Читать книгу Woman Most Wanted - Harper Allen - Страница 11

The lady was late. Real late.

Somehow Matt D’Angelo wasn’t surprised. On the phone she hadn’t sounded like the type who would wear anything as practical as a watch, he thought in resignation, glancing at his own. He leaned back against the headrest, his gaze flicking warily to the rearview mirror of the Taurus. Then again, he admitted, she hadn’t sounded like the type who would choose a borderline neighborhood of graffiti-sprayed businesses and grim little apartments like this one to live in either. Her voice had evoked completely different images in his mind.

He’d give her another half an hour. Another hour, tops.

He was acutely aware of the fact that he could still just make Fenway Park for the start of the first inning, but even as he tapped the ticket on the rim of the steering wheel, he knew he wasn’t really considering skipping out. Like any red-blooded Boston male, he took his baseball seriously, but he took his job even more seriously. If she showed, he’d be waiting for her.

Sighing, he tossed the ticket on the dash and opened the car door. As he stepped from the government-issue sedan to stretch his legs, his attention was caught by the slim figure heading in his direction, still half a block away.

He’d never seen her before in his life, but as crazy as it seemed, that didn’t matter. Without even thinking about it, he was certain it was her.

So what the hell did she want with him?

Unconsciously raking a renegade strand of thick black hair off his forehead, Matt leaned against the side of the car and narrowed his eyes against the June sun to watch her approach.

On the phone this afternoon her voice had been soft, as if she was afraid of being overheard, but there’d been an incongruous trace of huskiness around the edges that prevented it from sounding too sweet. He definitely wasn’t a fanciful man, but that voice breathing through the receiver into his ear had sounded like…he groped for the right comparison…like honey, he thought lamely. Honey with a dash of cinnamon. Listening to her, he’d felt an uncharacteristic desire to lean back, prop his feet up on his desk and just let that voice wash over him.

He’d resisted the impulse with an effort. Straightening in his chair and conscious of the fact that all calls coming into the Bureau field office were monitored, his own tone had been strictly business as he’d asked her why she needed to meet with an agent.

The softly conspiratorial whisper had taken on a surprising stubbornness. She was calling from a pay phone on her break, she’d said, the huskiness more pronounced. There wasn’t time to go into detail and risk getting fired her second day at a new job for returning late from lunch. Irritatingly unswayable, she’d rattled off the address of her apartment, insisted that he meet her there after five and had been just about to hang up when he’d cut into her monologue.

It would help, he’d said, keeping his words even with an effort, if he knew who he was supposed to be meeting. With a contrite gasp that had instantly made him feel like a heel, Jenna—all she would divulge was her first name—had lowered her voice even further and told him he’d be able to recognize her from her dress. It was green, she’d said with absolute seriousness—the exact color of a leaf against sunlight. He couldn’t miss it. Before he could get in another question, she’d hung up.

Most likely a kook, he’d told himself. The Agency got its fair share of conspiracy nuts, alien abductees and plain old garden-variety paranoids. No one would fault him for writing her off as one of the above and forgetting about her, but he’d check her out just to satisfy his own sense of duty.

The Sox had been on a losing streak lately, anyway.

Actually, her offbeat description had been right, he thought unwillingly as he saw her walking toward the dilapidated sixplex where he was parked. The tie-dyed dress she was wearing was the exact color of a leaf against sunlight. But what she hadn’t thought to mention was the molten red-gold hair that rippled halfway down her back, the luscious legs that went on forever and the tinkling noise like little silver bells that seemed to fill the air as she came closer.

She was carrying a badly dented can of cat food. She looked like a sexy angel.

Matt grabbed his suit jacket out of the car and shrugged into it, tightened the knot in his tie too vigorously and wondered what had gotten into him. Silver bells? He had to stop skipping lunch, he told himself repressively as he approached her, the leather case containing his badge and ID already in his hand. He could still hear that damn tinkling, like glass wind chimes being stirred by a summer breeze. But although he darted a furtive look at the apartment building, he already knew this wasn’t the type of neighborhood where anyone hung out wind chimes.

