Читать книгу Dear Maggie - Бренда Новак - Страница 11

WHAT WAS GOING ON? Lowell Atkinson, the county coroner, had always been helpful to Maggie before. She’d sent his wife Mary Ann flowers when she’d delivered her last baby. She’d gotten Zach and the Atkinsons’ Katie together for a picnic last summer. She could hardly believe he’d treat her so impersonally now. When she’d arrived at his office to request a copy of the coroner’s report on the Dumpster murder, he’d claimed he hadn’t finished it, said he’d call her when he had. But when she’d pressed him for a verbal explanation of his findings, he’d told her he hadn’t even done the autopsy yet.

Bull. Maggie knew better. The police were under a lot of pressure to solve such a high-profile case. They wouldn’t let Lowell store the victim in his morgue for over a week. They’d probably had his report in their hands the following day, but her police contacts weren’t talking, either. And to top it all off, Ben, her editor, was riding her hard, expecting a follow-up to the story they’d run last week—a follow-up she couldn’t conjure from thin air. She needed answers, and she needed them fast.

Frustrated, she set her purse on the desk and slumped into her seat, wondering where to go from here. Detectives Hurley and Mendez had the case. She doubted they’d talk to her when no one else on the force would, but it was worth a chance.

She fished her police roster out of her drawer and dialed, but Lopez, the sergeant at the front desk, said they were both out. She considered leaving a message, decided against it and hung up, hoping to catch them later. In the meantime, she’d get organized.

She was clearing off her desk when she noticed a sticky note from Darla attached to the partition directly in front of her, next to her photographs of Zach.

“Before we join a dating service, let’s try some online sites,” it said. “They’re free.”

Maggie had never actually gone into a singles chat room before. She’d surfed the Web a lot and grown compulsive about e-mail, but she wasn’t sure online dating would work. How could she and Darla meet men via the Internet who lived close enough for dating purposes? What if she found a man who seemed interesting and he lived in Florida, for Pete’s sake? A pen pal wouldn’t exactly fill the gap in her life.

Still, she liked the idea of socializing from behind the safety of her computer screen while Zach played at her feet. No baby-sitter needed. No fuss. No awkward moments. No fears or worries if she stayed in control of the situation. Visiting chat rooms might help pass the long, lonely evenings before she went to work. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt that she could subsidize the fun with some frozen yogurt from her own freezer.

“What do you think?” Darla asked, coming into her cubicle before Maggie had a chance to make a firm decision.

“What about the risks? We could end up attracting weirdos. Cyber nuts,” she said, determined to consider every angle.

Darla frowned. “That might be true. I’ve heard some scary stories. We’ll just have to be careful.”

“How will we know when it’s safe to reveal our name and number?”

“We’ll get to know the guy first.”

“And how will we determine when we ‘know’ him?”

“We’ll just have to play it by ear, I guess.”

Maggie rested her head in one hand and regarded Darla skeptically. “You’re going to get me in trouble, aren’t you? I can tell already.”

Darla smiled, sorted through Maggie’s side drawer and helped herself to a piece of gum from the pack she kept there. “I think it’s time to mix things up around here. I think it’s time for a little trouble,” she said and headed back to her own desk.

“What are friends for?” Maggie muttered, but Darla couldn’t hear her. She was gone for a moment before popping back in to hand her a new sticky note.

“Here. This is where we’ll go. Log on tonight at eight. I’ll meet you there.”

Maggie read Darla’s loopy handwriting directing her to a chat room called Twenties Love. “You might be only twenty-six, but I just turned thirty,” she protested. “I have no business in Twenties Love.”

Darla shrugged. “Okay. Older men are fine by me. We’ll go to Thirties Love, then.”

“I don’t know.” Maggie rubbed her pencil between her hands until the friction warmed her palms. “I’m still leaning toward the dating service. Their questionnaire asks what I’m looking for in appearance.” She grinned. “I was planning on checking the box ‘moderately attractive’ so the guy wouldn’t hold my red hair against me.”

“Your hair isn’t red. It’s auburn, and it’s beautiful.”

“No one likes red hair.”

“Men are crazy about red hair.”

“Tim was paranoid our baby would have red hair.”

“Tim was always trying to hurt you.”

Her ex had definitely succeeded there. But he’d toughened her a lot, too, and Tim was old news, anyway.

Maggie pulled the dating service’s questionnaire out of her desk. “Well, I was also planning to check the box that said I was moving in six months, you know, as sort of a safety precaution.”

Darla propped her hands on her hips. “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve already decided to lie on almost every question.”

“Not every question. They don’t ask about my weight.”

