Dark Heart (16 page)

She bumped into someone, but refused to let the small collision break the spell. She apologized without looking up, and moved on.

But when she was bumped again, she opened her eyes and realized the man was intentionally trying to dance with her. He had dark skin, black eyes, and black hair, and was slightly shorter than she was. If she had to guess, she’d place him as coming from middle-eastern stock.

“Hello,” the man said in a thick Arabic accent. His hot gaze undressed her. “My name is Omar. What is your—”

She frowned at him, stopped dancing, turned and walked off the floor, leaving him standing alone, his mouth open, looking foolish and hurt.

Sandra could tell he was angry, and she waited for the confrontation, feeling the muscles along her shoulders go tense. She’d decided not to look for anything, but if something came—well, that wouldn’t be so bad, either. He wasn’t a little redheaded street punk, but he would do.

The man locked his angry stare on her, but when she returned it steadily, he finally shrugged and turned away. He started dancing again, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

Her icy brush-off had been instinctive, and she immediately regretted it. Something about him had bothered her, but it wasn’t anything she could put her finger on. Still, she’d been unnecessarily rude. She could have bowed out gracefully. No point in
looking
for trouble…

Because looking for trouble was stupid. Coming to a crowded bar and dancing alone always attracted attention, whether a woman wanted it or not. That wasn’t fair, but it was the way the world worked. She sighed as she pushed her way in between two people at the bar and ordered another screwdriver.

She should probably apologize to the man. His fragile male ego had undoubtedly been wounded, and it wasn’t as if he’d done anything wrong. Just bad timing. But apologizing to a man who hit on you was tantamount to saying you wanted him to try again. No, better to just let it drop. She gazed out into the crowd, but avoided looking at the dance floor.

She sipped her drink. Benny was right. Sometimes, she
was
crazy. Breathing slowly, she felt the alcohol begin to pull at her. One drink at home and two here so far. The lazy burn was suffusing her with a pleasant glow. She relaxed.

And she slipped into the game, the one she always played in a roomful of strangers. She’d begun to play it when she started training as a police officer, at first with conscious effort, then almost automatically. They taught classes at the academy on how to study people so that you could ID them easily afterwards, days, weeks, or even months later. She had learned how to put together spot psychological profiles on people simply by looking at them, watching them interact with others.

The process didn’t always work, of course. Some people had elaborate social facades, facades that didn’t reflect who they really were. But the game worked most of the time. Using such techniques, she could separate the dangerous from the harmless with some degree of certainty a few moments after entering a room. There were standard indicators of those who might use deadly force if given cause, who were just looking for an excuse to do so.

She focused on a heavy, balding man in one of the booths across the room from her. Smoky tendrils and moving people obscured his face from time to time, but Sandra kept an amused eye on him.

He seemed uncomfortable and fidgety. The lines on his doughy face indicated a low-burning worry, and her first impression was that he didn’t really like the blues. He was here for another reason. Across from him sat a younger, attractive woman. Her wavy hair was teased and tied up at the crown of her head.

No, Sandra decided after a moment’s study, she wasn’t younger. She was just better kept. Even from across the hazy room, Sandra could see the experienced way the woman held herself, the careful motions of her hands as she talked to the fat man, and Sandra would bet that if she got much closer, the signs of repeated plastic surgery would be obvious. And they were married, she saw. Matching wedding rings. The wife liked blues, liked getting out. The husband didn’t. The crowd, the noise, the situation made him uncomfortable—and he was trapped by his own appeasement of her, despising himself for it, maybe even despising her, but unable to help himself. He probably thought it was love.

Nasty…

A man in a black sports jacket caught her interest. He seemed like more of a blues lover than the fat man. His black clothing fit in with the ambience of this place. He wore dark sunglasses, mafiosi-style, though the room was about as bright as a coal cellar. She narrowed her eyes and wondered if he was as dangerous as he thought he was. He wore the clothes of a bad-ass…

No. It was a con. He was all surface, no substance. The curve at the corners of his mouth was too contrived. If a bar fight broke out, he would run in the opposite direction. Just then, he caught her gaze and gave her a come-on kind of smile.

She looked away.

