Jeanne Adams - Dark and Deadly

The memory of her, younger and equally vulnerable, rose to haunt him. He’d rescued her then. History seemed to be repeating itself.

“Jameson?”

Paul turned to see the same officer from the hospital standing by the curb.

“Yep. Any new info?”

“No, but we’re pinpointing where the shots came from. We’ll get the crime techs to pull the bullets out.”

Looking at the burned car, Paul was dubious. Then again, you never knew what forensics could do. “Be interesting to see if they match the gun that killed my friend.”

“Nah. I looked it up. Your church friend was killed with a small caliber weapon. This had to have more oomph.”

“Looks like both my friends are targets.”

“You’d better be careful, too, Jameson.” Another voice joined the conversation. It was Tibbet, the detective who’d broken the news of Todd’s death. “Looks like someone doesn’t care much for your friends.”

“You’re right, Tibbet. And that worries me.”

“Where’s the woman, Hagen? Wasn’t she here? They keep her at the hospital?” Tibbet was asking his officer, but Paul answered.

“Treated and released. I moved her to another hotel.”

Tibbet took out his notebook. “Glad she’s back in town. We’ll need to contact her in the morning. Where can I reach her?”

“My office after ten.”

Tibbet frowned. “I need her whereabouts, Jameson.”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tibbet. Doesn’t seem like your people can keep anything quiet. Who let the info out about what’s happened to her, eh? No one should know that. I think you’re the only one. Haven’t you and your people totally compromised any effort at protecting her?” Paul stepped in towards the man angry now on Torie’s behalf. “I brought her back for you, but for what? So she can be hounded by the press? Do you know what it took to get her out of the airport?”

“Act of Congress?” Tibbet quipped. “Look, Jameson, I don’t make the rules, nor do I dictate the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Bullshit. Information in an ongoing investigation isn’t subject to the FIA. You can’t tell me someone didn’t leak that, because I know better. Only Torie and your staff knew about the guys she dated, and what happened to them. And how could The Inquirer have gotten all their names without access to someone in your office?”

“You’re gonna want to step back, Jameson,” Tibbet said blandly, although his body language was tense, that of a fighter.

“Yeah, and you’re going to want to notify your department rep because we’ll be filing a complaint tomorrow.”

“Noted. Now step back before you compromise the scene.”

Paul looked down. His feet were touching the edge of the scorched grass just outside the tape.

“Tomorrow, Tibbet.”

“Your office, Mister Jameson.”

Paul nodded. He pushed through the bystanders who looked at him with avid curiosity. It made him feel vaguely sick to look at the car, think about Torie, and imagine the explosion. To combat the feeling, he hurried to Torie’s room, slipping the key card into the slot, and waiting for the green.

Pushing open the door, he stopped dead.

“Tibbet!” Paul called as he hurried back toward the curb. The burned-out hulk of the sedan was being loaded onto a flatbed tow truck and wrapped in a tarp. The tarp made it look like a huge package or present sitting on the back of the truck. Two techs were directing the process, muttering about preserving evidence and chain of custody.

“Tibbet,” Paul huffed a bit as he reached the taciturn cop. “You’re going to want to come with me.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Torie’s room.”

Tibbet’s eyes sharpened their focus, and he motioned for Paul to lead the way. They pushed through the fast-dispersing onlookers to climb the stairs to Torie’s suite.

“I opened the door, so I guess I should tell you my prints are on it. That’s her blood. She said she threw her things into the room before the cops showed up when the car blew.”

“Yeah, duly noted.”

Paul pushed the door open and stood aside to let Tibbet get the full effect.

“Damn,” the cop breathed the word. “Someone hates this girl, bad.”

“Ya think?” It was all Paul could manage through the haze of anger and fear for Torie which threatened to blind him.

Paint sprayed over the walls spelling, “You Lose!” The mattress was tossed off the bed, and Torie’s belongings were scattered over the floor, smashed and broken. The suitcases were torn asunder, zippers dangling, the aluminum rods from the handles twisted and bent. A colorful shirt was shredded, and the scraps of it flung about the room like confetti. In the small kitchen, meager supplies were smeared on the counters, and part of a loaf of bread had been tossed randomly around the room. One piece had impaled itself on a lamp finial, giving the toppled light fixture a Dali-esque quality.

“So tell me again why you were back here?” Tibbet finally broke the silence.

“I put her in another hotel. Came back for her gear.”

“Ah. Well, I guess you’ll be buying her some stuff instead.” He pulled a cell phone from his belt, and using it like a walkie-talkie, called the damage in. “Looks like we got us a secondary crime scene, gents.”

There was a crackle of static and some generalized cursing before an affirmative and request for location came back through. Tibbet relayed and closed the phone.

“Give me a number where I can reach you, Jameson. Then go buy the lady something for the morning. I think the Target over off Snyder, on Mifflin, is still open.”

Evidently, through some mysterious process of evidence and elimination, he and the detective had gone from adversaries to allies.

“Thanks,” Paul said, rattling off his cell number. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock, my office.”

Taking the detective’s advice, Paul agonized over what to get at the Target. He had no idea. Deodorant, yes, but socks or hose? And what size? Resigned to making bad choices all the way around, Paul picked jeans in several moderate sizes, grabbed both socks and hose, chose four blouses in various colors and sizes, and compromised on shoes by getting a pair of slip on sandals in a medium. It was the best he could do for now.

“What the hell do I know about women’s sizes?” he muttered, plunking everything on the counter in a heap. When the teenaged checkout girl kept looking at him as she rung things up, he got more and more frustrated.

“Uh, sir? Uh, did you want the shoes too?” The girl pointed to the cart.

“What? Yes.” He tossed those up on the belt and whipped out his credit card. By the time he got to his car and from there to the hotel, he was completely irritated.

Slipping into the hotel room, he called out. “Torie?”

In the main part of the room, lights blazing and television on, Torie lay sprawled on top of one of the beds. Momentarily frightened, Paul hurried over to check for a pulse. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, however, he noted the rise and fall of her chest. The motion rustled the wrinkled cotton blouse, exposing creamy skin where the shirt had ridden up.

“Don’t go there, Jameson,” he warned himself. “That is so off-limits.”

To combat the images in his head, he turned down the covers on the other bed, flattening the pillows and turning down the blasting heat. Torie must have been cold when she came in, but the room had reached roasting levels now.

He turned on the bathroom light, but pulled the door closed. That would give her some ambient light if she woke in the night.

“Hey,” he called softly, rubbing a hand down Torie’s arm in an attempt to rouse her. “Torie, let’s get you in bed. Come on, Torie, wake up, just a little.”