"I've got a hunch all of this is connected to those serial murders. It's important to get the letter properly translated, tomorrow."
"Of course. Peter could've tied it all together and figured out what was going on. Or maybe he was even involved in the mutilations."
"But, from what you said, he seemed to overreact to Graf-ton's death."
"He's so angry, but, I just can't believe he'd murder. . . I just don't know."
"Sometimes murders result from a jealous rage. It's easy to understand jealousy as a cause, now that we know he and Milton were sexually involved."
"Okay. So let's try to get the letter translated tonight."
"It's starting to give me a headache." He leaned in again. "What's next?"
"Une melange de deuse types de cellules est maintenant presente: Les cellules deforees semblent etre digerees par les
There's scribbling. I can't make it out,
grandes
. I'm getting a headache, too. Something about deformed cells. These cells have changed and now they're stronger. Just like the grant said."
And so they continued until finally they got to the end of the letter
. "Appelez moi le plietot possible a votre meilleure convenience
. It says to contact him for further information."
"Who?"
"The one who wrote the memo. Professeur DuBoismier. We can call from my WATTS line."
"At this time of night?"
"Sure, it ought to be morning in France by the time we call."
"Okay. Here come the steaks," Krastowitcz said. "Can we enjoy our dinner now that we've gotten that out of the way?"
They were bantering. Almost like friends. Maybe even lovers? Andrea was at ease with this man. Flirting with him, like Suzanne.
Suzanne!
Her face went white. She'd forgotten their dinner date. How could she have been so stupid? It was nine o'clock. She had to call.
"HEY, SUZANNE," the receptionist called out before she left the Department, "telephone."
"Shit," Suzanne swore under her breath. "Now I'll be late. Who is it, Donna?"
"I don't know. Take it and see for yourself."
"No need to get nasty," Suzanne said, reaching for the receiver. "This is Suzanne, may I help you?"
"Hey, Sweetheart, glad I caught you."
"Trent? What's wrong? I'm having supper with--"
"Nothing's wrong, love. I got this out-of-town assignment. I have to go to Albuquerque, but I'll be back early tomorrow. I wanted to let you know so you wouldn't come over and find me gone."
"You're such a dear. I'll miss you."
"Me, too. Keep those fires burning till I get back."
"You know it. Uh, I'd better go. . . I can't talk. I'm standing in the waiting room. I love you," she whispered.
"You do? Now I really can't wait to see you. We've got some talking to do. I'll call you as soon as I get back."
Suzanne floated out of the department. If he wanted to talk, he must love her, too. She checked her watch, six o'clock. Shit, now she really was late. Instead of waiting for the elevator, she ran up the two flights of stairs to Andrea's office.
Suzanne rushed through the open office door, but Andrea wasn't around. Nor was there a message on her desk.
A low, muffled sound came from Grafton's office and caught her attention. Andrea must be rummaging around in there. Well, she'd just have to quit `cause they'd be late for their reservations.
"What're you doing," Suzanne said, bursting into the room, "digging for buried treasure?"
She stopped, at first confused. Realization struck. "Hey, Where's Dr. Pearson? What are
you
doing here?"
The arm sliced swiftly downward, burying a gleaming steel blade deep into her abdomen.
"What?" Suzanne crumpled to the floor, her life flowing onto the floor. "No. . . n-no. . . n--"
"WHAT'S THE MATTER?" Krastowitcz said. "You look sick."
"I was supposed to have supper with Suzanne. Tonight! It completely slipped my mind; I've got to call her. What's Trent's phone number?"
"She's not there."
"How do you know?"
He filled her glass. The beer had been cold and delicious, but she'd had enough.
"Trent's escorting a prisoner back from New Mexico tonight."
Andrea rummaged through her purse for a coin and slid out of the booth. "Then, maybe she's at the apartment. Give me a minute, I've got to call."
Andrea dialed the number. Damn! She'd let her friend down on something really important. Suzanne's relationship with Trent. Andrea couldn't shake the dark feeling, worsening with each un-answered ring.
She hurried back to their booth. "Sorry, Gary, I've got to find where she went." She reached for her purse.
"She's a big girl. Probably went shopping when you didn't show. Where were you supposed to meet?"
"My office. I told her I'd meet her there; she was supposed to get reservations, but she didn't say where. I feel like such a shit."
"I'm sure she'll understand. This has been a big day for you: Grafton's funeral, confrontation with Peter, translating the letter and all."
