A Caduceus is for Killing (19 page)

    "It's no trouble," Hardwyn said. "Really."
    "The lady's going home with me. Got it?" Krastowitcz raised to his full imposing height, a move meant to establish territory and intimidate. He stepped between Hardwyn and Andrea.
    Hardwyn immediately bent to her. "Don't worry about a thing, my dear. Rest."
    Krastowitcz took her arm. "Come on, Andrea, let's get going. We've got more than a few things to discuss. Alone."
    As though in a daze, she allowed Krastowitcz to lead her from the room. He glanced back at a frowning Hardwyn. "We'll talk later."
    God, that felt good! There was something about Hardwyn's attitude toward Andrea. Almost like he was after her? Krastowitcz took a giant step toward understanding how a woman in Andrea's position could be so manipulated by a superior.
    So what was the problem? He couldn't be jealous of the old fart, could he? No way. Andrea was competent, brave, really. In fact, if she was a libber, maybe liberation wasn't all that bad. Hell. Give the woman credit. She was too smart to fall for a phony like Hardwyn.
    He nestled Andrea in the passenger seat of his car. Immediately, she leaned her head against the car window. A pang of sadness washed over him. He wished he could help her pain. She wore on him, rubbed him in all the right ways. Maybe they could be friends, after all. "What's with this Hardwyn?"
    She looked toward him in surprise. "What?"
    "You two have some type of relationship?" he said in a hard voice. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? It was none of his business who she had relationships with, and yet. . . Something compelled, controlled, and committed his actions. He needed to know everything. Her thoughts, her desires, her plans.
    "God, no. For some insane reason he's taken a strong interest in my career."
    "No kidding."
    Andrea's eyes flared with anger. "What do you mean by that?"
    "Look," Krastowitcz said softly. "I'm on your side. But that guy has ulterior motives."
    Her eyes widened. "Like what?"
    "You."
    "Nonsense. He's a respected family man. Gary, what's the matter?"
    "I don't really know. Just a hunch. You'd be surprised how many of these guys take advantage of a pretty woman."
    Andrea smiled. "Pretty? Me?" She coughed lightly. "You forget one thing, Gary. I'm not a young schoolgirl in need of protection. The thought's nice. Although, when I met you I thought you were the world's biggest MCP."
    Bewildered, Krastowitcz asked, "What's a MCP?"
    "Male Chauvinist Pig."
    "Oh, yeah? Hey, thanks. I guess I'll take that as a compliment."
    "And what did you think of me?" Andrea asked.
    Krastowitcz paused and pulled her seat belt around her and secured it in place. She watched him do the same with his belt. Before saying another word, he'd started the engine and pulled away from the building.
    "I--ah--thought you were a militant."
    "Militant what?"
    "You know. Feminist."
    "You're right. I am."
    "Yeah, but at the time I thought Women's Lib was bad."
    "And now?"
    "I don't know. You're different. I can't put my finger on it. But it's not bad--" He stopped, embarrassed.
    "What was it that was so important we had to discuss it in private? I'm sure it's not whether I was a `libber' or not."
    The subject had turned back to business. "Do you have the grant?"
    "Right here." She pulled it out of her purse.
    "Read through it again and look for something--anything--that could be a clue to the reasons for Grafton's murders."
    "You think there might be clues as to why he killed and took pictures?"
    He glanced in the rear-view mirror and back at her. "Won't know anything until you read through it."
    She pressed her cheek against the window. The air-conditioned glass cooled her burning cheeks. "Okay. But, I've read through it once and found nothing unusual."
    "Then there's something in that French translation. I'm convinced the reason is hidden in those documents. Let's get back to my office and start working."
    Andrea's eyes darkened, filling with tears. "What about Suzanne? I've got to call her family, my mother and father. This is going to be so hard on them. They all trusted me to look after--"
    "She was a grown woman, not your responsibility. You couldn't have prevented it," Krastowitcz said.
    "If I hadn't gone to dinner with you--" Her voice quivered. "--she'd still be alive."
    "Wait a minute," Krastowitcz said. "Maybe, yes, she might be, but you'd probably be dead. Anyway, it's done and it wasn't your fault. Believe that."
    "I can't. I've got to find this fiend. For Suzanne's sake. She was just beginning a life. She'd fallen for your friend, Trent. What're we going to tell him?"
    "Hell, I don't know. He's on an assignment. Back tomorrow, and I'll tell him. . . something."
