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“Thanks, I’d love to join you.” He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled it.
“You know, Paul, it’s just possible we’re busy here.” Angel waved her cell phone. “You want a story, talk to Bergman’s assistant. That’s why he’s there.”
Paul Reuben’s flinty eyes gleamed. “Is Noah Graydon helping you with your busy work?”
“Go away.” She enunciated the words, then smacked at his hand. “Touch my lunch, and I’ll cite you for something really unpleasant.”
When her skin continued to prickle, she glanced around again. An old man in a hat with earflaps stared back at her. So did a much younger one with a heavily pierced face.
“Do me a favor, Paul, take a stroll and check out the booths.”
“For what?”
“Perverts, peeping Toms.” She summoned a sweet smile. “Murderers.”
“Like the one who offed Lionel Foret early Sunday morning behind a dockside processing plant?”
“There you go. If you know that much, you’re as up to date as we are. Bye.”
“Cut the guy some slack, Angel,” Brian suggested on the phone. “He might know something.”
“He might also be fishing.”
“What’s the deal with Graydon?” the reporter persisted. “Is he in or out? Give me that much at least.”
Angel rested her chin on her fist, let her smile ride. “How did you hear about Foret, Paul?”
“I got a tip.”
“Where and from whom?”
“None of your business—on both counts.”
“Okay then, we’re done. Drive carefully.”
He appealed to Liz. “Your husband’s tight with Graydon, right?”
Elbows on the table, Liz pushed on her temples. “You know, I didn’t have a headache when I came in.”
Paul started slurping hot coffee—and Angel found her own fingers straying under her hair again.
Determined to shake the sensation, she returned her attention to Brian. “Do I know yet why you called?”
“Not unless you’re a mind reader. I’ve been instructed to tell you that Bergman’s staying over in Washington. He tried your cell, but the line was tied up. Would that have been before or after your run-in with a sleeping vagrant?”
“Street person, and he topped your two-thirty by a good ten pounds.”
“Using?”
“Definitely.”
“You know, I was once as quick as you are, and as elusive as Noah Graydon when I chose to be.”
“You sound bitter, Bri.” Sliding to the end of the booth, she made another casual sweep of the restaurant. “Get some physio, get in shape and presto, you’re back in the field.”
“On restricted duty. No thanks, kid. Don’t forget to check in with Bergman’s lackey before you go off shift. And have fun detaching your investigative burr.”
Angel ended the call with a distracted press of the button. Her eyes traveled from table to table. “Got to be coming from a booth. I can see everyone else.”
Reuben waved a hand in front of her face. “Why the space flight, Angel?”
Looking back, she noted that his mustache, blonde and perpetually droopy, was saturated with coffee. “Trust me, Paul, there are times when outer space is preferable to planet Earth.”
He snagged her wrist as someone in black brushed past. “If you won’t talk about Graydon, explain the pennies on Foret’s eyelids.”
Liz breathed out. “Don’t you have…?” Then she stopped, met Angel’s eyes, and bent forward over the table. “Well, well, Mr. Reuben.”
At a similar look from Angel, the reporter released her. “Okay, why have you two turned cat all of a sudden?”
But he knew. Angel could tell by the dull red flush creeping up his neck that he understood exactly what he’d done.
Smiling, she crooked a leg up and turned companionably toward him. “Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit, PR. Guess what? There was no mention of any pennies in our official statement. Only a handful of people saw the body, and those who did wouldn’t have talked. So—” Brows arched, she cocked her head to observe. “How is it you managed to find out about them?”
THE DAY AFTER A DEATH always felt long—going through the motions, controlling jitters, concentrating. Slipping up was too damned easy, in big ways and in small.
But things had to be put right, and no one else appeared to want the job.
Someone would have to take it on, though, because the end was approaching. Fast. The Thanksgiving season seemed an appropriate time for the finale. Give thanks to the only person who understood.
