John Lutz - Single white female

But the slippers were nowhere in sight in Hedra's bedroom. Allie peeked beneath the bed. Nothing there. Not even dust. She walked to the closet to see if compulsively neat Hedra had placed the slippers in there.

A moment after she opened the closet door she stepped back in surprise. The clothes. Hedra's clothes. They looked so much like… they were Allie's own clothes.

Allie turned and hurried to her own room. She flung open the closet doors. Her clothes were there, as they'd always been.

She sat down on the edge of the mattress, gazing at the rows of dresses, blouses, and slacks on hangers. There were a few variations in color and material from Hedra's closet, but not many.

Wherever possible, Hedra had bought exact duplicates of Allie's clothes.

Allie sat very still on the edge of the bed, wondering what it meant.

Later that day she phoned Sam and told him about it. He seemed more amused than alarmed. "What the girl wears is her business," he said, "and you know how she idolizes you."

"She does idolize me," Allie said. "More than I find comfortable."

Sam laughed. "You deserve it. Have I ever told you that?"

Allie had to smile, remembering. "Yeah, you've told me." "Meant it, too."

"Seeing Hedra's clothes this morning, after losing my credit cards last night, is what's got me rattled, I guess." "You lost your credit cards? As in Master and Visa?" "Yeah. I don't know how." "Get the cards back?" "No, they might have been stolen." "Better phone in the numbers." "I already have. I notified the police, too."

"Well, your liability's limited when you lose credit cards, and maybe they'll turn up."

"I can't use them if they do; I have to wait for replacements. That'll take a while." "By the way, Allie, I've got some bad news."

Her heart took a dive. "Bad news? Dammit, Sam, that's not what I need this morning."

"Christ, not that bad." He laughed. "I only meant I have to be away for a couple of weeks. A conference in Milwaukee, then a junk-bond seminar in Los Angeles. Can you live without me?" "I'm not sure."

"Well, I can't live without you. Not for more than a few weeks. I'll phone you." "You'd better," she said. "Try not to worry so much, okay, lover?" "Sure. That's probably good advice."

Loudly, only half-jokingly, he blew a kiss into the receiver.

When she hung up on Sam, the phone rang almost immediately. She thought it might be Sam, calling her back to say something he'd forgotten.

But as soon as she picked up the phone she knew it wasn't Sam.

No voice on the other end of the connection, only heavy, uneven breathing.

Then, "Allie, baby? Sweet Buns? I know it's you. Soon we're gonna-" She slammed the receiver into its cradle.

DISGUSTING habit, Detective Sergeant Will Kennedy thought. And I'm disgusting for indulging.

He snubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, knowing even then that he'd soon light another despite his doctor's advice to stop smoking. Sitting at his desk in the squad room, he peered through the noxious haze hovering above the ashtray. A woman was standing at the wooden restraining rail that ran parallel to the booking desk. She leaned forward, her pelvis against the rail, and spoke earnestly and rapidly, as if she wanted to get her story out in a hurry.

Kennedy watched Sergeant Morrow listen to her in his patient, speculative way, then say something and point in Kennedy's direction. The woman smiled at Morrow, and walked purposefully toward Kennedy.

Davis, who was working undercover in Narcotics and looked like a street punk, blatantly leered at her. It didn't matter, Kennedy figured, she'd think he was a suspect and not a cop. The other detectives and a couple of uniforms contented themselves with sly glances in her direction. This was a busy precinct, but there was always time to appreciate beauty in the midst of police work. For the contrast.

As she got closer, Kennedy pretended to notice her for the first time and glanced up, smiling warmly. She was in her early thirties, average height and build, short blond hair, good eyes, firm, squarish jaw, and a mouth that looked as if it had smiled plenty but which now was a grim red slash. She was wearing a lightweight raincoat, powder blue with a white collar and oversized white buttons. High heels, good ankles. Not a stunner, but an attractive woman up close as well as viewed from across the room.

She stood in front of his gray metal desk, leaning forward as she had against the railing. "Sergeant Kennedy?" "Me," he told her.

"The desk sergeant said I should see you about my… complaint." She was obviously nervous, not used to being in places like this. A respectable citizen in a bind.

He nodded and motioned for her to sit in the chair alongside the desk. Kennedy was a large, shambling man of middle age who knew he presented an avuncular, soothing image to women. He was six feet tall and close to two hundred and fifty pounds, with bushy, raggedy gray hair and sleepy blue eyes. Well into his fifties. Not a handsome man or a sexual threat. A slow and amiable old bear, that was Kennedy. If he hurt anyone, it would be accidental. He fostered that impression and capitalized on it. Being underestimated could be a great advantage.

The precinct house was warm and felt uncomfortably humid because of the rain that fell silently on thick windows reinforced with steel mesh. It even smelled damp. Fetid as a swamp. Though the ceiling didn't quite leak, there were ancient water stains on it that always appeared wet. The air was so thick and sticky it seemed to deaden sound and coat bare flesh like oil.

When the woman had unbuttoned her coat and settled down in the straight-backed chair, Kennedy said, "Get you a cup of coffee? Maybe a soda or glass of water?"

She seemed surprised by his hospitality. "No. No, thank you." "You mentioned a complaint, Miss…?"

"My name is Allison Jones, and I live at One Seventy-two West Seventy-fourth Street."

He smiled. "And you sound like a very nice and well-prepared twelve-year-old reciting in front of the class. Relax, Miss Jones. Like the PR ads say, your police department cares. This old cop does, anyway."

"Not so old," she said, smiling back as the tension loosened its grip on her. The set of her shoulders changed beneath the blue coat, became less squared and then slumped wearily. But the rigid cast of her jaw and mouth remained grim. She was wrapped tight and ticking, this one.

"Thank you, Allison Jones. Could be there's some good years left in me at that." He picked up a ball-point pen and idly rotated it between sausage-like powerful fingers, wishing he could smoke the damned thing. Despite his huge, rough hands, he had beautifully manicured nails. He wore a plain gold wedding ring, though Jeanie had been dead almost ten years. Ah, Jeanie! He said, "Now, dear, what seems to be troubling you?" "Well, phone calls, among other things." "Oh? Of an obscene nature, do you mean?" "Yes. Very obscene." "In what way?"

"The man-if it was the same man-talked about doing things to me."

Kennedy cautioned himself. Gently now. "What sorts of things, Miss Jones? What I mean is, could you be more specific?"

"Tying me up, gagging me, whipping me. Making me,.. do things I never would do." "Of course not." "Bondage, it's called," she said flatly.

"Yes, I know." He stared sadly for a moment at the ball-point pen almost lost in his big hand. "You get a lot of complaints like mine?"

"Oh, yes. We see everything on this job. Soon lose the capacity to be shocked, I'm afraid." "He talked as if I'd enjoy sado-masochism."

"He might well have believed that. The sick sort of man who'd make such a call generally has some very twisted ideas about the fair sex."

"Not just twisted," Allison Jones said, "positively kinky."