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Greene looked around. “Can we do this alone?” he asked.
Cara Merrick started to bristle.
“I think I should stay here with her,” Paul said, taking a defensive stand next to the bed. “She’s had a second shock in as many days.”
“She’ll be more helpful if she can concentrate,” the police artist said politely but firmly.
“Please wait outside, Paul,” Marise said.
“If that’s what you want…”
“It is, and you, too, Mom.”
Her mother frowned, obviously reluctant to leave. “If you need us…”
“I know,” Marise said. Her mother had been right outside for eighteen years, ever since she’d lost her husband and son. She’d accompanied Marise everywhere as her daughter won competition after competition, then became her business manager and agent.
Guilt about that accident so many years ago had kept Marise from suggesting another manager. And her mother did a good job. After she’d given up skating herself so many years ago, she and Marise’s father had run a skating school. Cara Merrick had been the business manager and deserved much of the credit for its financial success. She’d sold it years later and used the proceeds to finance Marise’s lessons and competitions and costumes.
Marise owed her.
She owed her—and her father—an Olympic Medal, the one shining goal neither of her parents had achieved. She and Paul actually had a shot at it. But first they needed a good showing in the Sectional and, hopefully, the U.S. Championships.
Her mother and Paul left reluctantly. Their coach had already flown ahead to Seattle with the costumes and equipment. One less mother hen with which to contend.
“Can the detective stay?” she asked.
The police artist nodded as he took out his computer and plugged in a modem.
Marise’s heart beat faster.
“Close your eyes,” the police artist said. “Think about impressions. Think about the night before last. What do you see?”
“Darkness. There was a street light, but he came from behind and dragged me into a dark corner. He wore a mask.” Her throat was dry. Her voice sounded scratchy.
“How big a man?”
“He seemed large.” She was picturing his bulk now. Her eyes were still closed, and she willed herself back to those moments. Back to the terror.
“His clothes?”
“Dark. Black, I think.”
“And the ski mask?”
“Black. Yes, black.”
“All right. Thin, fat?”
“Powerful,” she said. “Muscular. His arm was strong. I know muscles. I could feel them around my neck. I think he must work out.”
“Good. Very good,” the artist said.
“Height?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s between five-ten and five-eleven. I’m five-three, and he was about six inches taller than I am, about an inch shorter than Paul.”
He let out a surprised breath.
“I skate next to Paul every day. I know his height.”
“Good. Now his face. What did you see?”
“I didn’t exactly see it. It was too dark, and it happened so quickly.”
“Broad face?” he asked. “Narrow?”
“I don’t know,” she said desperately.
“Open your eyes,” he asked gently. His computer screen was turned toward her. He ran through several facial types. None of them brought any flash of recognition.
“Don’t try too hard,” he said. “Just watch and see if any ring a bell in your head.”
He had an easy way about him, and she found herself nodding and relaxing. Several more pages, then an impression…nothing more.
“Stop,” she said. “I’m not sure, but something about that face…”
It was a square face, heavy jowled. She stared at it for a moment, trying to remember more, to see more. Fear was crawling up her spine. What was it about that facial type?
The artist waited a few more moments, then suggested quietly, “Why don’t we try some eyes?”
A half-hour later, they had a picture. But she couldn’t say whether it was actually her assailant or a mishmash of memorable features that lingered in her mind. “I’m just not sure,” she admitted.
“You’ve done very well, Miss Merrick,” the artist said. “I’ll bet anything that when we find this man, there will be a resemblance.”
When we find him. If they found him.
Detective MacKay had not uttered a word during the entire time. Perhaps he had not wanted to break her concentration. But she had known he was there, and that had made her feel safe.
Now he came over to the bed. “Thank you,” he said in the rumbling deep voice that somehow gave her confidence in him. “That will be helpful.”
“I don’t know how,” she said.
“We have a lot of information we didn’t have before,” he said. “We know he’s familiar with hospital routine. He came in here during change of shifts when no one was likely to be in. He wears latex gloves. That’s probably where the smell came from. We finally have some leads. Thanks to you.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Perhaps you should go to Seattle.”
“You thought there was a chance he would come after me.”
His silence told her it was indeed a worry.
“If he came after me once, he’ll come again.”
Again a silence.
“What about using me as bait?” There. It was said. “That’s what you were thinking earlier.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking, Miss Merrick, and it’s a really lousy idea.”
“It’s the only way I can go on with my life.”
“It’ll be damn dangerous. I’m not sure I can get approval from my boss.”
She swallowed hard. The police artist was watching the exchange with interest. MacKay was frowning. He looked intimidating when he did that.
“Will you ask him?” she said.
“What about your mother and…partner?”
“I’ll manage that.”
“They could get hurt.”
“Not if they go on to Seattle.”
His face must have expressed his doubts. “They’ll leave? Without you?”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “Can you arrange it?”
He hesitated.
“I trust you,” she persisted.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know what I need to know. You went out of your way last night to make sure I was safe. You said you had a feeling and you came.”
His eyes measured her. “I’ll talk to the captain,” he said. “In the meantime, you should be safe enough. My partner, Manny, will stay in the room with you, and there are two uniforms outside. If you return to the hotel, Manny goes with you.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to talk to my superiors.”
“And get some sleep,” she said.
He rubbed his face with his hands. “Guess I could use a shave, too.”
A knock came, and the other detective entered, the one she remembered from yesterday. “Miss Merrick,” he said with concern. “Hoppy said someone came into your room last night, and—”
“Hoppy?” she interrupted.
He looked over at MacKay and his face turned red. Detective MacKay glared at him.
“Hoppy?” she asked again with a smile.
“His first name is Cassidy,” the detective named Manny said without looking at his partner, who was glowering.
The name didn’t mean anything to her.
“Hopalong Cassidy,” the detective prompted. “He was a cowboy on television in the fifties, a guy in a white hat.”
A guy in a white hat. She liked that image.
“Hoppy,” she tested again, and MacKay turned his glower on her.
“I prefer Cass,” he said.
She did, too, after thinking about it. Still, she tried to think of him as MacKay. That fit him, and it was far less personal.
The artist had packed up his equipment. “Gotta go,” he said. “A lot of business today. You were great, Miss Merrick.”
She felt a momentary pride. He had discovered more information that she thought she had. “You’re good at extracting information,” she said.
Detective MacKay was also inching toward the door. “Thank you, Miss Merrick,” he said. “I’ll be in touch later today.”
She watched him leave with the police artist.
The second detective looked at her with interest. “My wife is a big admirer of yours,” he said. “So am I.”
That surprised her. She hadn’t imagined a burly homicide detective would have an interest in figure skating. “Thank you,” she said.
“My wife, she loves figure skating,” he continued. “It sorta grew on me, too. And our kid.”
Just then, the door opened and her mother and Paul entered, eyeing the detective warily.
“I’ll be outside,” the detective said.
She wanted to ask him to stay, but this, she knew, was something she had to do alone.
“Thank you,” she said.
The two waited until the door closed.
“We talked to your doctor,” her mother said. “He said there’s no reason you can’t leave today. And you can start skating in several days.”
“We still have the plane on standby,” Paul added. “And now that you’ve talked to that police artist, you’ve done everything you can do.”