Extra caution would be needed to pull this last one off. Extra caution and nerves of steel.
An image swam up, solidified. No second thoughts. No regrets. It must and would be done.
Target date: Third week of November.
Target victim: Angel Carter.
Chapter Four
No one Angel knew, except maybe her uncle who ran whale-watching charters out of Juneau, could talk for hours and in the end say nothing. No one, except a reporter like Paul Reuben.
“I know how to get into people’s heads, Moscow.” She deposited her keys on a tray inside her front door. “I know how to get into a rat’s head even better, and I got nowhere with that guy. I want a hot bath, anything I don’t have to cook and a big glass of Chardonnay.” She knelt to ruffle the husky’s ears. “So how was your day?”
Pawing the shoulder of her red leather jacket, he nosed her toward the phone.
“Someone called?”
He barked.
“Someone you hear on my voice mail, but never see? A man whose face I try to paint, but who keeps coming out looking like Lamont Cranston’s alter ego?”
Shedding her jacket and bag, she headed for the bathroom. After washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face, she felt better, not totally alert, but functional. She changed into a pair of drawstring pants and a T, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, left her feet bare and went into the kitchen.
Hot cocoa, she thought with a roll of her head to loosen the tight muscles. “And one doggie treat,” she told the expectant husky. She held up a single finger. “One.”
As she passed the phone, she hit the retrieve button on her voice mail. At maximum volume, the messages came through clearly.
“Hi, Angel, it’s Pete Peloni, from Peloni’s Place. You left your sunglasses on the table last time you were here. Also, I’m trying out a new mushroom-veggie pizza with hot pepper sauce. I’m working most of tonight and all day tomorrow. I’ll drop off a sample on my way home. Catch you later.”
Angel regarded the package of instant cocoa in her hand and laughed as she shook it down. “You’re not likely to convert me, Pete, but my mother would appreciate the effort.”
Brian Pinkney followed. “It’s after seven, Monday night, Angel. Thought you’d be home by now. I wouldn’t do this for anyone except you and Liz, so consider yourself privileged, but I ran the comps on all the Penny Killer murders. Highlighted the similarities, and also took care of the B-side—the irregularities. Basically, I did some major decluttering for you. It’s more than Pruneface Skater would have done. Info’s waiting in a file labeled Angel’s PKMs. I have to say, this one’s a stumper. Hope you like coffee and caffeine pills, sweetheart. You’re gonna need ‘em.”
Next up, Graeme Thomas wanted her to fly to Atlantic City with him for a convention the following weekend. “They have wedding chapels there, too,” he remarked with a wink in his voice that made her chuckle as she poured boiling water into a big “I Love Bullwinkle’s Cousins” mug.
Twenty minutes later, he called again. “Sorry, babe. Change of plans. Looks like I’ll be doing double duty at the Victim Support Center this weekend. Would you believe that one of the families I’ve been counseling has lost three of their kids to murder and drunk drivers in less than five years? Some people have absolutely no luck. How’s the Boardwalk between Christmas and New Year’s sound to you…?”
Wandering into the solarium she used as a painting studio, Angel hoisted herself onto a high stool, blew into the steaming mug and studied her latest canvas. The face she’d attempted to paint had no definition, only blurred and shadowed features. Still, something of the man came through for her.
“Probably because I know it’s you,” she reflected, and touched his mouth with an exploratory fingertip.
Her doctor’s office called next—she’d missed an appointment—and then Bergman’s pushy assistant, three times. Pete came back, on adding a soy cheese and green vegetable pizza to the revised menu, and finally, finally, the one she’d been hoping for. Noah Graydon.
Unfortunately, all he said was, “Read your e-mails, Angel.”
She sighed at the painting. “You know I prefer verbal communication, Noah. I can’t hear you in an e-mail.”
Licking whipped cream from the rim of her mug, she vacated her stool and headed for the computer.
The first e-mail was from Joe and directed her to a restricted FBI site, where she viewed Lionel Foret’s autopsy results.
