Читать книгу Deadly Intent - Camy Tang - Страница 9

The scream pierced Devon’s eardrums. Beside him, Becca Itoh started. The heavy wooden double doors she’d just opened, leading to the men’s lounge, clunked closed again as she turned and headed back down the corridor they’d walked.

“Where—?” He kept up with her, but not easily—for a woman in her fifties, she could book it.

“The women’s lounge area.” She pointed ahead as she hustled closer. “Those mahogany double doors at the end.”

Devon sprinted ahead and yanked open the doors. “Stay behind me.”

Becca ignored him, thrusting ahead and shouting, “Naomi!” as they entered a large circular entry area with more corridors leading from it. “Naomi!”

A door to their right burst open and Naomi Grant spilled into the entry room. “Aunt Becca!” Her face was the same shade as the cream-colored walls. “There’s blood in the women’s locker room.”

“Blood?” Becca reached for her as Devon pushed past her into the room she’d just exited.

Despite the urgency, he couldn’t help but be awed by the fountain in the center of a vast chamber with a veined-tile floor. Scrollwork signs on the walls pointed to “sauna” and “whirlpool” and “locker room.” Luckily, no women appeared. He veered right.

He almost wasn’t sure he’d actually arrived in the right place, but the carpeted room lined with teakwood locking cabinets was in line with the luxurious entry hall of what he realized was the women’s bathroom.

The metallic smell of blood reached him. He followed his nose to the basket hamper in the corner, filled with bloody towels. It reminded him of the discarded gauzes from his orthopedic surgeries, bright red and a lot more than the average person saw.

This was not good.

He returned to the two women. Naomi’s hands were visibly shaking, although her voice remained low and calm. “And I couldn’t find Ms. Ortiz.”

Jessica’s name still caused the reflexive crunching of his jaw. But he’d never wanted any harm to come to her—she wasn’t a bad person, they had just clashed too much on personal matters. And now she was missing, and there was an immense amount of blood in the bathroom. Devon’s heart beat in a light staccato against his throat. She had to be okay.

“Where else have you looked?” He scanned the other corridors leading from the fountain entryway. He’d need guidance or he’d get lost in this labyrinth.

“I haven’t checked the therapy rooms yet.” Naomi nodded toward the larger central corridor, which ended at another set of double doors.

He headed toward them when Becca reached out to grab his arm in a bony but strong grip. “You can’t just barge into private sessions.”

“Why not?” He turned to face the two women. “There’s blood in your bathroom and Jessica Ortiz is missing.”

Naomi’s light brown eyes skewered him. “Do you really think it’s wise to cause a panic?”

“And I suppose you have another option?”

“Sessions don’t last more than an hour or ninety minutes. We’ll wait for those to finish—if Jessica’s just in one of those, there’s nothing to worry about. In the meantime, we’ll check all the empty session rooms,” Naomi said.

Becca turned to leave and said over her shoulder, “I’ll check on the schedule at the receptionists’ desk to find out which rooms have clients and when the sessions end. I’ll call you on your cell.”

Naomi turned down a corridor in the opposite direction, this one lined with bamboo tables draped with shimmery, lavender-colored fabric so light that it swayed as they moved past.

It reminded Devon of the papery silks he’d seen in Thailand, giving the spa a soothing and very Asian atmosphere. His heartbeat slowed. Jessica was probably fine and had accidentally taken someone else’s session in her artless, friendly way. She’d emerge from a facial or a manicure in a few minutes and wonder what all the fuss was about.

A group of three therapists turned a corner. They spied Naomi and immediately stopped chatting among themselves, although not fearfully—more out of respect that the boss was suddenly in front of them.

“Girls, have you seen Ms. Ortiz?” Naomi’s smile seemed perfectly natural and warm—inviting a rapport with her staff, yet not too cozy. If Devon hadn’t noticed her fingers plucking at the linen fabric of her pants, he wouldn’t have known how anxious she was.

Two of them shook their heads, but the tall blond woman to his left nodded and pointed directly across the corridor. “I saw her talking to Ms. Fischer about an hour ago before Ms. Fischer went in for her manicure.”

Devon’s heartbeat picked up. “An hour ago?”

The blonde eyed him with a hard look, but a quick glance at Naomi seemed to allay her suspicions. He had the impression that if her boss hadn’t been by his side, he’d have been thrown out, even if it took all three women to do it.

Naomi was shaking her head. “Ms. Cormorand saw her leave the Tamarind Lounge only thirty minutes ago.”

His hopes popped and fizzled.

The blonde jerked her head at the nearby door. “Ms. Fischer is almost done in room thirty-five if you want to talk to her anyway.”

“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Betsy.”

Betsy nodded, and the silent trio headed down the corridor and around the corner.

The number thirty-five had been engraved into a brass plate that also had a small Victorian-style lantern attached, which was lit. Naomi glanced at the other doors around it. “Let’s check these while we’re waiting. She should be done soon.”