Just then Jenna looked up and saw him. She stopped, and the sound stopped with her. As he got closer she took a tentative step forward, and a single silver note rang out.

Around one slim ankle she was wearing a fine chain with tiny bells on it. Relief swept through him.

“Agent D’Angelo?”

The voice was the same as he remembered, but combined with wide eyes the color of cornflowers, and spoken through those lush lips, the effect was even more sensual than it had been over the phone. For a moment he just looked at her, his brain refusing to shift into gear. Then he snapped out of it. She was way too much, he thought with sudden illogic. Too much hair, too much leg, too much satiny skin. Generous curves that even the short straight shift she wore—the famous leaf-green dress—couldn’t conceal. The ankle bracelet was like an unnecessary cherry on top of warm caramel sauce and whipped cream.

He realized that he’d been holding his open ID in front of him for the last few seconds, and those amazingly blue eyes were beginning to hold a hint of uncertainty. Snapping the leather case shut and stuffing it back into his jacket pocket, he nodded curtly and held out his hand to shake hers, but even as he did he saw what he should have noticed from the first.

She’d been crying. And as she switched the can of cat food to her other hand and automatically met his grasp, he could see a raw scrape on the side of her arm by her elbow, as if she’d fallen on pavement.

“Matt D’Angelo,” he acknowledged, the formality he’d intended to project falling away as his glance took in the pinpoints of dried blood on that smooth skin. “What happened to your arm?”

“I—I got mugged on my way home, just as I was coming out of the grocery store.” The honeyed tones shook slightly as her hand rested briefly in his and then withdrew. “I had eggs and a jar of low-fat mayonnaise, too, but they broke on the sidewalk.”

The last few words came out in an unsteady rush. When she closed her eyes, for a second Matt thought she was about to faint, but before he could make a move toward her she took a deep, controlled breath. Holding it for a long moment, she let it out slowly, her lashes fanning her cheekbones. She exhaled as softly as if she were blowing a kiss.

For some reason, he couldn’t tear his gaze from that mouth. He was beginning to get annoyed with himself.

For God’s sake, she wasn’t even his type. He liked cool-looking blondes. He liked short hair grazing a woman’s jawline in a blunt cut. He liked women who wore tailored clothes in neutral colors and women whose idea of appropriate jewelry was a pair of classic gold earrings. All of his past girlfriends had more or less fit that pattern.

Unfortunately, for the past five months he hadn’t been seeing anybody on a steady basis. That had to be why this woman’s overwhelming lushness was getting to him.

“This is the first time anything like that’s ever happened to me. Before I knew what was happening, my shoulder bag was gone and I was lying on the ground.” Again she breathed, her breasts rising against the thin cotton of the dress. “Pranayama,” she said, opening her eyes and meeting his carefully blank gaze. “Tantric breathing. It’s a yoga exercise to restore serenity.”

Her serenity, maybe. Matt cleared his throat.

“What was taken?”

Resuming normal breathing and starting up the walkway to the shabby apartment building, for a moment she didn’t answer him. Following her, he saw her shoulders slump a little, and at that he felt a familiar emotion—one that he could deal with—override the inappropriate flicker of attraction he’d just been feeling. It was anger. It was directed at the unknown scumbag who’d done this to her.

He was willing to bet that losing even the ten bucks or so she’d probably been carrying in her purse had been a major financial blow. What the hell was the matter with the world, when a woman couldn’t even walk home safely in the daytime anymore?

“Nothing that really mattered.” They’d reached the front door of the building, and as he held the door open for her, Jenna fished inside the front of her dress, finally pulling out a couple of keys hanging around her neck on a piece of string. She looked up at him and flashed a weak smile. “A hundred and fifty dollars. It was all the money I had till I get my first paycheck Friday, but Franklin always used to say that money’s the least valuable commodity in the world. Anyway, maybe the mugger needed it more than I did.”

Slipping the string over her head, she tried to insert the key in the peeling foyer door but she seemed to be having trouble. Silently Matt reached over to take the awkward can of cat food from her and she bent to her task again, her face hidden by that fabulous cloud of red-gold hair, her voice slightly muffled. “Franklin was my dad. He never trusted banks, but then again, he never really had much need for them.” She dropped the keys and he was sure he heard her muttering a singularly unangelic phrase.

