so the painter had had both time and privacy to complete the artwork.

The windshield wore a solid coat of Chinese red. The rear and side windows weren't as bad, depending on your point of view; one word, “BITCH,” in capital letters, in a dark blue, along with a single stripe of the same color on the body from front fender to rear. Since the car was white, it might as well been a flag on wheels.

“Oh, my God.” I felt as if I'd imploded, everything collapsing to fill the vacuum in my chest.

“Somebody sure as hell doesn't like you,” Tina said, testing the stripe with a finger. “Quick-drying, too.”

I plopped my backside onto the steps and tried not to cry. “It's ruined. I'll have to get the whole thing repainted. I've only had it two months!”

Tank peered over the hood at his wife. “Think Chet could do anything with this?”

I was too upset to wonder who Chet was. “I can't walk to Ourland. I need my car. What am I gonna do?”

“Hold on a minute.” Tina unclipped a tiny cell phone from her belt and began punching numbers.

“Wonder if this stuff would come off with a razor blade,” Tank said, scraping at a window with a fingernail. “Just might, depending on what kind of paint it is.”

Getting up, I tried the same stunt on the driver's side window. A bit of blue collected under the nail of my middle finger. I kept scratching and managed to remove one whole letter. There was hope yet.

Tina had moved away from us and was talking a mile a minute. “I don't want to hear it,” she said, I assumed to the mysterious Chet. “Come and tow it to your garage as soon as we've finished with the police report.”

Another police report in less than seventy-two hours. I wondered if that was a record. The only consolation was that it was doubtful any of the cops of the other evening would show up again today. Different shifts.

“We've got running around to do,” Tina was saying, “so we'll drop by later to get an estimate. Don't give me any lip, now, boy. This is Duck's lady we're talking about here.”

Those must have been the magic words because she snapped a nod, a pleased smile rimming her lips, and disconnected.

“All set. Chet—he's my brother—will see what he can do. He works at a car dealer and does detailing on the side. He'll get to work on it tonight and let us know how long he thinks it'll take. By the way, we put your boxes in the Explorer. Looks like we'll be able to fit the rest of them in it too.”

“So now we wait for the District's finest,” I said, disheartened. “There goes the rest of the afternoon.”

“Nope, they're on their way now. I called them while I was waiting for you to come down. Y'all had much of a problem with vandalism in this neighborhood?”

I allowed as how as far as I knew, there'd been none. Besides, there was no doubt of something personal about this. The prankster had been at it again. But until I figured out who she was, there was probably no way to prove it one way or another.

I wondered how much the paint removal would cost me, especially if Chet had no luck with the stripes. There was also the question as to how my auto insurance might be affected. They'd written off my old car, in which I'd had an argument with a tree while searching for Duck back in October. Duck, who swore he knew a mechanic who could work miracles, had left it with him for a month, wanting it in decent enough shape to donate to one of his pet organizations that trained dropouts to be certified mechanics. The Chevy was parked in a dark corner of the garage under his building but had no tags, so I couldn't touch it. Which meant I was stuck with Tank and Tina for the immediate future.

“How is it,” I asked, an hour later as we crammed the last box into the Explorer, “that you two are both off work today?”

Tank, opening a rear door for me, shrugged. “Pure luck. Last time this happened has to be a year ago.”

“Then there must be other things y'all want to do. I don't want to spoil your day off together.”

Tina hopped into the passenger seat, dug into her purse, and began filing nails long enough to be considered lethal weapons. Looking back over her shoulder, she cut me a look that let me know she wasn't fooled. I would not be getting rid of them.

“We didn't have anything special planned. Might as well hang out with you.”

“How about Christmas shopping?” I asked, fishing for a suggestion that might get them off my tail. Thanks to Duck, I'd had previous experience with these two as babysitters. They took it seriously. I might need a ride, but I didn't think I needed bodyguards, at least not yet.

“Finished all our Christmas shopping way before Thanksgiving,” Tina said. “Gifts are all wrapped, tree's up. Nothing else to be done. Besides, the Duck said you've been sick and could use some help. We're helping whether you like it or not. So get over it.”

Tank folded himself behind the wheel. “Pay her no mind, Leigh. She didn't have her Wheaties this morning.”

“Or my ham and eggs and potatoes. Damned refrigerator died and everything spoiled. We just came from Sears and bought the biggest one they stock. Let's move it. We've got to get those boxes over to Duck's.”

I gave myself a good talking-to as we made our way from Northwest to Southwest D.C. It had always been so difficult for me to ask for and accept help. Even if Duck hadn't suggested it, I knew that Tank and Tina would have rolled up their sleeves to do anything that needed doing. And realistically speaking, without my car I'd have been up a creek today without them. The least I could do was to be gracious about it.

“You two are lifesavers and I really do appreciate this,” I said, as we got out in the underground garage of Duck's building. “I'd have been in one hell of a mess without you.”

Tank pulled three boxes from the back and maneuvered them into his arms. “Glad to help.”