Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

• Название: Kill and Tell
• Автор: Linda Howard
• Издательство: Pocket Books
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература
• Год: 1999
• ISBN: 9780671021887

Still reeling from her mother's recent death, Karen Whitlaw is stunned when she receives a package containing a mysterious notebook from her estranged father. She has barely seen him since his return from the Vietnam War over twenty years ago and doesn't know what he could have to share with her now. She puts the notebook away and forgets about it until she receives a shocking phone call. Her father has been murdered on the gritty streets of New Orleans. At first, homicide detective Marc Chastain considers the murder nothing more than street violence against a homeless man, and Karen just another woman who couldn't take the time to care for her father. But something about the crime just doesn't add up, including the beautiful Karen Whitlaw. Far from the cold woman he expected, Karen is warm and passionate. She is also in serious danger. Karen is shocked by her immediate and unwelcome attraction to the charming, smooth-voiced detective. But when her home is burglarized and "accidents" begin to happen, she turns to him for help. Together they unravel a disturbing story of politics, power, and murder -- and face a killer who will stop at nothing to get his hands on her father's secrets.

---

The locked door was a minor barrier. He had it open within fifteen seconds. If anyone came out of the other apartments and saw him, they would think he was a police detective. After all, he wore a suit and latex gloves. The suit was a definite sacrifice in ninety-degree weather; obviously, no one would be wearing one unless his job required it. That made him official; he doubted he would even have to show a badge, though he had one with him just in case. It wasn't a bad fake, either, considering how fast he had gotten it.

The inside of the door was covered with the same rusty stain, streaks smeared across the white surface, on the door jamb, part of the wall. Other than that, the apartment was neat. Clancy always had been particular about how he did a job. He was neat. No one would ever know their place had been searched; everything was back in its previous location, nothing taken, nothing sliced up. Clancy had claimed he could tell if anything had been hidden inside a cushion without taking it apart, by carefully studying the seams.

Yeah, Clancy had been an artist. Hayes had watched him toss a room before. He had tapped walls, gotten down on his hands and knees and studied the floor, inspected books and lamps and bric-a-brac. Nothing in that room had escaped his notice. And he had found the file for which he had been searching, hidden in the bottom of an upholstered chair. The particle-board bottom had been unscrewed from the frame and the file placed inside, then the bottom screwed back on. Clancy had noticed the small scratch marks on the particle-board where the screws had been removed and then replaced. Not many people had that kind of patience or eye for detail. Hayes would miss having his services.

Hayes closed the door behind him, then stood for a minute looking around, getting oriented. He didn't want to disturb anything unnecessarily, either, because the cops undoubtedly had photographs of the scene, and some sharp cookie might notice if anything was moved.

He was in the living room. There was a nice twenty-seven-inch television set in the entertainment center, and a small stereo system. Against the wall just as you came in the door was a small desk where an answering machine blinked and a cordless phone sat in its cradle. Hayes resisted the urge to listen to her messages, because if a detective was here later and noticed the messages had been played, he would wonder who had been in the apartment.

He opened the center drawer of the desk. There were pens in there, notepads, rubber bands, stubs of movie tickets, but no bank statements. A couple of magazines had been tossed onto the desk. He picked them up; there was nothing under them. Carefully, he put them down in the same location. Okay, nothing there. Some people did all their paperwork at the kitchen table. Hayes walked in there, checked the drawers, but came up empty. Ditto the small closet on the right just before entering the kitchen.

Okay, that left the bedroom. Again, he was struck by how neat everything was. The bed was made, there hadn't been any dishes in the sink, no clothes lying tossed around. Hell, no wonder Clancy had thought no one was home.

There were three taped and sealed cardboard boxes stacked in the corner near the window. So she hadn't yet got everything unpacked after moving in; that made Hayes like her a little better, made her seem more human. It also gave him an excellent place to look, because if he were lucky, the book would be in one of those boxes, and he wouldn't have to dig around in a metal storage unit in this heat.

"Winter clothes" had been written on the sealing tape on the top box. Hayes took the box down and opened it. Sure enough, it was full of clothes. He took each item out, taking care not to disturb the folds, and felt to make certain nothing had been inserted between them. Nothing. Not a single stray item was in that box, nothing that wasn't an article of winter clothing.

The second box had "Insurance papers, books, photographs" written on the tape. That looked promising. The box had been carefully packed with the heaviest items, the books, on the bottom, then the photographs, then the insurance papers. The insurance papers were in a manila file folder, but when he flipped through them, he found nothing but… insurance papers. The photographs were framed and few. Hayes inspected the books. Fiction, nonfiction, medical books, books about nursing. Nothing was hidden inside any of them.