"Yeah, but Suzanne didn't know any of that. I was going to tell her everything tonight."
"There's nothing you can do right now, so let's finish dinner, then we'll go back to your office. Maybe she left a note there. If not, we'll still call Paris."
Dinner dragged by and Andrea kept checking her watch. The steak was tasteless and she couldn't concentrate. She'd forgotten her best friend. Weird.
She was always the responsible one. It would've been in character for Suzanne to forget, but not Andrea. Maybe Suzanne forgot about it, too? By the time dessert came, she felt better and actually enjoyed the shot of schnapps Krastowitcz insisted she take.
Good food and drink relaxed Andrea to the point of sleepiness and she fought hard to keep her eyelids open on the drive back to Dorlynd. She was drawn to the big detective and didn't know why. He was the opposite of everything she thought she liked. Tonight, though, she wasn't going to fight it.
The guilt she'd experienced earlier returned in full force. Andrea stopped in the outer offices and fumbled for her keys. She dropped them several times before opening the office door.
"Too much schnapps." Krastowitcz's humor fell on deaf ears. If only Suzanne had left a note.
"She's not here." Andrea checked her desk. "There's no note, either." She breathed a sigh of relief. "Guess I'm off the hook. Come on in and I'll get the other chair from Milton's office."
She turned the doorknob and pushed, but something blocked it. A dreadful sense of
deja vu
enveloped her and she was afraid.
"Something's behind the door, Gary." A chill passed through her, and she trembled all over. "Give me a hand, will you?"
Krastowitcz put his shoulder into it and the door opened. Suzanne lay on the floor, her head turned at an odd angle. Bile rose in Andrea's throat and she swallowed hard, fighting down the nausea.
"Oh, God, no. Please, no." Andrea knelt and searched Suzanne's neck for a pulse.
Nothing. She was cool to the touch. Dead. Andrea went numb. Her heart tightened into a hard knot and stopped beating. She felt as cold as Suzanne, inside.
"Andrea, please--don't touch anything." Krastowitcz pulled her up.
Suzanne lay framed in a pool of her own blood. Andrea's heart thudded against his solid chest.
"Who could've done such a thing?" Her scream splintered her control, and she gasped for air in another asthma attack.
She wheezed. "Not now!"
From the floor, Suzanne's startled gaze stared up at them, her jaw locked in a grimace of surprise and pain. A long gash from her clavicle to her pubis revealed her inner workings. There was something familiar about the look of her body, but Andrea's head swam and she couldn't remember. It was the blood. She knelt in the blood. . . Before. . .
Did Suzanne look like Milton? No, there was no comparison. Yet there was something. . .
"Come on, Andrea, let's get you some air." Krastowitcz all but carried her out of Grafton's office.
"Peter. It's Peter," she sobbed. "He's the one. He looked so strange today. Like he could hurt someone. Especially me. That sonofabitch must've killed Suzanne."
Krastowitcz eased Andrea into her office chair. Grabbing several tissues from a box on her desk, she absently swiped at her bloody knees. Krastowitcz rifled through her bag searching for her asthma medication. She threw her head back to get more air, but her efforts only produced loud, airless gasps.
"Here's your inhaler." He withdrew the tiny instrument from her purse and thrust it into her palm.
He waited a few minutes for the medicine to take effect and rubbed his hand slowly across her back. Assured of her breathing, he stood and opened the adjoining door, stepped in, and closed it behind him.
Back in Grafton's office. Lately, this had turned into a popular place for murder. Someone must be after Andrea.
Even laying exposed on the floor, Suzanne was still a vision of loveliness. She'd been completely eviscerated, her intestines placed in small piles around her splayed torso. It was almost as if someone wanted to display a picture of uniformity. Was this a clue to the murderer's identity? He thought about Trent, the pictures the crime lab would take, the talk about her
Playboy
body. God, he hoped Trent hadn't really fallen for her. It was hard enough on Krastowitcz, and he only knew her slightly.
Using his handkerchief as a shield, he gingerly picked up the phone in Grafton's office to call central headquarters.
"Sarge, get the homicide unit over here fast." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. "We've got another body in Grafton's office."
Chapter XIV
. . . .I WILL NOT CUT A PERSON WHO IS SUFFERING WITH A STONE, BUT WILL LEAVE THIS TO BE DONE BY PRACTITIONERS OF THIS WORK. . . .