He pushed on a half-open door to reveal a small but neat room decorated with more silks on the walls and a few low tables covered with more Thai fabric.

Aside from the facial chair and a small cabinet in the corner, the room was empty, so he withdrew.

He peeked into another room, feeling suddenly ten years old again, visiting his Aunt Gertrude in her Victorian house filled with valuables and history. The statues, the furniture, the ambience—everything screamed both decadence and privilege, similar to the Hollywood spas he’d heard of. Naomi dressed like one of the staff, but this must be an enormous business to run.

They’d finished checking all the empty rooms in the corridor when a door clicked open. Immediately, Naomi scurried to number thirty-five, where a tall woman in her late forties had just sashayed out, absently waving her pink-tipped fingers. At the sight of Devon, she carefully pinched closed the neck of her loosely tied robe, and a pulse blipped at her throat.

“Ms. Fischer, I apologize for bothering you.” Naomi drew the woman’s eyes from burning holes in Devon’s head. “Were you speaking with Ms. Ortiz before your manicure? We’re looking for her.”

Ms. Fischer stiffened her shoulders and sniffed. “She was heading toward the Tamarind Lounge.” Her heavy-lidded eyes drifted away from Naomi’s face.

“Did she mention any of her appointments today?”

“Her massage.”

“Did she mention when or with whom?”

Ms. Fischer’s gaze shifted back to Naomi. “What do you mean? With you, naturally.” She sniffed again.

“Thank you, Ms. Fischer. Enjoy the rest of your day at Joy Luck Life.” With a professional smile, Naomi turned and headed back the way they’d come. Devon hustled to escape Ms. Fischer’s disapproving glare.

Naomi turned down another corridor. “These are the massage rooms. They tend to be the busiest.”

As soon as he entered the hallway he smelled it. Blood. Metallic and harsh. His chest tightened, and he grabbed Naomi’s wrist to keep her from moving forward.

She fought at first, but then she smelled it, too. Her dry lips parted and she scanned the rows of doors, some open, some closed.

“Stay close.” He reached out to ease open the first door, which was halfway closed. Peering in, he saw only a dark, empty massage room with the padded table draped in white linen and ready for the next client.

He didn’t realize he still held her wrist until she gently disengaged it. His palm chilled as if missing her warm skin.

The next open door was on her side of the corridor. She reached out to push it more fully open, but he stopped her. “No, let me do it.”

Her face seemed calm at first, but he noticed a wildness around the edges of her eyes as she peered into the darkness beyond the cracked door. “That’s my massage room.” Her voice was high and strangled.

Her massage room door was barely open, unlike the other doors along the corridor, which were either closed or at least halfway open to show the empty status of the room. He eased it open.

The soft light from the corridor fell on the edge of a dark pool.

His nerves fired like a popping spark plug. He grabbed Naomi’s arm and shoved her against the wall. She didn’t protest—she’d seen the blood.

Chattering voices suddenly tinkled from the other end of the corridor as a client in a bathrobe was escorted by a staff in uniform.

“Stop.” Naomi’s voice shot toward them. Her raised hand trembled. “Lavinia, please escort Ms. Everingham to the Tamarind Lounge.”

Lavinia halted, mouth open, but in the next second, she turned to her client with an overwide smile. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in the Tamarind Lounge, have you, Ms. Everingham? Follow me. It’s normally reserved for Tamarind members only, so you’re in for a treat today.” She continued to chatter as they turned the corner out of sight.

Now that was a well-trained staff. The Grants impressed him more and more.

A low moan issued from the room.

His heart pulsed hard. He pushed open the door.

Blood was everywhere. He’d seen lots of it in his surgeries, but the sight now made his throat tighten. Behind him, Naomi gagged.

A woman lay on the floor next to the massage table, and Devon’s breath stopped a moment at the sight of the platinum-blond corkscrew curls. Jessica.

He dropped to his knees to turn her over.

She gasped a spray of blood. What looked like a blunt-force trauma injury bled from her temple.

“Towels?” he asked.

Naomi darted toward the cabinet in the corner while he looked for anything lying near him. He grabbed the sheet covering the massage table and applied pressure to her wound. Warm liquid seeped through the fabric of his pants, pooling around his kneecaps. The room had a sickening, metallic, vanilla smell.

Naomi kneeled next to him, her arms full of towels. “It’s all right, Ms. Ortiz, you’ll be fine.”

He fumbled in his pants pocket and withdrew his cell phone, but she grabbed it from him. “Keep helping her. I’ll dial 911.”

“Put it on speakerphone so I can talk to the dispatcher. I’ll need to talk to the trauma team.”

Under the blood staining her face, Jessica’s skin was paler than her hair. Half-lidded dark eyes found his.

“Andrea,” she whispered.

And closed her eyes.