Читать книгу Red Blooded Murder - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 10

Jane Augustine opened her eyes and let her gaze sweep over the strange bedroom. A small skylight, drawing in the morning sun, illuminated the otherwise dark room. She could make out an antique shelf packed with books in a meticulous way—the taller books at the beginning of each shelf. Next to it was a dresser, which also looked antique. Above that hung an oil painting, which showed a single green apple on a table. The brush stroke was heavy, the painting textured contemporarily. The place looked as if it had some cash behind it.

And then there was the address—Goethe Street, right off State. Impressive, Jane thought. Writers usually made so little money. Not that she cared. It wasn’t as if she was looking for a husband; it was simply that she’d woken up in more than one strange bedroom, and they weren’t all this nice.

She turned her head, trying not to shift the bed, and glanced at the writer in question. Last night, he had seemed worldly, but now, as she listened to his light snore, he looked like a little boy despite his gray hair.

But he was a little boy who knew how to fuck. She could tell that even before she went home with him. She could tell that with any man. She had gotten exactly what she wanted from the writer—Mick was his name. She’d needed her fix last night, and he had been her black tar heroin.

That was how she thought of what she did—like an addiction—but in all honesty, it was inaccurate to say that she was addicted to sex. She’d once visited a sex addict Web site, and what she found there wasn’t her. She didn’t search the net for porn. She hadn’t been arrested for voyeurism, exhibitionism, prostitution, sex with minors or indecent phone calls.

What she was addicted to, though, was the rush of someone new, the smell of a body so unlike her husband’s, the feeling of instant intimacy with a stranger. She was addicted to the way an evening with someone like the writer would walk her right into a world so dissimilar from hers. She had always been able to see, even as a child, that there were so many different lives to be had. Sex with someone other than her husband gave her a key to those other lives, let her crawl right into them and look around with awed eyes.

She and Zac loved each other with a ferocious loyalty and an ever-present tenderness, but she and Zac were different when it came to sex. She liked it more than he did, required it more than he did. And so her dalliances—she liked calling them that, thought there was something Virginia Woolf-ish about that word—had been a constant in their life. She knew it sounded like a cop-out, but she was happier with Zac because of what she had outside of him. She was better to him, more devoted to their life together. He always understood that.

But like any addiction, the morning after was never pretty. As she stared around the new bedroom, guilt crept in like smoke. It inhabited the room. It filled her lungs until she found it hard to breathe. Always this guilt, this judgment of herself. She was a bad person, she knew. Anyone who cheated on their spouse was bad, wasn’t that right? But she didn’t believe in her bones that she was a terrible person.

She stood from the bed and stretched her long limbs. The writer groaned, rolled over. With that groan, flashes of last night flooded in. She could still feel his mouth, his teeth on her breasts. She looked at her body, searching for bruises, any marks that would give her away when Zac got home. But even without a telltale sign, Zac would know. He always did.

There was something wonderful about that knowing. Zac saw everything about her—all her flaws—and he still loved her. It was amazing to have a love like that. And so these dalliances, in their own way, brought her that deep part of their relationship, too.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door, then flipped on the light and sat on the toilet. The bathroom was rather large, with a small, round table across from the toilet. On top was an oval, silver dish. She lifted it and poked her finger at the contents—matches from Cog Hill, a local country club, a small pair of silver scissors, a few Euro coins depicting Mozart.

She finished using the toilet and opened the cabinet under the sink. Typical male collection of crap—shaving cream, gel, a box of condoms.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was still asleep. She cleared her throat to see if he would roll over again. Nothing. She padded softly on the Oriental rug and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

The hallway was dark. She stood still a moment, letting her eyes fine-tune to the dimness. When she stayed with someone, this was her favorite part, this nosing around, because she got to walk around in a life that wasn’t her own.

The first room on the right was bigger than Mick’s bedroom. It was, she realized, the master, but he used it as his office.