Two hours ago, they'd discovered Suzanne. Krastowitcz worried about Andrea. She'd withdrawn into herself. Not a word had passed her lips since. Most likely in shock, she'd drawn her legs up toward her stomach in the classic fetal position and she rocked back and forth. She clasped her arms tightly around her bloodstained knees, so tightly, white pressure points stood out.
At least her breathing had returned to normal, but she seemed oblivious to the commotion other officers created in their search of the office.
Her tomb-like silence filled the room.
Women were supposed to talk a lot, be able to express their feelings. But this one did nothing. Krastowitcz wished she would cry or do something he could comfort. He longed to touch her hand, shelter her in his arms. But duty lay with the investigation, at least, until the coroner's men finished.
He gazed around Grafton's office. Where the hell was George Iverson? Had he personally insisted on taking Grafton's blood sample to the Northwestern lab, himself? Shit! That was in Illinois. Odd.
Pictures were finally taken. Krastowitcz gazed at Suzanne, again. What a shame. Such a beautiful, vivacious woman, now so degraded and defiled. Almost as if she'd been unzipped, and her guts carefully placed around her on the floor.
Her eyes--those terror-laden eyes haunted Krastowticz. What must she have seen? The killer, maybe. And Trent. . . God, Trent! In Albuquerque. Only this morning he'd said Suzanne was the one; he wanted to make a commitment.
The assistant coroner touched his back and Krastowitcz jumped. "What's been keeping you?" he snapped. "Iverson back from Chicago, yet?"
The tall thin man rotated Suzanne's arm. "Naw, he's still there."
"Should you move her, yet?" The uncharacteristic, crime-lab behavior alarmed Krastowitcz. "They haven't taken pictures, or bagged anything."
"Got to. There's a bad pile up on the Interstate and we've four new bodies to take care of. It's no problem. Lab boys already got the pictures and George can't make a field sighting if he's not in town. I'll do the autopsy when I get back to the morgue. Meet me there."
"Isn't there anyone else?"
"You know the answer to that better than me. Why're you so jittery on this one, Big Guy?"
"She's a--was a friend of Trent's. And I've got a bad feeling. . ."
"Sorry, Gary. We've got to get going. George'll be back late tonight. See you."
Krastowitcz stalked back into the other office and bent down toward Andrea hoping to bring her out of her daze. "Andrea, I--ah. . ."
"What's the problem, officer?" Dwight Hardwyn stood in the doorway, his brows drawn in a puzzled look.
Krastowitcz glanced up; Andrea's gazed followed. Startled. Finally, a real reaction. Hardwyn hurried to her side and placed an arm around her.
"There's another murder, Dr. Hardwyn." Andrea's voice broke and she leaned her head against his chest. A brief pang of anger swelled inside Krastowitcz. She could've put her head on his chest, but he hadn't offered. What the hell was Hardwyn doing conveniently on the premises?
"Suzanne Latham," Krastowitcz said. "Andrea's--er--Dr. Pearson's roommate. Looks like she found something she shouldn't have in Grafton's office. Maybe the murderer; I don't know." He eyed Hardwyn suspiciously. "What're you doing here?"
The thin man stood and glared, meeting his gaze. Little man's syndrome. That's what it was. These jokers had to throw what weight they could around. Made them feel big.
"I got a call from Security. I'm always notified when police are involved. I'll handle the media. We're not going to hush this one up. What do I say?"
"Tell them we're doing all we can. Look, Dr. Pearson borders on shock. Let's get her out of here."
Hardwyn stroked her back with his hand, along the same route as Krastowitcz earlier. "Do you want me to help you, Andrea?"
She was different around Hardwyn. Maybe because he was Dean. She didn't care for him, could she? Krastowitcz disliked the smooth, cultured man more every minute. Right about now, he'd love to shove his pretty, pasty face right through a wall. He'd thought Andrea was beginning to like him. At dinner earlier, he'd almost forgotten it was business. There was too much pleasure involved.
Andrea's gaze met Krastowitcz's. She turned to Hardwyn.
"It's all right." Her lips wavered in a weak smile. "The Sergeant will take me home. I'm sure he has to ask questions."
Krastowitcz started toward Hardwyn. "I'll just--"
Hardwyn turned to Andrea. "I want to make sure that you're all--"
"Thanks," she said. "You've been so kind. I don't want to trouble you any more."