The tape on the third box said "Christmas decorations, wrapping paper, bows." Hayes groaned. Damn, he didn't want to look through a box of fucking Christmas decorations, but he didn't dare leave it unexplored just because the other boxes had contained exactly what the labeling said. There were Christmas decorations. And wrapping paper. And bows.

A woman that organized needed killing.

He opened the dresser drawers. Underwear, neatly separated and folded. Pajamas. Nightgowns. Socks. Nothing.

In the closet, a few dresses hung on one side, pants and jeans and tops on the other, with crisply

starched uniforms hanging in the middle. A name tag had already been clipped to a uniform, the one she had chosen to wear next, and a stethoscope was secured around the crook of the clothes hanger. Below it were thick-soled white walking shoes.

There were some boxes on the top shelf of the closet. Hayes took down the closest one. Written on top were the words "Bank statements."

Bless her neat little heart.

Laughing to himself, Hayes took out the top envelope. An adding machine tape had been stapled to the statement, to show that her figures matched the bank's. He unfolded the sheets of photocopied checks and ran his finger down each column until he found one that read "Buckeye Stockit and Lockit." The notation on the check read: "Unit 152, July." Just what he wanted to know. He put the statement back into the envelope, the envelope back into the box, and the box back on the shelf. All he needed now was an address. He found the telephone book and looked up Buckeye Stockit and Lockit, writing down both the address and the phone number. The storage company would be fairly close by, he was certain, because Ms. Whitlaw was too organized to have it otherwise. Raymond Hilley waited in a parked car across the street from the apartment building Hayes had entered. He had cut the engine off and slumped down in the seat; even though he had managed to park the car in partial shade, the heat was intense. He rolled down the window but didn't start the engine; people would notice a seemingly empty car left with its motor running. He had waited a lot longer, and in a lot tougher conditions, during the years he had worked for Mr. Walter.

Mr. Stephen wasn't half the man his father had been, or even the man William had promised to be, but Raymond loved him, would do anything for him. Mr. Stephen tried . No matter what, he never shirked his duty, and Raymond respected that. Just look at the way Mr. Stephen took care of his father, spending time with him every day, making certain Mr. Walter was as comfortable as possible. It broke Raymond's heart to see Mr. Walter in such shape, a living vegetable instead of the forceful, dynamic man he had once been; at least Mr. Stephen honored his father instead of dumping him somewhere and forgetting about him, just waiting for him to die.

But Mr. Stephen had always adored his father and tried so hard to please him. Mr. Walter had known that and had been patient with Mr. Stephen's shortcomings; in the end, he had also been proud of him. Mr. Stephen hadn't set the world on fire, but he had accomplished a lot in his cautious, methodical way. Following Hayes to Columbus had been pathetically easy; he had always taken care, the few times Hayes had been to the Minnesota estate, to stay out of sight. Raymond knew exactly what his role was in the Lake household: he was a weapon, an enforcer. A weapon was most effective when it was unexpected.

He had simply gotten a seat on the same flight with Hayes—two rows behind, as a matter of fact. Senator Lake had taken the next flight, using a fake driver's license Raymond had procured for him. He had even given the senator a disguise, and the photo on the license had shown a man with a full gray mustache and completely gray hair. Raymond had achieved the effect with an authentic-looking fake mustache and a can of gray hairspray such as makeup people in Hollywood used to give actors an interesting touch of gray at the temples when it was needed. The stuff washed off with shampoo, adding to its convenience. The name on the license was one he had taken out of the D.C. phone book. He had even established a debit card in that name, so the senator could rent a car and get a hotel room without a

hassle. He had done everything he could to smooth the way for the senator, though he still had no idea why Mr. Stephen had insisted on coming along. It wasn't as if Raymond was a novice at this. Raymond had a pistol shoved into his belt. Mr. Stephen had wanted a weapon, too, "and one of those big silencers," so, against his better judgment, Raymond had provided him with a .22 pistol. Mr. Stephen had protested, wanting something more macho, until Raymond had pointed out that only a subsonic round could be effectively silenced, and the larger calibers had too much power. He had been cautious about the weapon he had procured for Mr. Stephen. A .22 pistol was cheap, readily available anywhere, regardless of what laws were on the books, because people who sold firearms illegally didn't give a shit about the law. The pistol he had given Mr. Stephen would be impossible to trace. Mr. Stephen had been a little shocked at how easy it was to get a weapon, because he honestly thought all his efforts to make the streets safer for American citizens had had some effect. Mr. Stephen said he intended to write and begin pushing legislation that would go after the manufacturers of Saturday night specials. If no more were made, they would certainly become more difficult to obtain. Such innocence made Raymond feel both sad and protective.