“Like you’d need to lie about your weight.” She shook her head. “Okay, what would you put under ‘athletic interest’? Very active, active, occasionally active or does not matter?”

“Very active, of course.”

“You call grocery shopping once a week very active?”

“No, but everyone knows an active woman is more appealing than an inactive one.”

“You see, Maggie? Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

“Yeah, that I’m not stupid enough to put ‘inactive.’”

“No. That other people are probably doing the same thing you are, giving answers they think the opposite sex wants to hear, instead of the truth.”

Maggie chewed her lip. Darla had a point. What if men were putting “advanced degree” when, in reality, the only thing they’d ever graduated from was juvenile hall to the state pen?

Grabbing the note with the chat room information on it, Maggie scratched out Twenties Love and wrote a big 3-0, then tacked it up on her wall so she wouldn’t forget. “Okay. We go with the Web. It’s no less safe, and it’s free, right?”

“Right.” Darla tossed her hair over her shoulder. “See you in virtual reality.”

HOW WOULD HE KNOW when she logged on?

Nick sat in front of his laptop computer, his dog’s muzzle on his leg, reading the comments of people already in the chat room and hoping he’d be able to recognize Maggie’s “voice” when he heard it. He’d logged on around seven-thirty, wanting to be there when she arrived, figuring that the timing of her appearance would somehow tip him off if nothing in her screen name or comments did. But it was after eight now, and he doubted she was anyone he’d met so far.

Was he in the wrong place? He glanced down at the note he’d snatched from Maggie’s cubicle. He had the right server.

Twenties Love had been covered by a numerical Thirty, but after scanning all the chat rooms, he decided it could only mean Thirties Love. So where were they?

They could have changed their minds about coming, but that didn’t seem likely. He’d heard Darla talking about the chat room in the parking lot after work—and so had anyone else within a block radius. Darla kept nothing secret. He smiled at the many comments the tall blonde had made about him, both good and bad, not realizing he was listening to every word. He wondered if she’d be embarrassed if she knew, then decided she wouldn’t bother with anything as inhibiting as embarrassment.

Maggie, on the other hand, would be mortified to learn he’d heard so much of their conversations. He knew he made her nervous, that she didn’t want anything to do with him. Her flat refusal to go out with him had told him that. But he couldn’t protect her and his cover as one of the Trib’s photographers unless he drew a little closer. So, with any luck, he was about to become her best friend—

Hey, Mntnbiker, you just lurking or what? You the shy type?

Dancegirl was talking to him. She’d been flirting with several of the men. She’d said she was from Washington, but Nick had no idea if she meant Washington state or Washington DC. At that point, he’d known she wasn’t Maggie and started skimming.

Just quiet, he wrote.

Dancegirl: Well, join the fun. Tell us, if you had to liken yourself to an animal, which one would you pick?

Two new names appeared on his screen, one right after the other, and Nick smiled. Zachman and Catlover could only be Maggie and Darla. Maggie had a son named Zach. His pictures covered her whole office. And no one was crazier about cats than Darla. He relaxed, knowing he’d found them, and answered Dancegirl.

Mntnbiker: I’d be a Rottweiler.

Dancegirl: A dog? Why?

Because it’s the first thing that came to my mind.

Mntnbiker: They’re smart and loyal and fierce in a fight.

He scratched behind his dog’s ears. Rambo opened his droopy eyes to acknowledge the touch, looking anything but fierce, then went back to dozing.

Mntnbiker: What about you?

Dancegirl: I’d be a horse.

Nick knew his next question was supposed to be why, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in Dancegirl. So he moved to edge out a guy named Pete 010, who was welcoming Maggie to the chat and trying to draw her into a conversation about skiing.

Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman?

Zachman: I’m sorry. I’m new at this. What was the question?

Mntnbiker: If you had to liken yourself to an animal, which one would you choose?

Catlover: I’d be a Siamese cat.

Zachman: I suppose I’d be a mourning dove.

Pete 010: Why a mourning dove?

Catlover: Because they mate for life, right, Zachy? You’re so sentimental.

Mntnbiker: There’s nothing wrong with that.

Unless you were like him and had no plans to marry and settle down.

Zachman: Beats the heck out of being a lioness and having to do all the work.

Catlover: I kind of fancy a black widow myself.

Pete 010: Watch out, guys.

Catlover: Just joking. I’m a nice girl, I swear.

Redrocket: Okay, enough inane drivel about animals. It’s time to spice things up. Let’s rate our last lovers.

Pete 010: I’ve forgotten. It’s been too long since I’ve had one.

Nick chuckled to himself. Either Pete 010 was trying to garner sympathy, or he was just too honest for his own good.