The forensic team had discovered only microscopic fibers and Foret’s own skin cells under his fingernails. There’d been one bird feather and several strands of his own hair on his coat. Joe placed the time of death between midnight and 12:30 a.m. He said he’d have put it closer to twelve, except Foret had been wearing thermal underwear, so he’d needed to allow for a cocoon effect.
“Let me know who won the pool,” Joe typed. “Also, my wife told me to tell you that you must come for Thanksgiving dinner. Bring your mom and her trucker if they’re in town. Oh, and her Harley—that’s for me. FYI, Jaynie loves her new pink shoes. She told me to thank Auntie Angel again.
“Not wanting to mix business with pleasure, but I’m sorry for the delay on the Foret case. One of my techs mislaid the results. We found them in the file of a Balinese man who died three days ago from ptomaine poisoning. Don’t be a stranger…”
“As if I could.” Hitting a key, she moved on to Noah’s message. Her cell phone, doing a sudden dance across the desk, interrupted her.
“Tell me you didn’t just get home.”
Noah’s sexy drawl brought a swell of regret to Angel’s throat.
“Ten minutes ago.” Blanking the monitor, she crossed to the window seat, tucked herself into the lotus position and sipped. “Multiple messages, minimum lights. I made hot cocoa, but I probably should have made up an ice pack instead.” She probed her bruised cheek. “Gonna need major makeup tomorrow.”
“I don’t like that picture, Angel. How bruised are we talking?”
“It’s not a black eye, and the guy only got me because I tripped over a piece of pipe. Totally clumsy.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“Did you hear? Bergman’s got Prune—uh, Bill Skater working the profile for the Penny Killer. Brian Pinkney’s really pissed off.”
“How can you tell?”
She laughed, considered briefly as she surveyed the glittering city skyline visible above the park side trees, then said, “Noah, have I ever told you that I play chess?”
“Pretty sure that’s a no.”
“Well, I do. Long Alaska nights, wicked blizzards, gen power running low, so no movies, no Dancing with the Stars…”
Noah breathed out whatever he was feeling. Annoyance, frustration, resignation.
The sound sent a shimmer of guilt through her system. “Look, I’m tired, okay, and a little cranky. I wasn’t…”
“You don’t want to meet me, Angel.”
Humor trickled in. “An amazing profiler, and he reads minds, too. Not accurately, but what can you expect over a phone line? Come on, Noah, even Spock’s Vulcan mind meld required a certain amount of physical contact. And if you ask me who Spock is, I’ll be convinced you live in space instead of him.”
“Call it a shadow world.”
“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”
“The Internet has game partners…”
“Go there,” she warned, “and I’m hanging up. I also give up. Temporarily.” Turning slightly, she zeroed in on the area where she thought he lived. “Why the call?”
“Because you’re still on the clock at 10:00 p.m.”
“And you’re not?”
“I do my best work at night.”
Not chess, but a game of strategy nonetheless. His words flowed through her like warm brandy, seducing her far more than they probably should. Angel’s stomach muscles quivered and her skin felt unnaturally hot. But seduction was a thing she could match in her sleep.
Running a finger over her cell, she rested her back on the wall and let a note of teasing humor invade her voice. “It might come as a surprise to you, Noah, but night’s one of my best times, too. Or so I’ve been told.”
His hesitation spoke volumes. So did his tone when he said, “Below the belt, Angel, in more ways than one.”
Now that was the point. But did hearing it change anything?
Moscow barked. Twisting the mouthpiece upward, she asked him, “What is it?” She told Noah, “Dog’s excited.,”
The husky ran to the door, paused at the jamb. A second later, she heard a knock.
“That’ll be Pete.” Uncrossing her legs, she took another sip of cocoa, then stretched like a cat. “He says I’m a bad eater. Keeps trying to push tofu and veggie pizza on me.”
“Pete?”