A large teak desk dominated the room, nearly covering the window that was set into the wall behind it. The blinds were half-closed, and through them, a gray, early-morning light striped the room. She went to the desk, looked at the four stacks of paper there. Two were made of typed sheets of paper; another was made up of tiny, handwritten notes. The last was a stack of cut-out magazine pages. She flinched. On top of that pile was a photo of a woman in a black suit with tan piping and gold buttons. Her suit. It was a picture of her.

She blinked a few times, confusion clouding her brain. She leaned close, her hands behind her back. The photo had run with an article which had appeared just last week in Chicago Magazine, discussing the soon-to-be launch of Trial TV and her position as anchor. In the photo, she also wore her signature red scarf. It had become a thing, that scarf, something that signaled to loyal viewers that there was a big story or that it was a momentous news day.

On the picture, a black arrow had been drawn toward the scarf with a marker. A note in the margin read, How did scarf get started? Intentional PR schlock or the real deal?

She recoiled. What was going on here?

Her eyes shot to the other stacks. She tried to read the notes, but they were mostly illegible. One of the other piles had typewritten pages about a CNN news reporter who’d recently been caught sleeping with a Southern governor whom the newscaster had been covering for years.

The final stack … She leaned closer. She froze.

Jane Augustine, was typed on the top of the sheet. Below that was a list:

Gym—East Bank

Grocery store—Whole Foods on Huron or Fox & Obel.

Hair salon—Roberto Puig on Rush

Sports—Bulls occasionally, but only courtside. Bears but only club level.

Her breath caught in her lungs. She literally felt unable to breathe. What the hell was all this? Was he covering her for a story? If so, why wouldn’t her publicist or the station know about it? They told her of every tiny story they landed about her. And if he was covering her, why the notes about what gym she went to, where she got her hair cut? She looked closer at the list, scanning it. She cringed when she saw one of the last items there.

Gynecologist—Dr. C. Wiseman on Wabash

She raised the paper and read the item under it.

Guys, it said. Two names were listed below—Nathan Vatalli, Ben Houston. Both men she’d slept with.

Right then, she got a whoosh of air into her lungs. She turned and stormed from the room into his bedroom. She pushed open the door. It banged against the wall.

He started, raising himself up on his elbows. “Mornin’, gorgeous,” he said when he saw her standing there, naked.

She walked to the bed. She put her hand on his chest and shoved him.

He smiled. “Yeah. Get back in here.” He threw off the covers.

She glared. She pulled the blanket back over his body. “Just so you can get your information straight, that scarf was given to me by Barbara Brewer, the famous journalist and my first mentor. It was not some ‘PR schlock—’” She made air quotes with her hands “—and if you don’t stop following me, I’ll have you arrested.”

She turned and began searching for her clothes, suddenly teary and fluttery instead of angry. The threat was a lame one. If she called the cops and accused this guy of stalking her, he might tell them about her affairs, her dalliances, which he clearly had learned about. And she knew the Chicago cops well enough to know that such information would hit the streets—accidentally of course, but fast. She couldn’t risk that kind of bad press, certainly not with Trial TV about to launch.

She retrieved an earring from the floor. Her hands trembled as she tried to get the post through her lobe. She found her skirt, then her jacket, and put them on, trying to steady the shake that was not only in her hands but quivering through her organs, crawling on her skin. She glanced back, expecting to see him with a guilty expression, maybe a scared one now that she’d busted him, but he was just stroking that cleft in his chin that she’d found so sexy last night. And it was he who was studying her.

“What exactly is that?” She gestured toward the hall.

“What are you talking about?”

“Those notes on your desk. The article. The lists.”

“So you’re a snooper, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a snooper.”

She finished dressing and put a hand on her hip, willing herself not to show her nerves. She wanted to say something smart in return, she wanted to ask him so many questions, but his cold, assessing stare frightened her, draining away the shock and the anger, leaving only a hyperawareness that screamed that she was alone with this man. Anything could happen. Why had she thought for so long that she was immune to danger? That she could screw around with strangers without consequence? She had to get out of there.

She grabbed her purse from a brown velvet chair in the corner and tucked it under her arm. She wished he would say something normal, something that would explain all this—maybe even something that would make her laugh, because she wanted very much to cry.

But all he said was, “You were even better than I thought.”