Midnight Redeemer Page 7

  "A lot of pressure is going to be put on you until your project gets under way,” he continued, his slow smile supplying all the leeway of thumbscrews. “I want you to know, there will be no interference from me in that decision.” His smile tightened, letting her know that it wasn't his generosity, but the terms of Redman's grant, that kept him from interfering.

  "I appreciate that."

  "To free you up for the additional administrative work you'll be doing, I've assigned you an assistant. We can't have you burning the candle at both ends, now can we?"

  An assistant? She straightened in her chair, wary and not exactly overjoyed by the offer until she discovered what puppeteer's strings were attached.

  Forrester tapped a button on his massive intercom system. “I'd like you to meet Frank Cobb. He'll be your new right hand on this project."

  She never heard him enter the room, but there he was at her elbow. She nearly jumped out of her pantyhose. One quick overview told her everything: high and tight cropped hair, granite jaw, shirt collar a size too small, which made him look as though he was strangling in his own properly knotted tie, cheap, sensible shoes. A government stooge sent to spy on her.

  Damn!

  "Mr. Cobb, welcome aboard.” She extended her hand and his engulfed it for a no-nonsense press. The fact that he didn't react to her sultry delivery and ambiguous words by lowering his gaze to her bust line clinched her suspicions. Fed. No sense of humor and no sex drive—at least while on duty.

  And it was obvious to her that Mr. Cobb's duty was to watch her every move.

  "I'm looking forward to working with you, Ms. Kimball."

  "Dr. Kimball,” she corrected with a frosty smile.

  His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners in acknowledgment of her ire. Good. They understood each other.

  Smugly certain that his plan had gone off without a hitch, Forrester sat back with a magnanimous wave. “I think you'll find Mr. Cobb most useful, Stacy. So, when do you think you'll have your decision on the project made?"

  The use of her first name wasn't lost on Stacy. The implied intimacy meant she was now a team player. She smiled wryly. “I'd like to touch base with Mr. Redman one more time. I should have everything in place by the first of the week, providing Redman is agreeable."

  "Where you are concerned, he seems to be. Keep up the good relations. Redman could be a valuable resource."

  Forrester thought she was sleeping with him.

  Her initial outrage tempered with cunning, Stacy saw the advantage of her boss's misconception. Besides being insulting, it also gave her leverage as Redman's supposed lover. Let him think what he liked as long as it didn't interfere with her work. Now, that just left the problem of her watchdog who followed her dutifully to her lab.

  "What can I do for you, Dr. Kimball?"

  She turned to face him, blocking the entrance to her domain. “You can stay the hell out of my way, Cobb. If I catch you snooping through my papers or messing with my research, you'll be out of here so fast, you'll have to overnight express yourself to catch up with the butt I'm going to kick through this door. Got it?"

  "Yes, ma'am.” Again, the rather attractive crinkles of the smile he wouldn't release appeared at the corners of his eyes. “But what can I do in the meantime?"

  "Coffee. Black. And fresh brewed. Can you handle that, Rambo?"

  "I think so."

  "Good. Then maybe we'll get along after all."

  When he went to see to the task, she entered her lab, pausing to assess the huge bouquet of Calla lilies situated on her desktop. A gift of appreciation and welcome to their exclusive upstairs club.

  Carefully, she picked up the granite bowl and set the flowers aside, hoping the choice wasn't prophetic, that this project wouldn't be the death of her.

  And as she worked for the remainder of the afternoon, sipping from cups of excellent coffee, Cobb stayed outside her area, watchful but not intrusive. Best of all, he kept others away who would have bombarded her with their own ideas and plans for the grant money. She pretended not to see her coworkers’ confused entreaties as she poured over her notes and texts, assembling an outline to present to Redman. A project that would be mutually beneficial.

  "Doc, I hate to interrupt you, but you've got a special delivery here."

  She glanced up from the computer screen, pleased to note that Cobb hadn't stepped inside her boundaries. He was in the doorway, a plain parcel in hand.

  "Who's it from?” Her voice sounded cranky. Weariness, stress, anxiety. Face it, she wasn't Cinderella on the best of days.