“It’s not working.” She pushed the mass of hair back from her face and turned to him. “Why isn’t the stupid thing working? Can’t anything go right today?”

Those honey-and-cinnamon tones sounded decidedly peevish. Two seconds ago she’d written off her life savings with the calm saintliness of a Mother Superior, he thought, bemused. Now she was getting cranky because her key wouldn’t fit smoothly. He handed her back the can, picked the keys up off the cracked linoleum floor and tried the first one in the lock.

“This one’s obviously the key to your own apartment,” he said. “That’s why it wouldn’t fit.”

Behind him, he heard her taking a deep breath.

His sisters always had problems with keys. Privately he was convinced it was built in with the XX chromosome, although the one time he’d run that theory by his older sister, Carmela, she’d hit him over the head with her physics textbook.

He straightened up in abrupt annoyance. “The stupid thing’s not working. Which apartment does your super live in?”

Jenna took her keys back and pressed a button on the intercom board. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I didn’t have a problem this morning. I forgot my bus pass, and I had to let myself back in to get it.”

She gave the buzzer another halfhearted little tap and turned back to him without waiting for a response. “He’s not home. Let me try the keys again. Men always have trouble with keys.”

“Trust me—they don’t work.” Biting off the words with unnecessary emphasis, Matt jammed his thumb on the buzzer and kept it there. Whatever information she had for the Bureau, he thought wearily, it had better be good. By the time they got into her apartment and she spilled her big secret it would be midnight, at the rate this meeting was going.

He felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t shown up on time, he told himself. And if his evening wasn’t turning out exactly the way he’d planned, hers had been a disaster. She’d been mugged, for God’s sake. She’d been left penniless by some creep who’d knocked her down and taken her purse, and she was right—the money was going to be the least of her problems. Replacing credit cards and identification would be a major headache.

No wonder her serenity was beginning to crack a little.

“What do you want, mister?” The man who opened the door was about fifty. He was shorter than Matt’s own six-two by about a foot, but he had the bad-tempered pugnaciousness of a bantam rooster. Under the dirty white T-shirt he was wearing strained the hard potbelly of a serious drinker, and his tattooed biceps, stringy as they were, looked as if they’d served him well in decades of barroom brawls.

He didn’t even glance at Jenna, but instead kept his glare pinned on Matt. “If you’re a goddamn salesman for something, buddy, you’ve got about five seconds to get your butt off—”

“Mr. West, my key’s not working.” Jenna didn’t seem intimidated by his stream of invective. “When I moved in last week you said you’d get a spare set cut for me. Can I use them tonight and have some copies made tomorrow?”

He swung round to her, the scowl on his face deepening. “And who are you, lady? What is this, some kind of freakin’ scam?”

Matt had been watching the super, ready to step in if the man’s hostility crossed the line into action, but this newest tactic caught him by surprise. Flashing a quick look at Jenna’s dumbfounded expression, he realized that she was as taken aback as he was. Her polite smile had faded into confusion, and her cornflower-blue eyes widened.

“I’m Jenna, Mr. West—Jenna Moon, from 2B. Remember, you helped me move in my futon and I dropped it on your foot? And last night I gave you an aloe plant and told you how it could heal burns and cuts?” She gave an uncertain little laugh. “You were going to fix my faucet this weekend.”

“You’re crazy, sweetcheeks.” West looked from her to Matt and grunted. “Get your flaky girlfriend out of here before I call the cops.”

He started to close the foyer door, but Matt had had enough. Swiftly he stepped forward and shoved his shoulder and right arm through the narrowing space between the door and its frame, his ID and badge already open and dangling from his fingers.

“I am the cops,” he said in a flat voice. “And the lady’s a tenant of yours. How about you start showing some cooperation here, buddy?”

He could have sworn he saw a flash of something like fear behind West’s hard stare, but that was a common reaction. Men like him always had something to hide, Matt thought with disgust. Usually their dirty little secrets had nothing to do with the case on hand, but as soon as they realized they were dealing with the authorities they started lying automatically, unwilling to give a straight answer to any question.