There was a very serious-looking girl sitting at the booth in the corner. The girl was underage. God, people were strange. Tubby, hating himself over in the other booth, had a wife trying her damnedest to look twenty-one, while the girl in the corner tried hard to look a jaded, cynical forty.

The beat from the stage shifted as the band swung into a new number. As Sandra turned to look, something shifted in the deep shadows behind the last booth, a flicker of motion that tugged at the corner of her eye.

She caught herself, forced herself not to turn, not to spook him. It was hard to see in the smoke-filled murk, but yes. There it was. No doubt. The swirling edge of a coat, moving as he turned to stare at her. A very familiar trench coat.

She set her drink down on the bar, hitting the scarred surface too hard and sloshing the dregs of her drink onto the lacquered wood. He seemed to sense her sudden attention, because he turned suddenly away, fading back into the crowd. But not before she had seen the pimples, the freckles, and the red hair. It was him.

The redhead was here. He’d followed her, and she hadn’t noticed him. How had he done that? She looked for him again, but he’d vanished. Fronds of some plant blocked part of her view.

He knows I’m a cop,
she thought uneasily.
Punks don’t follow cops around. Not unless they’re psycho. Or they want something…

Unconsciously her fingers traced the heavy shape of the pistol in her purse. She pushed away from the bar and headed toward the spot where he’d been standing.

Okay, you found me, scumbucket. Now what?

I came to dance. So, punk, let’s you and me dance…

S
he picked her way slowly toward the spot where she’d seen him, but he was gone. Then, amazingly, she spotted him again, further back in the shadows, trying to blend in with a dusty thicket of fake shrubbery.

Maybe he didn’t know she’d spotted him. And her first hot surge of anger was subsiding. Her fingers moved against the weight of the pistol concealed in her purse. What was she thinking? A scrawny doper kid. What was she gonna do, shoot him?

No, but talking to him seemed like a good idea. Although so far he hadn’t seemed to want to talk, not after the first encounter. So go slow, get right up on him before…

“Hello.”

As keyed up as she was, she nearly shot him.

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

She turned and found herself staring up into dark, shadowed eyes.
Blue eyes,
she thought at once, though how she could tell, she didn’t quite know. They were deeply set in an aristocratic face, compelling and vibrant even in the club’s dim light. The man’s long, straight nose gave a fox-like aspect to his face, but his strong jaw squared it off nicely. He wore a loose black silk shirt, open at the throat, and well-cut jeans. She thought she saw the glimmer of a silver chain around his neck, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I didn’t mean to.” His voice was mild, deep, and bore a distinct English accent.

“No, no. I’m fine.” She realized she was still clutching her purse like a weapon, and forced herself to relax.

She found herself smiling at him, almost against her will.

At any other point in her life, he was exactly the sort of man who would interest her, but not tonight. She was tempted to ignore him, or maybe tell him to go away, but—those eyes!

“Hi,” she said, not sure exactly where she wanted to go from there.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I believe I know you.”

“Is that so?” She raised one eyebrow, trying for studied indifference—and knowing that she failed.

“Indeed.” The man had not moved to take a place beside her at the bar, as someone looking to hit on her might. Instead, he stood across from her, just far enough away to avoid making her uncomfortable, but close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, catch a subtle scent of some expensive men’s fragrance. He radiated calm assurance. No matter where he stood, it was a completely natural place for him to be. The polite brush-off she’d intended to give him froze in her throat.

“Really? Where from?” She was becoming interested in him almost against her better judgment.

“I realize that this sounds like the oldest pick-up line in the world, but allow me a moment to explain.”

Sandra smiled, despite herself. “Okay.” She relaxed a bit.

“You like games, don’t you?”

She watched his eyes, and said, “
Not
really.”

“Of course, you do. All detectives like games. Otherwise they wouldn’t be detectives.”

She felt uneasy. A chill ran up her spine and her eyes narrowed. How this man knew her, she had no idea. She’d never met him before in her life, she was sure of that. He was good-looking enough that she would have remembered him.

Yet she sensed this was not some Don Juan who liked to play games with people’s heads. She felt no smug superiority in the man, no selfish lust hidden beneath a slick surface. Instead, what she sensed from his eyes was…a challenge. Not one which would drag her into danger, but the kind normally issued between the best of friends.