  He studied the box. “There isn't a return. Maybe I should open it for you."

  His caution got the better of her bad mood. Stretching to relieve the past few hour's accumulation of kinks, she then stood and went to take the package from him. “I appreciate your paranoia, Mr. Cobb, but I don't normally receive letter bombs at work."

  His smile was thin and humorless—Fed-like. “There's always that first time that blows you away."

  "Stand down, soldier. I'll take my chances."

  She carried the box to her immaculate work station, a startling contrast to her home spaces. Who could have sent her a gift? Then she remembered Louis's promise of a gown to replace the one the protesters had ruined. Was this that replacement? The thought pleased her inordinately. After giving the small rectangle a curious assessment—must be a very tiny dress, indeed—she tore into the unmarked paper. A shoe box? Someone was sending her footwear?

  Pulling off the lid, she stared inside the container, dismay tightening her features.

  "What is it, Doc?"

  She didn't respond—couldn't respond through the wad of horror and bile thickening in her throat. Then Cobb was there beside her, not awaiting her invitation.

  "It's a shoe,” he stated in flat bewilderment.

  Stacy slapped the lid down before Cobb had a chance to reach inside. “Yeah, someone's idea of a joke."

  A sick, sick joke. Her stomach jumped, ping ponging off all the caffeine and threatening to reject the turkey sandwich she'd had for lunch.

  What she had in the box was evidence. But why send it to her? For what purpose? A warning? A challenge? Who knew she'd been to see Charlie, or that she'd be aware of the shoe's significance? Well, just maybe she wasn't up to playing someone's decidedly unfunny game.

  The sight of the sparkling, sequined tennis shoe sent a shaft of mortality stabbing right to her core.

  "Are you all right, Doc? Do you want me to get you some water or something?"

  Or something. She wanted him to take the box from her sight so she might pretend she never saw the contents and thus now was faced with what to do about it.

  "I'm fine, Cobb. Just tired. I'm going to knock off. You go ... do whatever it is that you do."

  "I'll see you in the morning, then."

  "I'll be looking forward to it."

  Her pale attempt at expected sarcasm alarmed more than it reassured. Cobb paused, obviously in a quandary.

  "Good night, Mr. Cobb,” she said with more authority, finally convincing him that she wasn't going to fly into hysterics or do something worth reporting to his superiors. He left as silently as he'd arrived.

  Her first impulse was to shove the box and its damning contents down the hazardous waste chute. Rational thought stopped her. It was evidence from a crime scene. It might contain fingerprints from the killer or other trace evidence. It needed to go to the police.

  And the minute she handed it over, there would be questions. And she would have to come up with answers. About her involvement in the case, unofficial as it was. And she would have to implicate both Charlie and the young police officer. And reveal her suspicions about Redman. She surrendered to a moment of awful projected consequence.

  The situation wasn't acceptable.

  Carefully, she picked up both box and wrapping and placed them inside the tote bag she sometimes used to carry extra files home in. She might be breaking the law, but she would do everyt
hing possible to keep from destroying any potential clues. Carrying it and her briefcase, she left the building, riding the elevator alone into the parking structure.

  She started walking, keeping out in the center of the lane. Her footsteps cast a single pattern of sound. Then, from someplace in the cavernous garage, metal danced off concrete, setting her nerves up on toe shoes. Glancing about in a rapid sweep, she quickened her pace, nearly jogging by the time she reached her car. Keys jangled in her trembling fingers. The door flew open, banging her hip with a protrusion of chrome. Her curse echoed colorfully as she tossed her belongings into the passenger seat, slid beneath the wheel and locked the door. She exhaled in shaky relief as the big V-8 growled to life.

  Snapping on her seat belt, she shifted into reverse, glanced into the rear view and then turned toward her side door. The sight of a man standing close enough to block her vision brought an involuntary scream she quickly bit back as Frank Cobb stooped down to peer in, his face inscrutable. Repressing the urge to flail him alive with the sharp edges of her fear, Stacy rolled down the window. Before she could accuse him of trying to scare the liver out of her, he pointed to the garage floor.

