Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

Knowing my attacker’s identity both relieved me-it wasn’t the serial rapist-and made me more nervous. Hadn’t I heard somewhere-maybe a movie?-that if a kidnapper let you see him it meant he was going to kill you? Not that this was a kidnapping, exactly, but maybe the same principle applied. I stared into Bazán’s dark, expressionless eyes, easily believing now that he had killed a migrant worker on his ranch and maybe dozens of other people. He wasn’t brandishing a weapon, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one.

“Where is my wife?” Bazán asked conversationally.

I stared at him.

“Victoria. Where is she?”

“I don’t-”

He slammed his hand on the table, making me jump. “I’m not in the mood for game-playing or lies. I know she was at the dance competition. I’ve had men watching Acosta’s condo and this studio for two weeks now; one of them showed initiative in checking out the competition, thinking she might try to link up with Acosta there if she hadn’t heard about his untimely demise. So where is she?”

“How would I know?” My voice squeaked. I cleared my throat and said more forcefully, “If she came looking for Rafe, she would’ve found out he was dead and left, right?”

Bazán studied my face, his gaze drilling into first my right eye and then my left. I tried to keep from fidgeting.

“You’re lying,” he said. “Just tell me. It’ll be easier on both of us. And you’ll be doing Victoria a favor.”

I raised my brows and made a skeptical sound.

“Really. My wife is a sick woman, Miss Graysin.”

I stopped myself from saying, “She didn’t look ill to me.”

“What story did she tell you?” His eyes scanned my face. “That I’m involved in mysterious criminal activities and won’t let her leave because she knows too much? Or was it the one about me institutionalizing our child because of birth defects? We’ve never had a baby. Or-”

“She showed me the bruises,” I said.

“On her stomach?” When I nodded, he said, “She was in a car accident two weeks ago and her stomach and chest got badly bruised when the air bag drove her purse into her torso. She had it on her lap, looking for a lip gloss, I believe.” Mingled sadness and weariness pulled his mouth down. He didn’t look threatening at the moment.

Not sure what to believe, I said, “I really don’t know where she is.”

“But you talked?” His eyes lit up.

Reluctantly, I nodded.

He grabbed my left hand with both of his. “Please. Tell me what she said.”

His hands were callused and hard. “Not much. We were going to talk after I danced, but she was gone from my room by the time I finished. She stole my wallet.”

“I will reimburse you,” Bazán said instantly. “Unfortunately, it is not the first time something like this has happened. I need to find her before she gets herself in serious trouble, or ends up hurt.”

“I wish I could help,” I lied. I wasn’t sure I believed anything Victoria had told me, but her husband hadn’t exactly won my trust by breaking into my house.

He narrowed his eyes. “Surely she said something.”

“Nope.

He slapped my face with his open palm, not hard, but it stung.

Surprise, as much as pain, made me cry out. No man had ever struck me. Even my father had never spanked me. I put my hand to my cheek.

“I don’t have time for your flippancy. Tell me what Victoria said and where she went. It’s for her own good.”

“Go to hell.”

The next slap was harder, almost knocking me from my chair. “She didn’t say anything!” I yelled through incipient tears. “She was staying at Rafe’s cabin, in West Virginia. Maybe she went back there.” I was darned sure Victoria hadn’t returned to Rafe’s isolated man cave. “And before you ask, I don’t know where it is. Somewhere outside a town called Canon-something.”

“If you are lying…”

“I’m not.” I stared at him defiantly. “Although I wouldn’t tell you where she was, even if I knew.”

“Then you’d be doing her a great disservice,” he said, standing. “Victoria is a menace to herself.”

“Not as big a menace as you.”

“Acosta knew what he was doing when he dumped you,” Bazán observed. “No man wants to live with a sharp-tongued wife. If you were my wife, I’d be tempted to cut it out.”

He said it with so little emotion that it froze me to stillness. He crossed to the door. “I’ll be back if I find out you’ve lied to me.”

Scrambling to my feet, I lifted my chair and held it in front of me, not sure if I meant it as a weapon or a shield. “The police might have something to say about that.”

He laughed, genuinely amused. “I’ve got two words for you: diplomatic immunity. Besides which, it’s your word against mine. I don’t think I need to worry very much about the police. You, on the other hand, have a lot to worry about.” He opened the door, looked both ways, and stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him.

The chair dropped with a clatter, landing on my toe. I dropped cross-legged to the floor, massaging my toe and bawling my eyes out. I cried for at least ten minutes, knowing the tears were more about fear and tension release than pain. Shoving myself upward, I hobbled to the fridge and pulled a chunk of ice out, wrapping it in a dish towel and holding it against my toe. I followed that up with an aspirin and a call to the police.

Monday morning found me trotting awkwardly after Detective Lissy as he inspected the exterior of my house, peering at windows and doors. My toe hurt like the dickens and the nail was a lurid purple that told me it would fall off eventually. Dancing would be excruciating for a few days, at least. I thought evil thoughts about what I’d do to Bazán if the opportunity presented itself.

“But I told you he didn’t break in,” I said for the third time. “He waited until I unlocked the door and then pounced.” The uniformed officers who came by last night had apparently misreported what I’d said, or Lissy was deliberately misinterpreting it.

“I’m not looking for evidence of a break-in,” Lissy said damply. “I’m looking for proof someone waited out here. Cigarette butts, beer can, candy wrapper.”

“He threatened me and you’re looking for proof he’s a litterbug?”

Lissy eyed me, his pale gray eyes assessing. “It’d be nice to have something to corroborate your story.”

I held out my bare foot. “What about this?”

“You said you dropped a chair on it.”

“Yes, but only because I picked it up to protect myself.”

Lissy nodded, somehow managing to convey that he thought I was either an accomplished liar or a delusional conspiracy theorist who would shortly be accusing Bazán of being behind the Gulf oil leak and the subprime mortgage fiasco.

We had made our way around to the front of the house, not spotting a single thing that helped prove Bazán had forced his way into my kitchen last night and threatened me. The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky and already my skin prickled with sweat. It was going to be a scorcher. Lissy flipped a page on his steno pad. “So you say Mrs. Bazán forced her way into your hotel room and then Mr. Bazán”-he consulted his notes-“ ‘pounced’ on you here?”

“She didn’t force her way in,” I said, frustrated. “I invited her in. But then she stole my wallet, which I already reported to my credit card company.”

“But not to the police.” Lissy’s inflection made my omission sound suspicious.

In truth, I hadn’t called them because I couldn’t spare the time from the competition to hassle with the paperwork and I didn’t think they had a prayer of recovering it. Some part of me, too, felt I deserved what I’d gotten for being so foolish as to leave a stranger alone in my hotel room. In hindsight, I should have taken the time to report the theft, if only to the hotel management. “I didn’t want to bother the police,” I said lamely.