    She put her hand over his. "Seems we've both got a rough time ahead in the next few hours. I don't know exactly why, but I'm frightened. Especially now that Suzanne's--"
    Her voice broke. He slipped his hand from hers, cupped it under her chin, and rubbed the back of his hand along her cheek. "Whoever killed Suzanne was after you, so stick with me for the time being."
    "All right. That gives me time to go over the grant file again." She clutched the manila folder to her chest.
    "Now you're talking. We'll sort everything out later."
    "What about Peter?"
    "Him, too. And it'll be my pleasure to personally track that little shit down."
         THEY DROVE toward headquarters. Andrea's mind wandered back over the last seventy-two hours. She'd become so comfortable, so complacent at Dorlynd.
    Now, it was full of death.
    First Milton; now Suzanne. Dear, sweet Suzanne. Who could kill so brutally? She knew the answer. The same person who'd once loved Milton with a jealous passion. The one who'd probably helped him murder and mutilate. Peter. He had to be the one, and now he wanted to get her. She was the captive, trapped in protective custody. He was free. She'd been relieved of duty and literally had nothing to do. She'd never get her mind off what happened. The police should just pick Peter up on suspicion of something or other. They did it all the time on TV and other cases.
Other cases?
a rational corner of her mind queried. She didn't know exactly which cases, but she'd read about it some-where. Krastowitcz said he'd find Peter. She clung to that.
    They pulled into the now familiar police parking stall and Krastowitcz cut the engine. She had to call Suzanne's mother. Oh, God. . . how? How would she go home, see Suzanne's things?
    She studied Krastowitcz. He slumped in his seat, his hands covering his eyes, but not the deep furrows in his brow. He was thinking about Trent. He had to figure a way to explain things to his best friend. In a way, she and Krastowitcz were a lot alike, each struggling with their own demons of guilt.
    "What time does Trent get back?"
    Krastowitcz's eyes flashed pain. "This morning, about four-
    thirty. I hope he doesn't hear about it from one of the guys in the station, first."
    "Why?"
    "They can be pretty crude. You know. . . describing the body and things like that. It's not malicious, just cop talk. Kind of like doctors, you know. No one knows he was involved with her."
    "God, this is so awful. I don't know what to do. It's so hard to break the news. Her family is like my own."
         KRASTOWITCZ DIDN'T have much of an office, just one of a series of desks in the middle of a large room surrounded by scarred linoleum-tile floor. Rows of file cabinets, dented from repeated attempts to kick them in lined the walls, ugly institutional gray walls. Fluorescent tubes glared down in perpetual bright-ness. Very much like a hospital.
    Andrea's heart thudded dully in her chest. Trent sat at Krastowticz's desk amidst traffic, confusion and commotion. He lifted his puffy, red, eyes to them. Instantly anger flashed in the brown depths.
    "Gary, what happened?"
    "Hey, buddy. What're you doing here? Your plane doesn't get in till three thirty."
    "Caught an earlier flight. I talked with Suzanne, right before I left, early yesterday afternoon. She was meeting her for dinner." He pointed his finger at Andrea. Already overburdened with guilt, she shrank back. "She was going to tell you about us, and--" The words seemed to catch in his throat. "How did this happen?"
    "Whoever killed her must've waited for Andrea," Krastowitcz said.
    "What?"
    "We found her in Andrea's office. She must've discovered something--maybe even the killer or killers--"
    Andrea's heart pounded, her breath came in spurts, her asthma attacked.
    "And where were you?" He pointed at her as though she shouldn't be alive and gasping for air.
    "With me." Krastowitcz moved between them.
    "What? I don't understand."
    "We were working on the case and--"
    "I forgot. . . about her." Tottering under her self-imposed load, Andrea couldn't stop the torrent of words that rushed out. "It's my fault. . . I forgot about meeting her for dinner. W-when I remembered, we went back to the office, and found--I found. . ." Her voice trailed off into a choked sob.
    Trent looked stunned. As though someone had slapped him hard. No one spoke; no one moved; except for Andrea's ragged wheeze, no one breathed.
    His eyes glazed with moisture, Trent stood and paced around the desk. "Any clues?" Sadness seemed to weigh him down and he collapsed back into the chair. Andrea wanted to put her arms around him, comfort him and herself, but guilt held her back.
    "Peter, the research assistant, seems to be the most likely suspect," Krastowitcz said.
    "What about the priest?"
    "The priest?"
    "James. . . Jamison, yeah, that's it. Jamison. Suzanne said he was spooky as hell. Nervous. Staring at her all the time." Trent's jaw clenched and he bolted upright. "Damned pervert."