  "You're leaking antifreeze. You might want to get that looked at when you have time."

  She could only stare at him, the word antifreeze as foreign in her panicked mind as some Federal cryptographer's code.

  Then without an apology for nearly bringing on heart failure, he straightened and was gone before she had a chance to run him down in retribution for the fright he'd given her.

  "Damn, sneaky Feds,” she muttered as she rolled up the window. For the longest moment she sat frozen behind the wheel, listening to the hum of the heater and the static crackling from her underpowered radio. Slowly, she forced a swallow and made her hand reach for the shift again.

  Her heart rhythm didn't return to normal until she'd reached her apartment complex.

  * * * *

  From the shadowed niche of the elevator bank, Frank Cobb lit a cigarette and watched her drive away. He drew a long drag then said, “She's a pistol, all right."

  "And a damned fine geneticist,” Forrester added.

  "So why the cloak and dagger? You suspect her of smuggling secrets or something?"

  Forrester gave him a chilling stare. “It's not your job to ask questions, Cobb. All I want from you is what you see and hear."

  "Yes, sir. That's what I do best. Seems odd to waste the taxpayers’ money on a damned fine employee if you trust them."

  "Trust is a subjective word, Mr. Cobb. Dr. Kimball has recently been awarded a very lucrative grant from a very secretive man. Louis Redman is someone Harper has wanted in their pocket for a long time. Any information you can get linking the two of them together for whatever purpose can only be beneficial."

  "You want me to peek in the windows and take dirty pictures?” He was careful not to betray his disgust.

  "I want to know why Redman picked her out of all our other ‘damned fine’ scientists. If there's nothing to find, there's nothing to find. But if something's up, I want to know about it. Got it, Mr. Cobb?"

  Cobb snubbed out his half-smoked cigarette beneath the toe of his shoe, having lost the taste for it and the conversation.

  "Crystal clear, Mr. Forrester."

  * * * *

  As Stacy juggled her purse, package and briefcase, her cell phone began to ring. Pushing inside her apartment, she dropped her parcels and locked the door, dead bolt and all, behind her before flipping her phone open.

  It was Fitzhugh returning her call.

  His youthful voice was a refreshing dash of reality. Just what the doctor ordered.

  Before she could stop herself, she broke another of her cardinal rules by asking in a breathless voice, “Could you come over?"

  * * * *

  Ken Fitzhugh stood in the doorway of Stacy Kimball's apartment, overwhelmed by one observation.

  What a pig sty!

  For a woman as together as the gorgeous Ms. Kimball, the home she lived in was little better than a hovel. There was probably furniture under the mountainous heaps of magazines and junk mail. A rug was most certainly beneath the overflow of paper and pools of abandoned outerwear and empty boxes but not enough of it was available to discern pattern or color through the mess and dust.

  "Come on in,” she called, disappearing through the maze of teetering periodicals into what was supposed to serve as a dining area. A computer and scattered files covered the small table, and more paperwork occupied the cheaply covered café chairs. The countertop beyond was a jumble of empty snack cracker and cereal boxes, more mail, unopened, and a jungle assortment of dead houseplants whose mummified leaves littered the kitchen-area floor. Dirty glasses and coffee cups made pyramids in the double sink. A coffee maker with a permanent eight cup stain line displayed a half inch of questionably aged fur-topped liquid. He didn't want to see what the refrigerator held. Probably mold and spore samples not of scientific origin.

  "Forgive the mess,” she muttered in an absent aside. “I'd offer you a seat, but there probably isn't one."

  He waited while she lit another cigarette from the stub still clenched between trembling lips. It flared and caught and quickly replaced the end she smashed out in an overflowing ash tray. With cigarette in one hand and a glass of something on the rocks in the other, she gestured for him to follow into her living room. There was one empty chair and she dropped into it without apology, stretching long legs out in front of her at odd angles, like a discarded marionette.

  "Bad day?” he ventured, wresting his gaze from those sleek calves and firm, rounded thighs. She was either into jogging, had a gym membership or a treadmill hidden beneath some of the junk in the living room. She had an athlete's legs. Strong, very nice.