Dancegirl: On a scale of 1–10, I’d give mine a 5. He was more interested in watching television than he was in me.

Catlover: Mine wasn’t so bad in bed, but he was hell on my long-distance bill.

Wondering what Maggie’s love life was like, Nick waited for her to comment. When she didn’t, he joined the conversation to keep it alive. He didn’t relish the idea of talking about Irene, or even thinking about her, for that matter—he hated the wave of guilt that engulfed him every time he did. But he answered honestly, anyway.

Mntnbiker: I thought I was in love with mine. That made the sex great.

Zachman: What happened?

Apparently he hadn’t been as in love as he’d thought. When their relationship progressed to the point where she started pressing him to marry her, he’d finally agreed, then bolted the day of the wedding. The reception had to be canceled, all the gifts returned. Irene hated him now, and he didn’t blame her. But neither did he regret his decision to call it off.

In the end, we weren’t right for each other, he typed, wanting to keep things vague. He certainly wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but at least he understood himself better now. He might flirt with the idea of marriage, but deep down he wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices such a commitment would require. His job wasn’t very conducive to permanence in anything, which contributed to the problem.

Zachman: I’m sorry.

Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman? How would you rate your last lover?

Zachman: That’s tough to say. I’ve only had one. I don’t have anything to compare him against.

Catlover: Come on, I’ve heard enough about him to know he couldn’t be more than a 2 or a 3.

Pete 010: All women say they’ve only been with one or two partners.

Catlover: With Zachman it’s true. She’s the shy, inhibited type. She doesn’t know what good sex is all about.

Zachman: Someday I’ll find the right man.

The image of Maggie as he’d like to photograph her came instantly to Nick’s mind. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was in Sacramento to catch a killer, not to volunteer for a sex-education course.

Pete 010: Hey, you don’t need love for good sex. I don’t know why women always think that.

Zachman: Maybe some people don’t, but I do.

Redrocket: What happened to your 2 or 3, Zachman? He’s gone, I take it.

Zachman: I wanted a child. Tim initially agreed but ultimately wasn’t interested. I couldn’t take the indifference or the neglect.

Mntnbiker: Do you regret pushing for a child?

Zachman: No, I’d rather have Zach. One hug from him is worth more than anything I ever got from Tim.

Catlover: That’s because Tim withheld affection as a form of punishment.

Zachman: Jeez, are these chats really supposed to get so personal? What happened to our discussion about animals?

Dancegirl: Yeah, no one ever asked me why I wanted to be a horse.

Redrocket: Wait, I haven’t rated my last lover—

Redrocket and several others expounded on the strengths or shortcomings of their past partners for a few minutes, then Nick saw Zachman disappear from his screen. Catlover left soon after. Evidently, they hadn’t found the chat room to be the singles haven they were looking for. But he didn’t mind. He’d met Maggie, discovered her personal e-mail address and established a frame of reference so he could contact her again.

For now, that was enough.

ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Maggie kicked off her slippers, which were too hot for a Sacramento summer, and sank down in front of her computer. She lived in Midtown, in an old home she’d bought with her divorce settlement when she left Los Angeles two years ago. Half the buildings on her street had been converted to small offices or retail establishments, creating a mixed neighborhood that included tenants, owners and residents from many different nationalities, along with some of Sacramento’s homeless. There were no large grocery stores, no sprawling shopping centers, only small independently-owned corner grocers, trendy coffee shops and a spattering of secondhand stores. But Maggie liked where she lived. Midtown had color and character. It had old-fashioned architecture that wasn’t quite as impressive as that found in the Fabulous 40s, several streets of beautiful old homes just a few miles away, but the neighborhood had plenty of potential. Her own house only wanted a good coat of paint and some work on the worn-out, shabby yard—something she intended to do when she had enough money and time. Meanwhile, she was removing the wallpaper in her bedroom, large bunches of faded pink roses that looked very much like something her great-aunt Rita would have chosen.

Actually, the whole house looked like Aunt Rita—aging under protest—but Maggie had big plans for it. She gazed at the black night outside and wondered if she should start by taking down the iron bars that covered the front windows. According to her neighbor, the previous owner was an old widower, who had wanted to install them all around, but when he passed away, his son inherited the house and didn’t finish the job. Maggie thought the bars were quite an eyesore, but then she remembered that Sarah Ritter’s body had been found only a few blocks away and decided she’d keep the ones she had.

Glancing at her watch to make sure it wasn’t too late, she called Detective Mendez on his car phone. She hadn’t been able to reach either detective since Lowell Atkinson had put her off two days ago. She always got routed to voice mail, and they hadn’t responded to her messages. Still, she was determined to lay hands on the coroner’s report, even if she had to camp out in Lowell’s front yard starting tomorrow morning.

