“Miss Alden, my name is Delgado. Detective Sebastian Delgado.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she answered automatically.
“Not half as pleased as I am to meet you.”
She studied him as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it on a coat rack in the corner. He was in his mid-thirties, she guessed, though at first glance his face made him look older-a long, narrow, angular face, vaguely patrician, lined with worry and saddened by heavy-lidded gray eyes under finely traced brows. His skin was dark; his hair, swept back from his forehead, was a deep lustrous black.
She’d seen that face before. Suddenly she knew why his name had been familiar.
“You’ve been on TV,” she said, then instantly regretted it. What a stupid thing to say.
But Delgado didn’t seem to think so. Turning to face her, he smiled, a surprisingly warm smile made of small white teeth. Quite an attractive smile, really.
“I’m afraid I’ll never have my own series, though,” he answered. The trace of a Spanish accent tinged his words; she liked it.
He kept looking at her, and she realized he was studying her, sizing her up. His eyes were alert, perceptive, intelligent. They were his best feature, she decided. Well, that and his smile.
She shifted nervously in her chair.
“I’ve never met a detective before,” she told him, for no particular reason except that she felt the need to say something, anything, right now.
“Well, I’ve never met anyone who survived an encounter with the Gryphon.”
“I came pretty close to not surviving.”
“Close doesn’t count. You made it. You’re alive.”
“I guess I am. It seems hard to believe. In fact, I’m not sure I do believe it yet. Any of it. It’s like… like a dream.”
He grunted. “I wish it were. For your sake and mine and… everybody’s. How’s your throat?”
She touched the bandage self-consciously. “It hurts a little. But it’s not serious. The garrote”- she drew a quick breath-“didn’t cut very deep.”
“Garrote?” He sat on the edge of his desk, leaning forward, and flipped open a memo pad. “Is that the weapon he used?”
“Uh-huh. Why? Does he usually do it some other way?”
“We’ve never known what the weapon was. I’d assumed it was a knife for, uh, for various reasons. But there was no way to tell.”
“Oh. Of course.” No heads, she remembered. Her stomach rolled.
“Can you tell me anything more about the garrote?” Delgado asked.
“I didn’t really get a look at it, but… but he described it to me. See, the garrote was around my neck, and he was standing behind me and whispering in my ear. He said it was a foot and a half of steel wire.” A shiver radiated through her as she remembered his low voice, his hot breath, the garrote’s chilling touch. “And he said-let’s see-he said it was homemade, and it had wooden dowels at both ends, for handles, and he could tighten the wire by twisting the handles.”
Delgado nodded slowly, scribbling in his notepad. “Homemade. That makes our job more difficult. If he’d bought it on the street, we might be able to… well, never mind.”
Wendy sighed. “I take it you don’t have any idea who this man is. No clues, no leads…?”
“Clues and leads, yes, a few. But if you’re asking me if we have a specific individual in mind, or even a list of individuals, the answer is no.”
“Must be tough to track down a killer with no motive.”
“Tough?” Delgado chuckled without humor. “Yes, you could say that. But perhaps you can make it a little easier. Did your assailant give any indication of why he’d chosen you?”
“No.”
“Did he suggest in any way that you might have met him previously?”
“You mean at a party or something?”
“Perhaps. Or in some business connection.”
“No. No, he didn’t say anything like that.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sure I’ve never met him. I couldn’t have.”
“You didn’t recognize his voice?”
“No.”
“Don’t answer too quickly. Think for a moment. Are you sure his voice didn’t remind you, even slightly, of someone with whom you might have come in contact, either in person or over the telephone? Perhaps an anonymous phone caller… or the mailman… or a neighbor you barely know.”
She shook her head. “It didn’t remind me of anyone. But he was whispering. I guess everybody’s voice sounds pretty much the same in a whisper.”
“Did any of his statements reveal personal knowledge of you?”
“Well, he knew my name.”
“How did he refer to you?”
“Miss Wendy Alden. Or just Miss Alden. He always said it that way, very polite.” She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Doesn’t that sound crazy, calling him polite? But you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” His gaze was suddenly faraway. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
Delgado stared into space a moment longer; she wondered what he was thinking of. Then with sudden energy he stood up.
“All right,” he said briskly. “What I’d like to do is go over this from the beginning. I want to know everything in detail, as much detail as you can remember, starting with…”
“Wait.” She swallowed. “There’s something I have to know first.” She took a breath, then asked the question that haunted her. “Who was killed in my apartment building tonight?”
Delgado looked down at his desk, his lips pursed, and made no reply.
“I know somebody was,” she went on urgently. Despite the water Sanchez had brought, her mouth was suddenly dry. “I heard about it in the police car, on the radio. Homicide, they said. A homicide at my address.”
“Miss Alden,” Delgado said slowly, “you’ve already been through a lot tonight. Wouldn’t it be better if…?”
“No, it wouldn’t be better. I need to know.” She would not be put off. Yesterday she would have meekly dropped the subject, but not now. She had faced the Gryphon. She could face this. “Who got killed instead of me? Tell me. Please.”
Delgado met her gaze. “As best we can determine, her name was Jennifer Kutzlow.”
Wendy stared at him, trying to take in what he’d said. A rush of blood thrummed in her ears with a conch-shell roar.
Jennifer.
Jennifer, who was always playing her record albums at a million decibels. Jennifer, who’d smiled at her just this morning, making small talk about the weather, before hurrying off to the airport. But Jennifer couldn’t be dead in her apartment; she was in Seattle, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she? She couldn’t have gotten back this soon. And, anyway, if she’d been home tonight, she would have been making a racket, like always.
Unless she was dead already… Unless he’d killed her first…
Did he kill Jennifer because he thought she was me? Wendy thought in trembling horror. Is that it? Did he think she was me?
“Miss Alden?” The voice was Delgado’s, and it came from some great distance. “Are you all right?” She couldn’t answer. “Miss Alden?”
“Don’t call me that,” she heard herself say. “That’s what he called me. Just say Wendy. That’s my name. Wendy.”
A hand was touching her arm. “Are you all right, Wendy?”
She looked at the hand. His hand. She realized he was leaning over her. Concern showed in his gray eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I… I’m fine.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said gently. “Was she a friend of yours?”
“No. Not really. Not at all, in fact. To tell you the truth, I thought she was kind of a bitch…” She hitched in a breath. “Oh, God, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“You’re doing just fine.”
She lowered her head. Her eyes were burning. “I hate this. I hate this so much.”
“I know it’s hard,” Delgado said softly. “But at least you got away. You made it. You’ve got to hold on to that. You’re alive.”
She looked at him. A new thought entered her mind.
“For how long?” she asked quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s still out there. He wants to kill me. He’ll try again.”