    "I've wondered about him, too," Krastowitcz said. "I was going to run a background check, but haven't gotten around to it yet." Krastowitcz leaned over and put his arm around his friend. "What do you think?"
    Trent shook off the embrace. "I think I need to seek confession. Like maybe a fucking priest at Dorlynd. Like maybe some asshole named Jamison. Like maybe I need to confess right about now." Trent shot to his feet.
    Krastowticz placed his hand on his shoulder and eased him back in the chair. "Hold on. You can't go off--" Trent tried to shrug him off, but Krastowitcz's hand remained. "Give me some time, buddy."
    "The guy stinks like ten day old Missouri carp and you know it."
    "You're right, but we need to be careful. I'll get the guy for you, buddy. But we can't bust his head or his balls without probable cause. Hear me?"
    Trent glared at his friend, then softened. "Yeah, you find out for me. I'm beat. I can't take any more of this. I'm going home."
    "Want me to drive you?" Krastowitcz asked.
    His eyes flashed with anger and pain. "No. I'm okay. See you tomorrow."
    Trent left without so much as a glance at Andrea huddled in the corner. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She wanted, no, need-ed his forgiveness. Andrea had forgotten, only for a moment, but that had proved fatal. Her own daughter's death wasn't her fault either, but blame didn't matter, anymore. Sarah and Suzanne--both dead because of her.
    "Come on, Andrea," Krastowitcz said. "Let's get you home. We can't do any more tonight. And don't worry, I'm not leaving you. I'm sure you have a couch."
    "You don't have to, really," she replied in a small voice.
    He flashed a smile full of cynicism. "Sure I do. It's all part of the service your taxes pay for."
Chapter XV
    
. . . INTO WHATEVER HOUSES I ENTER I WILL GO INTO THEM FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE SICK . . .
         "Hey, Krastowitcz, telephone," the desk Sergeant called as Krastowitcz and Andrea got up to leave. "Iverson wants you down in the morgue, fast."
    "He's back? I'm taking Dr. Pearson home. Shit! Andrea, I'd better see what he wants. Jim," he called to Shimokowa who was leaving the station. "Do me a favor?"
    "Another one? Like I haven't done enough already?"
    "C'mon, Jimmy. This one's real important." He pulled Shimokowa aside. "We just found Dr. Pearson's friend murdered in her office. I think the perp wants her, too. Take her home and stay until I get there?" He placed his hand on her shoulder. "You don't mind, do you, Andrea? It shouldn't take too long." Luckily, Andrea seemed too tired to argue.
    "Jeez, Gary, I'd like to help. But I'm just getting off. Wearing make-up all evening has taken its toll."
    "It's all right, Gary," Andrea said. "I'll be fine. You don't have to--"
    Krastowitcz and Shimokowa stared at each other.
    "All right. I know. I owe you." Shimokowa shrugged his shoulders and smiled at Andrea.
    "Come on, honey. I'll show you the ancient art of Chinese cuisine. We'll stop at Chu's Egg Roll Bar on our way home. Maybe we can swap fashion secrets. Or if I ask real nice, you'll let me borrow your cold cream to get this shit off my face. What do you say? It'll be a blast--just us girls."
    She flashed him a weak smile.
    "Just stay with Andrea until I get there, okay, Jimmy?"
    "Sure, big-guy. I'll be there."
    Krastowitcz hurried down the back stairs toward the basement. In the semidarkness he spotted the door marked,
Morgue
. It was getting crowded in there. Krastowitcz stalked in, not in the mood for much of anything. How the hell was Iverson holding up under the death toll? God, he hoped the pathologist had already slabbed Suzanne. He didn't want to see her again. Be reminded of his friend's loss.
    Steel tables gleamed in the harsh fluorescent light, waiting for the next bloody corpse to mar its mirrored surface. "George. George?"
    "Gary." Iverson walked out of the main cooler. "I've been waiting for you. What's going on at Dorlynd? Can't you keep things quiet for one day?"
    "I was hoping you'd have the answers I need to do it."
    "I leave town for a few hours and all hell breaks loose. It was worth the trip, though. Got some pretty interesting information about Grafton."
    "Grafton? I almost forgot."
    "Yeah, well don't forget this. Northwestern's lab analyzed that sample of Grafton's blood with their sensitive equipment. There's something different about his cells."
    "I know."
    "You do?"
    "Dr. Pearson told me. Seems he was experimenting on him-self and others. Dr. Pearson told me. Something about changing the DNA in his blood cells."