Dangerous (The Complete Erotic Romance Novel) (60 page)

Little did he know that he wouldn’t be driving anywhere at all.

* * *

The stranger hadn’t been sure about the listening device in Stirling’s kitchen. The decision to take the place of the appliance repair guy had been an impulse, and the stranger preferred to plan ahead.

It had just seemed such a perfect opportunity to get into the house. The repair guy had even parked on the road instead of in the driveway, and on the far side of the street. There’d been no one around, and it had been easy to overcome the man in his surprise.

The installation of the device had been hasty, too hasty for his liking. He hadn’t had much time, given the security measures installed in the house and the watchfulness of the resident staff. It was a good thing he knew something about appliance repair and had been able to fix the dishwasher. The sound quality from the device had been less than ideal, but it had been worth it in the end.

Without it, he would never have known the full extent of Stirling’s corruption of Alana. That rich bastard really had turned her into a shameless whore. And that driver had taken advantage of her.

He would pay.

The stranger parked the appliance van in front of the neighboring house, straightened his uniform and strode whistling up the driveway with his toolbox. He’d have to get rid of the van afterward. The body was starting to smell. He’d make it look like a robbery somewhere far across town.

He went behind the house, as if instructed to use the back door, and left his toolbox there. He removed a crowbar from it, one that had been carefully wiped of prints already, and gripped it in his gloved hand. He crossed the property line back in the forested part, and eased alongside Stirling’s garage. There was an exit on this side, probably one that was seldom used. He pressed his ear against it and listened for the sound of the driver coming into the garage from the house.

He heard a door open. His heart leapt but he rapped on the door with authority.

He heard the driver swear and footsteps approach. The door was hauled open, but the driver had no time to say anything.

The stranger stuck him across the face with the crowbar. Forster fell back with a cry, but the stranger hauled him outside. Fury filled him as he thought of this man fucking his beloved Alana over and over and over again, treating her like a slut and a whore, taking what he wanted from her and leaving her pregnant.

When he was done, Forster wasn’t just dead but almost unrecognizable. The stranger hauled him bodily toward the back of the property, and shoved him down the steep hill to the ravine. The corpse fell, tumbling to the bottom, then stopped.

The stranger took a deep breath of satisfaction. He placed the bloody crowbar inside the garage, positioning it as if it had been dropped, then shut and locked the door behind himself.

He returned to his toolbox, composed himself, and then strolled back down the driveway. He even paused partway to light a cigarette, well aware of the unmarked police car watching Stirling’s house. He took his time getting back into the van, then slowly pulled away.

He knew just how he’d ditch it, and the repair guy bound in the back.

It was starting to snow again, big flakes that fell slowly out of the sky. The sight of them made the stranger smile. He couldn’t have planned the weather any better. The snow would cover his tracks from the neighboring house.

It was as if divine justice was on his side.

* * *

Alana had lied.

Repeatedly.

Reid couldn’t have been given more damning evidence that Kendra’s instincts were right about Alana. Forster could have been talking about a complete stranger, instead of Reid’s wife. Tempting another man so boldly and seducing him? Being such a demanding lover? The woman Forster described had little in common with Alana—except that need to shop.

It would have been nice to have been able to dismiss the story as a fabrication, but Reid had watched Forster and he knew his driver hadn’t been lying. Forster had no guile in him. He was athletic and a good driver, not particularly ambitious and certainly not scheming. He liked comfort. He wasn’t too strong in the principles department, but he was a good employee.

Reid told Alana once what he liked about Forster was that the driver did as he was told. That might have been ironic, if it hadn’t been so sad.

But the demanding lover Forster described bore no resemblance to the woman Reid married. Alana deferred to him in everything. She always agreed with him. In fact, he thought she’d declined to go on that trip because he’d jokingly said she seemed to have no opinions of her own—only his, restated back to him. She’d certainly never seduced him or commanded him to do anything to her. She’d waited and taken what he’d offered, never even asking for more.

Accepting. Complacent and compliant. That had been the Alana he’d known.

But evidently that had been a facade. Kendra had been right.

Who had Alana really been?

Where had she come from and what had she wanted?

And who had been her killer? Was that killer stalking Kendra? Reid dressed with purpose. He began to make a mental list of all the little incidents that hadn’t added up, the ones he had dismissed as irrelevant but which together might give a hint as to Alana’s truth and her predator.

There had been a dozen pauses, hesitations, little glances, odd smiles. He’d dismissed them all.

There had been her refusal to go to Asia with him.

That had been harder to dismiss.

There had to be other clues and Reid would find them.

Maybe Kendra already had. He stalked out of the front door of the house to his car in the driveway. The snow was falling and already accumulating. He noted the lack of tracks from the limo in the garage and assumed Forster had decided to get a cab downtown. He certainly wouldn’t offer him a ride, if he passed his former driver walking into town. Reid got into his car and started the engine with a roar, not caring if the police followed him to Kendra’s place.

As far as he was concerned, the whole world could know Kendra was his.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Oh, Mr. Stirling, he’s a very good tenant,” the landlady said to Moynihan. “Prepaid for three months and never any noise or bother. I’m disappointed that he’s given his notice.” She slanted a glance at him as she led the way down the hall. “You must be friends with him to know that the unit will be available.”