“Yo, Detective Mendez here.”

Maggie sat up in surprise. Evidently miracles did happen. “Detective? This is Maggie Russell with the Sacramento—”

“Tribune. I know who you are. Dammit, don’t you people ever let up? It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night.”

“If you’ve checked your voice mail, you know I tried to reach you earlier. I called at least five times today. Yesterday it was eight.”

“And the day before that it was three. I got your messages, Ms. Russell, but I’m a busy man. What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing a follow-up article on the Ritter murder and was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

He hesitated. “Sure. And here are my answers: it’s an isolated incident. We’re making progress. We’ll catch the bastard.”

What? “I wasn’t going to ask if it was an isolated incident, Detective Mendez. Why should I?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“You anticipated the question. You must have had some reason.”

“Don’t twist my words, Ms. Russell. I’ve already given you my statement.”

“So you have. And it was gem, let me tell you. There’s just one more thing. I’d like to see a copy of the coroner’s report.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, excuse me. I’ll drive it right over.”

Maggie ignored his sarcasm. “Fax would be fine. Or I’ll pick it up at the station. You name the day and time.”

“I’m booked up through next week. How about the following Friday?”

What was this guy’s problem? “At least your buddies on the force are pretending to cooperate with the press.”

“I’m not going to insult you by playing games.”

“Well, you’re doing a good job of insulting me without it. So what’s the big secret?”

“No secret. A woman was killed. We’re looking for her murderer. I have enough to do without chronicling my every move for you.”

“Sorry, I don’t believe this murder was an isolated incident—at least not anymore. Who else was killed, Detective? Has there been another victim?”

Mendez cursed, then the phone clicked and he was gone.

What a jerk, Maggie fumed. If this guy thought he could shut her out that easily, he had a shock coming his way. This story might very well be her ticket to a promotion, a raise and some respect. And after what she’d sacrificed to make Tim happy, heaven knew she’d do almost anything to be able to take a little pride in her work.

“Mommy? I have to go potty.”

Zach stood in her doorway, rubbing his sleepy blue eyes. Earlier they’d watched a Disney movie together and he’d fallen asleep before she could help him through his nightly routine. Smiling at his tousled blond hair and round soft cheeks, she scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom.

When she’d tucked her son snugly into bed, she returned to her bedroom and cranked up the air-conditioning unit in the window. If it was this hot at night on the first of June, she was going to be in trouble later. The wallpaper, the yard, the paint, everything would have to wait until she paid for central air. She couldn’t take another summer like the last one. Zach had a fan in his room, but it would never be enough.

Sitting down at her computer again, she signed on to the Internet, intending to pull up newspapers from around the country. Mendez had claimed Ritter’s murder was an isolated incident, but he’d volunteered the information before she’d even asked and he’d said it in a defensive tone. Why? Was he afraid she might connect this attack with something else? There’d been nothing like it in Sacramento, at least not since she’d come to town, but perhaps there’d been other murders elsewhere. If so, the police could very well have a serial killer on their hands. And that would certainly make them cranky.

“You’ve got mail,” her computer cheerily informed her.

Maggie clicked on her mailbox to find a message from her mother in Iowa, a joke from Aunt Rita, who lived with her mother, spam from travel agencies and credit card companies and a whole bunch of junk mail forwarded to her by Darla. At the very bottom she found a message from someone called Mntnbiker.

Who was that? she wondered, but before the message appeared on her screen, she remembered. Oh, yeah, the guy from the chat.

Zachman,

You seemed a little shy the other night, so I thought I’d drop you a line to see if you might be interested in getting to know me via e-mail. I don’t usually join chats and think it’s pretty hard to decide what people are really like in that forum. Those rooms can get crowded and noisy, and the subjects people talk about can be either boring or a little over the top. Anyway, if you’re already involved with someone or you’re not interested, no problem. Just thought I’d make contact.

Friends?

John

“Well what do you know,” she murmured. “Mntnbiker’s name is John.” She hit the reply button but before she could type anything, an instant message popped up from Darla.

Catlover: What are you doing tonight, Mags?

Maggie thought about telling Darla she was planning to scour the country for articles of murders like Sarah Ritter’s, then decided against it. Darla didn’t have the stomach for the gritty details involved with following the cop beat, and Maggie was probably wasting her time, anyway.

Zachman: Just messing around on the net.

Catlover: Anything fun?

Zachman: No.

Catlover: Nick Sorenson talk to you last night?

Zachman: He wasn’t in the office.

Catlover: Oh, so you know he was out. You keeping tabs on him now?

