“Any luck?” she asked, her mouth full.
“A home west of Green Lake. Neighbor saw an exterminator casing the place.”
She stopped chewing and stared at him. Then, through the biscotti, she said, “Better than what I got.” She formed her fingers into a zero. “You check it out?”
“Promising. Chair aimed at a window on the second floor. I want to get back over there.”
“You mean you want me to get back over there,” she corrected, understanding him. “You? You’ve got kids and a wife to worry about.” She said quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He asked her, “What about Anderson’s security tape?”
“I’m through about half of it. It’s my late-night viewing-finger on the fast forward button. Not the best plot. I tend to fall asleep pretty quickly. And if you’re sending me out tonight …”
“I’m not sending anybody anywhere. I work upstairs.”
“I’m volunteering then,” she said. “The point is, I won’t be watching much tape. I’ll take the first shift. Eight to two. That okay?”
“It’s LaMoia’s call,” he reminded.
“You could always barge in on the four o’clock and see if Flemming’s boys would like to help out.”
He grinned. “What about-”
“Dixie did Anderson today,” she said, interrupting, referring to the medical examiner. Gaynes had a way of anticipating Boldt’s thoughts. It endeared her to him.
“All done?”
She nodded and said, “All but the pen and ink,” and continued to chew. “Guy did the rubber ducky all right. Hit his throat on the tub. But the tub didn’t do him. It was a twist to cervical vertebra number three. And that came before the rubber ducky by the Doc’s account.”
“Before.”
“Doc says the twist and shout came before the fall. It won’t get any better than theory. But he does have lividity and a hematoma to suggest blockage of the carotid artery-although the rubber ducky was a little too on target to be absolutely sure.”
“The doer knows his anatomy?”
“That rubber ducky was either done by someone hoping to intentionally muddle an autopsy or simply in a hurry trying to cover his crime, and he got lucky.”
“Carotid artery,” Boldt repeated. “Strangled? From behind?”
“Cervical vertebra three is what iced him,” she reminded. It was her turn to test him.
“From behind?” he guessed. The contact between the two might have explained the pollen being found on Anderson’s clothing, although he doubted it: The knees of Anderson’s pants had been covered with the yellow pollen.
“Snap, crackle, pop.”
“Anderson turned his back on his visitor-and good night. So it’s a person tall enough and strong enough to work Anderson from behind. A man as paranoid as Anderson. The two must have known each other. At the very least Anderson trusted him enough to invite him in.”
She asked, “One of his snitches? Someone like that? You start talking about the guy’s head and you sound more like Matthews than yourself, you know that?”
The comment stung him; he didn’t want anyone connecting them too closely. The ghost of their one night together, years earlier, still lingered. He had put it behind him, as had she.
Gaynes consumed the rest of the biscotti greedily and wiped ashen crumbs from her pouty lips. She carried a tomboy look, much of it from her man-tailored clothing. She said, “Doc has some more tests to run before it’s welded.”
“When it’s official, I want to know. Anderson’s important to us … to LaMoia,” he corrected.
She eyed him amusedly, but then her expression changed gravely. “A victim,” she whispered knowingly.
“Yes,” he conceded. If pieced together correctly, Andy Anderson could talk to him from the grave and lead him and the investigation to the Pied Piper. A victim. He prayed silently there would be no more.
CHAPTER 21
LaMoia entered the hotel lobby, anxious to see her. His pager had alerted him an hour earlier. The phone number belonged to The Inn at the Market, an upscale sixty-five-room hotel overlooking the Public Market and the churning marble green waters of Elliott Bay beyond.
He didn’t know where she came up with the money for these rooms. The Inn was pricey and didn’t rent by the hour. He supposed that she knew the right people-veteran captains often peddled their influence. Years of fighting the fight had its perks. Or perhaps the rumors that Sheila Hill’s East Coast heritage came complete with a trust fund were accurate. He had never had the nerve to ask.
She answered the door using it as a screen in case of any stray eyes in the hallway. Sheila Hill was careful. She wore a hotel robe and her hair pulled back, her cheeks flushed as if coming off a workout. The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower. His heart pounded at the sight of her. He missed her company while at work, bothered that their only contact was official.
She hung out the privacy tag and locked the door and pulled on the robe’s belt and it fell open, revealing her carefully waxed crotch and a smooth, tight stomach. “All work and no play,” she said. “It’s in the interest of the task force that you’ve come here.”
She affected him both emotionally and physically. Something new for him. Like a thirsty animal to water, he needed to fill her, to hear her cry out for him. But he wanted her laugh as well, her ideas, her insight-she understood people so completely-her calm guidance, her company. He unbuttoned his shirt, unfastened his rodeo belt and opened his jeans. She fell to her knees.
“Let’s wait a minute,” he complained, stunned by his own words. He always pursued the physical women, the hungry women. Since when did he want to talk? He hardly knew himself.
She stood and turned to the wall.
Spreading her legs, she said, “Take me. Now. Right here.”
She leaned against the louvered mirror that served as the closet door and watched.
LaMoia obeyed, driven frantically to please her. The smells and sounds overcame them both. “Faster, and harder,” she ordered in a tone that he found demeaning. She was not his lover, but the captain ordering this.
“We have work to do,” he said, briefly staying with a rhythm she suggested with her hips.
“You’re doing yours right now,” she returned. “I’ll handle the investigation.”
He withdrew from her. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“You bastard.” She spun around, a playful expression creasing her face as she decided he was simply toying with her.
LaMoia walked slowly backward into the room, Sheila Hill pursuing him in matched steps. “What now?” she asked. “All fours?”
“I’m not your play toy,” he complained.
“Of course you are.” She approached, both hands suddenly busy on her own body. She knew him and his pressure points. “That’s exactly what you are. You love it. We both love it. Because it comes without baggage. But it comes, and it comes hard.” She repeated, “What now? You want to watch?”
He did want to watch-she knew this about him-but he was too far along to stand back and do so. He stepped forward, turned her, and threw her to the bed. She laughed as she bounced. “You’re so easy,” she said. “It drives you crazy when I do that, doesn’t it?”
“Shut up!”
“Make me.”
In the minutes that passed, she gasped between surges of pleasure, her back arched, her smiles twisted and pained.
When it was over, she lay on the bed a glowing ruby, spent and exhausted. LaMoia showered. He returned to find her in the exact same position, but her eyes were open, deliriously taking in the whiteness of the ceiling and the flashing light of the smoke detector.
“Let’s take room service,” she suggested.
“Let’s talk about the surveillance-”
“It can wait. You made the assignments. Everyone’s in place. We have our pagers. We do room service, and another go.”
“I just showered,” he complained.
“And you will again.”
She laughed and sat up on the bed. She looked older and more worn. He wasn’t sure what he was doing there. He wasn’t sure how to leave. It was going wrong for him.