“We’ve met, yes.” Moynihan was improvising and glad his junior officer was still across the way at the other building. He’d seen the sign on the board in the lobby and rung the super’s unit. He’d intended to use the contact as an opening to talk to her about her tenant, but it turned out that the unit available was Stirling’s. Moynihan already knew the unit number from the board, and was simply listening. He saw no reason to tell her—yet—he was a cop.

“You’re smart to come early,” she said with a nod. “These studios go very fast. A good price in a good location. I only just put up the sign today.”

“And when is this one going to be available?”

“He said in two months. He paid me already, everything up front. A good tenant.” She sighed with pleasure. “If only they were all so reliable. Of course, I checked his credentials first, very good. If you’re interested, you’ll have to give me yours.”

“Of course.”

“You have a job?”

“Yes.”

“A good job?”

“I’m a police detective.”

She paused in the act of inserting the key into the lock to look at him. “Are you really looking for an apartment?”

Moynihan smiled. “Of course.”

She looked away for a moment, tightened her lips, and then turned the key in the lock with a fierce gesture. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here. Mr. Stirling is a good tenant. I know the difference. There are troublemakers and there are crazies, but he’s just a good reliable tenant.”

“I’d like to see the studio,” Moynihan said with a smile.

She flung open the door with a flick of the wrist. “It’s big and bright, freshly painted and...” Her voice faded to silence as the two of them stared into the apartment in shock.

The super muttered a blessing under her breath and crossed herself.

It was a shrine.

Or more accurately, a stalker’s nest. No one lived here, but someone watched from here.

And that person watched Kendra Jones.

The one large wall on the right had been turned into a kind of a bulletin board, covered with photographs of Reid’s attractive assistant in various states of nudity and bondage. The vast majority of the shots seem to have been taken in the same bedroom. It might have been her own bedroom, because the large table on the left was loaded with computer equipment. A large screen dominated the far corner beside the window, and Moynihan noted that it was perfectly positioned to be seen from the door.

As if Stirling had anticipated his arrival.

The screen displayed what appeared to be a live video feed of the bedroom visible in the displayed images. As Moynihan watched, Kendra Jones appeared on the screen. “You prick,” she muttered. Her features were distorted by the lens because she was so close to the camera. “I’m going to find out who you are,” she continued, her voice dark with threat. “Then I’ll rip off your nuts and feed them to you. I’ll make sure you regret this.” As her hand closed over the camera, the screen went black. There was a sound of static, then the screen went dead.

The screen refreshed to show an image of Kendra from behind, clearly feeding from a second video camera. Moynihan watched her get down from the chair she’d been standing on and look around her bedroom warily.

“There!” she cried, pointing directly at the other camera.

He didn’t need to watch her close it.

“Nice and bright,” he said to the super. “Just as you said. “Does the window face the street?”

“Yes,” she said, her manner sullen that she’d been proven so wrong.

“Please lock it again. I’ll be back with a warrant.” Moynihan smiled and gave her one of his cards. Although he was tempted to congratulate her on being able to identify the troublemakers and crazies—of which she was sure her tenant was not—Moynihan simply smiled and gave her one of his cards.

“And if he comes back? To his own apartment?”

“Call me. But I don’t think he’ll be back.”

No. The place had served its purpose. Kendra Jones had been at Reid Stirling’s home the night before. Instead of fantasizing about her, he’d been able to enjoy the real thing. Moynihan shuddered as he walked back down the hall. He’d never get used to how strange people could be.

His trainee was in the squad car. He took one look at Moynihan and gestured across the street. A sports car just like Stirling’s was parked in front of the opposite building, the one where Kendra Jones lived.

If Moynihan had any doubts as to the driver of the car, the presence of the unmarked car tailing Stirling at the end of the block dismissed them all. The plain clothes detective in that vehicle was reading a newspaper behind the wheel.

He got into the car, interested that Stirling evidently couldn’t stay away from his lover.

“Her apartment’s there,” the younger officer said, pointing to a window. “Perfect view from the rental.”

“We’ll know where to find him when we get that warrant,” Moynihan said grimly, then told the other detective what he’d glimpsed.

“Hard to believe he’d be so dumb, sir.”

“No.” Moynihan remembered Stirling’s impassive manner, his confidence, and was glad to be nailing this particular bastard. “Some people believe they can get away with anything. They think the rules don’t apply to them,” he said grimly. “Stirling’s about to learn that they do.”

* * *

Kendra was livid. She’d smashed the cameras with a brick on her balcony, hoping whoever installed them was able to see his precious technology being destroyed. That hadn’t improved her mood one bit. She felt violated and unsafe.

She wanted to tell Reid about her finding, but knew she was too upset to do it yet. He’d want her to come to the house, to stay there and be safe, and as tempting as that was, Kendra wanted to solve more of the mystery first. She wanted to be able to tell him something about Alana, something he didn’t know.

But she had to find it first.

She’d been through the private investigator’s files Reid shared with her, and there were no revelations to be had. She’d gone through them three times, astonished that a woman who was nearly thirty years old could have so little personal history. If Kendra had an investigation that turned up such a lot of banal information, like this one on Alana, she would have thought the other person was just as presented, too.

But there was something about Reid’s dead wife that didn’t add up. Kendra couldn’t deny her sense Reid had been stalked, or that Alana pretended to be someone she was not.

If that were true, these reports might reveal only what Alana wanted Reid to know. What else was there to know about her? How could Kendra find out?

She drummed her fingers on the desk as she thought. Alana had targeted Reid at the ballet, which meant she’d read that news article about Reid and his father. Maybe the answer was in public records about Reid.