West was probably just a mean drunk who’d drawn a temporary blank on his newest tenant. But Jenna—what had she said her last name was?—Jenna Moon didn’t need any more problems tonight. She was doing that deep-breathing thing again, he noted resignedly.

“Just let her into her apartment. I’ll even sign for the key if you want some kind of official receipt.” He forced a civility into his voice that he didn’t feel, at the same time exerting enough pressure on the half-open door to make the surly superintendent step back. Giving Jenna a slight nod, he kept his body between her and West as she nervously slipped past him to the short flight of stairs leading to the second floor.

“Look, mister.” West dropped his voice and darted a look at her, now climbing the stairs. “I’m being straight with you—that little sweetheart don’t live in 2B or any other freakin’ apartment here. If I have to, I’ll prove it to you.”

His attitude had changed from abrasiveness to an unpleasant kind of man-to-man confidentiality. For a second, Matt wondered if there was any way the man was telling the truth. His earlier impression of Jenna resurfaced.

West had called her flaky. During her brief phone call to the Bureau, he’d figured himself that she’d sounded like a kook—secretive, refusing to give him any hint of what her vital information was and hanging up after that unconventional description of the dress she was wearing. Her reaction to losing her life savings hadn’t been normal, and even her appearance was a little offbeat. He frowned. On the other hand, this lowlife superintendent was just the type to run some kind of scam himself, and, with her obvious openness and artlessness, he would have pegged his new tenant as an easy mark. The last thing he would have expected was for her to show up with an FBI agent in tow.

“There’s someone in my apartment!” Jenna’s voice was outraged, and glancing up to the first-floor landing he saw her bent over and peering at the crack under the door. “There’s a light on. I didn’t leave any lights on when I left this morning!”

“Okay, that’s it.” Matt jerked his head grimly at the man in front of him. “You’re going to let the lady into her apartment, and if we find anything missing you better be ready with some real fast explaining. What is this, some sweet little deal you’ve got going with a few light-fingered friends?”

West gave a short bark of humorless laughter, shedding the false bonhomie he’d displayed a few seconds ago as if it had never been. He rubbed his unshaven jaw thoughtfully, a thin smile on his lips. “You’re as crazy as she is. But I don’t want no trouble with the feds.” He shrugged and started for the stairs, reaching around the back of his belt for the collection of keys that hung on a steel ring there. “Come on, let’s see how Miss Looney Tunes explains this.”

They were close enough now to Jenna that she overheard this last remark, and the expression in those wide, guileless eyes made Matt think of a deer, shot without warning. She’d obviously trusted this jerk. He felt a sudden spurt of irritation at her naiveté. Where the hell had she been all her life, that she seemed so ill equipped to deal with the real world? She had to be twenty-three or twenty-four—not a susceptible teenager anymore. It was as if she’d been living in some peaceful utopia up until now, where everyone could be taken at their face value, and the sordid side of life—money, violence, dishonesty—never intruded.

“Use your damn key, West,” he snapped. The man had raised a meaty fist and was knocking on the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

Even as he finished speaking, he heard footsteps coming from inside the apartment and all his senses went on full alert. Jenna had heard them, too, and she turned to him, shocked.

“What’s going on, Matt? Does he have the right to let someone in when I’m not at home?”

“Move away from the door, Jenna.” He ignored her question and gave the command in a low, urgent voice. Standing to one side of the door himself, he reached inside his jacket for the shoulder-holstered Sig Sauer he wore during working hours and narrowed his eyes at West, who hadn’t moved.

“If your pals are armed, you stand a good chance of being the first casualty. And if you’re not the first, you can bet I’ll make damn sure you’re the second.” He gripped the gun in both hands, the barrel pointing at the floor. His words were barely above a whisper, but the threat was unmistakable. “Tell them to open the door slowly, and no sudden moves.”