One of the glass doors opened, and Hayes came out of the apartment building. Raymond slid farther down in the seat, so that even if Hayes noticed the car, it would look empty. He heard a car start and sneaked a quick look over the dashboard. Quickly, he started his own car, sighing with relief as cool air washed from the vents, and watched as Hayes drove out of the parking lot. Raymond waited a few seconds, let another vehicle get between them, then pulled out behind Hayes's rental car.

Ahead of Raymond, Hayes checked his mirrors. There were two cars behind him. One was the car that had been approaching when he pulled out into the street, the other was one he hadn't seen before. That didn't necessarily mean anything. The car could have pulled out of a side street while he wasn't watching, but safe was better than sorry.

He speeded up and kept careful watch behind him. The second car made no attempt to pass the first car and catch up with him. Naw, there was nothing to it, just old habits and jumpy nerves. Still, it wouldn't hurt anything to take a leisurely drive before going to Buckeye Stockit and Lockit, just to make certain he didn't have a tail.

Raymond flipped open his secure cell phone and dialed the senator's cellular. "He searched the apartment, and I'm following him now."

"Where are you?"

Patiently, Raymond gave the street and direction. "Just one street over from you, but don't fall in behind me. Don't let him see your car. He may take some evasive action whether or not he thinks he has a tail, just as a matter of course. I'll hang back, keep him from getting a good look at me, let him do some ducking and weaving. He hasn't spotted me yet, and I followed him all day yesterday."

"For all the good it did," Senator Lake said fretfully.

Raymond didn't reply. Mr. Stephen had been very disappointed when Raymond's search of Hayes's

home hadn't turned up anything interesting. In Raymond's estimation, Hayes was a careful man. He wouldn't keep any incriminating papers in his home.

Up ahead, Hayes took an abrupt right turn. Raymond fell out to pass the car ahead of him, putting that vehicle between him and Hayes's line of sight as they drove past the bisecting street. If Hayes followed his previous pattern, the right turn would be followed by two lefts, then a right back into this street. Child's play, Raymond thought.

"Did you see anyone?" Karen asked as she and Marc climbed into their rental car.

"I spotted a red cap. I suspect he let me see him, because I haven't been able to pick him up since." He shrugged out of his lightweight jacket, which he had worn only to cover the pistol clipped to his belt, and tossed it into the backseat. Otherwise, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and so was Karen. She didn't remember exactly which box she had placed the papers in; they were going to have to dig around in the storage unit in the hot sun, and it had seemed wise to dress as comfortably as possible.

"While we're here, I want to call Detective Suter. Maybe I can pick up some more of my clothes. I need to check on Piper, too, and let my supervisor know—how long will I be gone, by the way?" Marc reached for her hand. "We'll talk about this after we find that box, okay?" He didn't think even that much contact would be safe, until this was over. She squeezed his hand. She had been trying to hide how nervous she was, but she didn't know how good a job she was doing. Logically, she knew she probably hadn't even been traced to New Orleans yet, much less back to Columbus. She had the key to the storage unit on her keychain, so she didn't have to retrieve it from her apartment—or, rather, Marc didn't have to retrieve it. If the police hadn't completed their investigation, the apartment would still be secured. He probably wouldn't ask the CPD for permission, but neither would he have let her be the one to go in.

They were safe. She tried to tell herself that. They could slip in and out of the city without anyone knowing she was there, except for Mr. McPherson and the man he had following them.

"You're worrying," Marc said. "Stop it."

"I shouldn't have dragged you into this. I've put you in danger—" He gave a bark of laughter. "Darlin'," he drawled, "if you hadn't turned up in New Orleans yesterday, I would already be at your apartment this morning. Not only would I be very upset, but if anyone was watching your apartment, he would have made me for sure. Get the tag number, call the rental company, and he would not only have my name but my address."

Despite her worry, Karen caught her breath at the way "Nooawlins" sounded when said in that black magic voice of his. If Piper ever heard him, she might bump Karen off herself just to clear out the competition.

The traffic was heavy, the pace slow. The summer sun glared at them from a milky sky. She watched Marc drive, marveling at how physically fascinating she found him. She felt almost sick with apprehension, and yet that somehow intensified her fascination. She studied his hands, strong and well

shaped, the way he gripped the steering wheel. His wrists were twice as thick as hers, and small, almost colorless hairs glinted in the sun. What if something happened to him? What if this were the last time she would be able to watch his hands move, study his profile, reach out and touch him?

She couldn't let herself think such things. He was a cop, though, thank God, he wasn't in narcotics or on the SWAT team, where his life would be at risk on a daily basis. But as a cop, a homicide detective, he obviously dealt with people who were capable of killing other people. Murder was what he saw every day, and at any time a suspect could turn on him. She couldn't hamper him emotionally by letting herself get paralyzed with fear every time he went out the door.