Maggie didn’t want to admit it, but glancing down the hall toward Nick’s desk was becoming a habit.

Zachman: Of course not.

Catlover: I can’t believe you don’t think he’s a babe.

Maggie didn’t have to think he was a babe. She knew he was.

Zachman: I just don’t want him to get too close. He makes me uncomfortable.

Catlover: You need to loosen up, have some fun.

Zachman: What makes you think I’d have fun with him?

Catlover: Are you kidding? Is there any question?

Maggie chuckled.

Zachman: He’s too hard-bitten for fun. He’s focused, driven.

Catlover: Yeah, and just imagine what it would feel like to have all that raw masculinity turned on you.

Zachman: For what? One night? What good would that do me?

Catlover: Forever the realist, aren’t you? Okay, forget Nick. You going to do the dating service?

Zachman: No, I’m going to save up for an air conditioner.

Maggie stretched, feeling the effects of working all week without getting enough sleep.

Zachman: I’d better go. That murder’s kept me pumped full of adrenaline since it happened. I’m just now starting to come down.

Catlover: Gee, how do you get all the good stories?

Maggie returned the sarcasm.

Zachman: By leaving all the award-winning baton twirlers to you.

Catlover: Very funny.

Zachman: Sorry.

Catlover: Get some sleep. Zach wakes up awfully early in the morning.

“No kidding,” Maggie muttered to herself. She signed off the instant message with a friendly goodbye, then stared at the blank screen addressed to Mntnbiker. Now what? Should she really answer him?

Why not? Anonymity was empowering. If he wrote back and turned out to be a fruitcake, she wouldn’t answer him again. If he bothered her, she’d change her e-mail address. It wasn’t as if he knew where she lived. After two years in Sacramento without any romantic interludes, she was ready to expand her horizons, and e-mail seemed the perfect forum.

Dear Mntnbiker:

I’d be happy to get to know you, although I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more than friendship.

Big lie there, but she definitely didn’t want to sound desperate.

Tell me a little about yourself, who you are, where you live, what you do.

You might remember that I’m a single mom. I have one little boy who’s three and a half. I’m 5’5”, 115 lbs, have red hair, freckles and green eyes. And if that doesn’t scare you off, maybe this will: I work nights as a cop reporter and am currently following a murder. At any given point, my life is filled with the details of abuse, rape and other forms of violence. But in the meantime I try to be an average “girl.” I’m a bit of a health nut, but when I’m splurging, I like to eat coffee ice cream and chocolate-covered strawberries (not necessarily together <G>). I also like lying on a warm beach and reading romance novels, probably because what I deal with at work is so harrowing. I like happily-ever-afters. I hate to wait for anything and can’t cook a can of soup or sew on a button, but I can change my own oil and mow my own yard.

Now that you probably know more about me than you ever wanted to, it’s your turn:)

She signed it simply Maggie, hit the Send button, and went onto the Internet, where she quickly forgot about Mntnbiker as she scanned the major newspapers throughout the country, beginning with the New York Times. Some of the crime stories were horrible enough to curl her toes, particularly those that involved child molestation or abuse, and it wasn’t long before she decided to give up. The violence was making her heartsick, and without the coroner’s report, she knew so little about the condition of Sarah Ritter’s body that it was difficult to draw any connection between her murder and any others. She was wasting her time, just as she’d thought.

Yawning, she decided to get up early and head to Lowell Atkinson’s house with a big bag of donuts and several freshly roasted coffees. A horse came more willingly to a handful of sugar, right? The same might hold true for Lowell.

She climbed into bed but couldn’t get to sleep. The murders she’d read about had her spooked. The shadow of the trees outside fell across her carpet, their knotty, intertwining branches sometimes taking on the shape of a man, and she wondered if someone could remove her air conditioner and crawl through the hole it left behind. Then again, they wouldn’t even have to go to that much trouble. Because of the heat, there were several windows open in other parts of the house, even a few of the ones without bars, just so she could get a breeze going through.

For a few moments, Maggie held her breath, thinking she heard something rustling, the creak of a footfall in the living room….

It’s nothing, she told herself. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, resisting the urge to duck her head beneath it, too, and turned her thoughts to other things.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how she chose to look at it—Nick Sorenson came readily to mind. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss a man like him, someone so completely opposite to Tim, someone who was all fire and no ice. But memories of Rock Tillman kept intruding on her fantasy. The way they’d gotten to know each other that one summer, the hope and attraction she’d felt from the start, and the way he’d treated her once school started—like she had the plague.

So she pretended to be outgoing Darla and quickly forgot all about Rock. Then she had no more problems imagining Nick’s kiss—or anything else.