The man’s shrug of reply was almost insolently unconcerned. One side of his mouth hitched up in a mocking half smile. “This is a real career-breaking move you’re making here, D’Angelo. Maybe you should go home tonight and start packing for Anchorage. The Bureau’s probably going to send you as far out of town as they can after this foul-up.” He tapped with almost ludicrous courtesy on the door as the footsteps shuffled to a halt. “Mrs. Janeway? It’s Pete West. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Matt’s finger was tight on the trigger, and for one fleeting second he could see himself—Matt D’Angelo, who never rushed into things without carefully considering every angle, standing armed and ready to kick down a door if necessary, all on the word of a woman he’d met only minutes ago. What’s wrong with this picture, D’Angelo? he thought in momentary confusion. This isn’t you, man—step back and think this out, for God’s sake!

Then he stopped trying to reason, and let instinct take over completely as he saw the door swing slowly open.

“FBI—freeze!” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jenna edging nervously but resolutely up to the other side of the door, the dented can held high above her head like a weapon, and he felt his heart skip a couple of beats. “Step out into the hall with your hands up!”

For a second there was no reply, but then a voice answered him in a hesitant quaver. “I can’t, young man. If I let go of my walker, I’ll fall. If you’ll give me a minute, though, I think I can spread ’em, as you policemen say.”

Even as Matt pivoted swiftly from the side of the door frame to confront the intruder, his brain was scrambling into overdrive, desperately trying to pull in every scrap of information it was receiving and process it into something that made some kind of sense.

Except when he realized that he was holding a gun on a little old lady in an aluminum walker, a little old lady with white hair, orthopedic shoes, and bifocals that glinted in front of curious faded blue eyes, he suddenly got the feeling that there was going to be no way this was ever going to make sense.

God, D’Angelo, you could have blown away Grandma Walton, he thought with numb horror. Well, it hadn’t been that close a call. But he’d be willing to bet that West, standing behind him, would embellish the encounter to the first reporter he could get on the phone.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Jenna asked the woman.

For a second he’d forgotten about Jenna, but that had been another mistake, he thought, his heart sinking. Hair flying around her shoulders in a burnished copper cloud, breasts heaving in indignation under the thin Indian cotton of her dress, and shaking the can of cat food at Mrs. Jane-way, she looked like an angel, all right. Only this time she looked like an avenging angel, ready to drive the old lady out of the Garden of Eden.

Or at least out of the apartment that Jenna obviously still felt she had a claim on. A sudden thought struck Matt, and he turned with renewed hope to the superintendent behind him, ignoring West’s triumphant grin. “What are you trying to pull? It’s the wrong damn apartment!”

“What do you mean, the wrong apartment?” Jenna whirled on him angrily. “I know where I live, Matt! This woman might look like a sweet little old lady to you, but she’s got no right to be here! Look, I’ll show you!”

Before he could stop her, she’d sidestepped past the aluminum walker with a dancer’s agility, but even as he edged cautiously past the old lady with a muttered apology and reached out to grab Jenna’s arm, she froze.

“What have you done to my apartment?”

Her gaze swung wildly around the comfortably cozy living room as if she was looking upon some terrible desecration. With a trembling finger, she pointed at a row of potted African violets on the radiator by the window.

“They—they’re artificial! Where’s my fern and my spider plant?” She gestured at the colonial-style recliner sitting in front of a small television set. On a low table beside the chair was a half-knitted child’s garment, in an insipid color combination of peach-pink and cream. Her voice rose. “And what’s all this? This isn’t my furniture! I had my rattan set here, and I don’t even own a television! What’s going on?”

It was time to step in, he told himself. She’d made some kind of colossal mistake, and she just wasn’t admitting it to herself. Again, the first impression he’d had of her flashed through his mind, but he shoved it aside. She’d only lived here a week, and tonight she’d gone through a traumatic experience. She wasn’t necessarily crazy—maybe she’d hit her head when she’d fallen and received some kind of mild concussion. That had to be it, he thought compassionately. She was suffering from some kind of short-term memory loss.

It was a convenient theory, but it was full of holes, and he knew it. She’d given him this address over the phone this afternoon—before she’d been accosted by the mugger.

If there had been a mugger.