  "A strange day,” she corrected, dragging herself up into a sitting position as she dragged deeply on the Kool filtertip. Her manicured fingers played with the sides of a box that rested on a pizza carton on the table in front of her. Finally, she pushed it toward him. “I got this at work today. Be careful of prints."

  Curiously, he used the tip of his ballpoint to nudge up the lid. He blinked at the gaudy shoe inside. “And this means, what?"

  "The other shoe was on an unfortunate new resident of the morgue. A guest with marks on the side of her neck."

  He blinked again, considering her take on the relevance. “Why do you think someone sent this to you? Do you have some kind of link to this case other than what we talked about earlier?"

  She shook her head, but deception clouded the gaze she wouldn't lift to meet his.

  "Did you ask me here just to show me this?"

  She pulled on the cigarette, exhaling a thick stream of smoke to momentarily mask her expression. When it cleared, he saw concern and fear there in those lovely contours.

  "It might contain evidence you can use to find the killer. For my own reasons, I don't want to be the one to surrender it over to the investigators in charge. Could you say someone left it in your patrol car? That way it could get to the lab without a link back to me."

  She must have seen the reluctance in his face, for she heaved a weary sigh and covered her eyes with her free hand. “I know it's too much to ask. I knew before I called you."

  "All right."

  She peeked cautiously between her fingers. “What?"

  "All right. I'll say it was left anonymously. If the lab boys come up with something, we'll go from there."

  Her smile was shaky, bordering on sloppy drunk, but the alcohol didn't affect the graceful way she unwound from the chair to approach him. Her lips pressed warm and all too brief against his cheek, giving him the fleeting impression of perfume, scotch, Kools and desirable woman.

  "Fitz, you are a prince among men."

  He felt himself stiffen. “Hardly."

  While she bundled the box up in some sort of plastic grocery bag to protect against outside contamination—though just exposure to her apartment would be enough to rate a to
xic hazard—she passed him the parcel as if it contained dangerous biomaterial. And that anxious movement prompted him to ask, “Are you all right, Ms. Kimball?"

  "Better now,” she confided as he took the sack. “But there is one more thing, one more favor you could do for me."

  Why did he just know it would be another impossible request?

  "Louis Redman."

  "What about him?"

  "I need someone to watch him, to chart his comings and goings."

  "You think he's the killer?"

  "Let's just say I think he warrants a good hard look, but it's too early to call it full-blown suspicion. I'll pay for the surveillance. I just didn't know who to ask."

  "I know a couple of guys drawing disability that could use the extra cash. I'll set something up."

  "Ken."

  Her hand touched his arm, arresting movement and even thought.

  "I don't have to remind you that this is all confidential."

  He smiled reassuringly. “Mum's the word."

  Anything for the lovely Ms. Kimball.

  * * * *

  After Fitzhugh had gone, relieving the majority of her anxieties, Stacy poured another glass of Dewers and gave a jump as the phone rang. It was late, approaching ten. As she reached for the receiver, she knew from the square knots forming in her belly who was on the other end.

  "Ms. Kimball ... Stacy? It's Louis Redman. We need to talk.

  Chapter Seven

  The old brick and classic cornices of the Easton Hotel sat nestled between the glazed glass and soaring steel of modern Seattle, appearing as innocuous as a rotary dial on a fax machine. Once the residence of the lumber tycoons, it now housed the city's wealthy eccentrics who preferred not to move on with the times. A uniformed guard at the door kept the unwanted away. Visitors were screened and directed to an elevator that only opened upon a particular guest's floor. A top level mobster now retired, a former senator's mistress, and Louis Redman were said to be inhabitants, but no names were listed on mail boxes or call phones. A bastion of security where one paid the high price for privacy.

  Stacy paused, prepared to show ID to the guard but obviously he was waiting for her, for he waved her right in and pressed six for the building's top floor. The doors to the elevator sighed shut, and on the smooth ride up, Stacy had plenty of time to rethink her visit.