“You don’t believe me.” She was staring at him, her face pale, her white-knuckled grip still hanging on for dear life to the cat-food can, and Matt found it impossible to say anything. The smart way out would be to lie, to play along with her until he could get her out of here quietly, but suddenly he knew he couldn’t do it. As the silence between them lengthened, she seemed to be searching his expression intently.

“You think I’m crazy.” Her voice was a thready, incredulous whisper. She stared numbly at the fussy flower-sprigged wallpaper, the embroidered pictures of pastoral scenes on the walls and the stack of Agatha Christie mysteries piled on an ornately ugly coffee table in front of the plaid sofa. “You’ve got to believe me, Matt! When I left here this morning that ceiling was painted sky-blue with white clouds I’d sponged on this weekend. The walls were a lighter blue. I was making canvas cushions for my furniture, I had photographs of my parents on the wall, and my plants were growing on the windowsill. Somebody’s made it all different! You have to believe me!”

Her last few words were an urgent entreaty, and though he tried to soften his response, he knew it was the last thing she wanted to hear. “That doesn’t make any sense, Jenna.” He kept his voice quiet, hoping to soothe the raw anguish in her eyes. “What reason would anyone have for doing that?”

Instead of answering him, she held his gaze unwaveringly for a moment as if giving him one last chance to change his mind. Then whatever hope she still had ebbed visibly out of her and she turned slowly away. Walking to a half-open door, she flicked on a light switch. Matt remained where he was, his hands clenched at his sides, watching her as she looked in, switched off the light and turned back to him, her voice toneless. “Everything’s changed. My futon’s gone, the quilt my mother made for me when I was a little girl—it’s all disappeared. And you don’t believe me, do you?”

“Would anybody like a nice cup of tea?” Mrs. Janeway had hobbled back into the room. At the doorway, West surveyed the scene with a tight grin and Matt suddenly felt a violent urge to knock the smile from his face. But Jenna didn’t even spare the man a second glance. Her attention was directed at the old lady, and her head was tipped to one side, quizzically.

“It’s all an act, isn’t it?” She gave Mrs. Janeway a coldly appraising look, and the older woman halted in her slow progress across the room, her faded eyes sharpening as she met Jenna’s glance. “You must be useful for something like this—who’s going to suspect a sweet little old lady of being a crook?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.” Mrs. Janeway smiled sympathetically. “Mr. West says you had some idea that this might have been your apartment once, but that’s just not possible. I’ve been here for over fifteen years now, and as you can see, I have all my little treasures and comforts around me. This has been my home since my husband passed away, God rest his soul.”

The old voice held a wistful tremor, but instead of rousing Jenna to pity, what little composure she had left finally cracked. “You’re lying! This is my home! You’ve stolen the first home I ever really had, you—you criminal!” She shook the can of cat food at West, standing in the doorway. “And you’re in on this with her! You rented me this apartment a week ago, and you know it!”

Suddenly her gaze went blank and she stared frantically around. “Where’s Zappa?” Her voice rose. “What did you do with him?”

“What’s she talking about?” the old lady said in a loudly whispered aside to Matt, as if Jenna was incapable of understanding her. “Who’s this Zeppo person she’s looking for now?”

The wrinkled face held an expression of saccharine pity, but behind the bifocals her eyes twinkled with avid interest, and suddenly Matt realized that he didn’t like Mrs. Janeway either. But whether he liked the woman or not, they’d intruded on her long enough. He turned to Jenna.

“We have to go. I know you’re upset right now, but—”

“Zappa! Not Zeppo—Zappa! My cat! Or do you think this is a delusion, too?” Now the tears that she’d been holding back spilled over, and those thick dark lashes were spiky and wet as she held out the dented can as if it was some kind of clinching proof. “He’s Siamese; he’s a little chunky around the middle, and his tail’s covered with sky-blue paint from when I was sponging the ceiling.” Her voice shook. “And you’ve made him disappear, too!”

From the doorway West’s glance caught Matt’s and he winked. “Like I told you,” he said in a stage whisper. “Miss Looney Tunes.”

Matt’s heart sank.