He wanted her to run. He wanted her to back out of the situation. He seemed to expect it.

She was no longer frightened. She was intrigued.

She glanced toward where the redhead had been trying out his potted plant imitation. But the kid was gone. She felt an odd flash of relief. So much for that, then.

“You must spend a great deal of time around detectives, if you know them so well,” she said, looking up at him.

“Not actually. You can divine a great deal from a person in short order if you know what to look for. Don’t you agree?”

She thought about the game she’d just been playing in her own mind, about the fat man and his wife, about the fake mafioso. “Maybe. In a way. So what else have you
divined
about me?” He was well-educated, Sandra decided. She didn’t know many people who used the word
divined
in conversation.

“Gaining your confidence is a difficult thing, I’d guess. I wager that the faster I play my trump cards, the better chance I have of continuing this conversation.”

Sandra smiled. “You could be right.”

“Shall we proceed to the game, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Here is the problem: tell me how I know you.”

“How many questions do I get?” she asked.

“That is a question in and of itself.”

“Excuse me?”

“How many questions do you require?”

“Three questions,” she decided. “What about time limits?”

“Again, restrict yourself by your own judgment.” He smiled. His blue eyes twinkled.

“It shouldn’t take long. Give me a moment to decide on my questions.” Sandra stared at him, tried her damnedest to find a place for him in her memory. Nothing surfaced. Okay, she’d have to do it the hard way. She paused for a moment, tracking down possibilities. Finally, she said, “Are you related to, a friend of, or in any way connected to Law McKenzie?”

“No. And may I point out that you have just asked three questions?”

“Not true. It was a single sentence. You’ve seen me working a case. That’s how you knew I was a detective.”

“Yes.”

She nodded and sipped her drink.

His eyebrow raised. “You seem satisfied.”

“I am.”

“And your deduction?”

“You live in the same building as Jack Madrone.”

He shook his head, looked disappointed. “No.”

“Then you were visiting. Either way, you were in the crowd clustered in the hallway.”

“Indeed. I’m impressed, truly. How did you decide upon that?”

“I have an almost photographic memory for faces, so I knew I couldn’t have met you. Which means you saw me, but I didn’t see you. Also, you knew I was a detective. So I had only two lines of possible inquiry, really. Either you know me through someone who knows me, or you’ve seen me at a crime scene.”

“Very well then. How is it that you knew I had seen you at only one crime scene? I’m certain you’ve been to quite a few more than one. You are a detective, after all.”

She nodded. “Well, the fact that you recognized me at all pretty much nailed the crime scene down for me.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She smiled. “For most of my adult life, up until a few weeks ago, I was a blonde.”

He laughed.

“I dyed my hair in college to try a different look. It seemed to suit me. I wore it for years. Recently I decided I wanted my natural color back, so I dyed my hair brown again.”

“I see, and you’ve only had one major case between your visit to the beauty parlor and now?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But the other crime scenes didn’t attract a crowd.”

“Bravo.”

Sandra thought for a moment, then grinned. “You want a drink?” She tipped her head to the space beside her at the bar. “I’ll buy.”

“Of course, you would, wouldn’t you?” he said. “A modern independent woman. Allow me this, then. I accept on the condition that I buy the next round.”

“You assume there’s going to be a next round.”

“I can always hope.”

She was flattered. He was certainly the most attractive man she’d met in months. Years. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Justin. And yours?”

“Well, I’m surprised. You don’t know?”

“I may have heard something, but somehow I don’t really think your name is Bruce, Detective McCormick.”

“Huh. You heard Mac.”

He nodded, an oddly formal gesture, but somehow endearing.

“He calls me that. But I’m Sandra.” She offered him her hand and he took it, brought it to his lips. His lips were warm, and she enjoyed the sensation despite herself. “Cute,” she said, “but a little old-fashioned. I’m a modern woman, remember?”

He shrugged. “Certain customs should never die.” He ordered Glenfiddich on the rocks.

“What do you do, Justin?”

“I own a nightclub here in the city.”

“Are you casing the competition?”

“Hardly. I enjoy the blues. One doesn’t want to spend every night within one’s own house.”

“What’s the name of the club?”

“Gwendolyne’s Flight.”

She whistled softly, recognizing the name.

The music ceased thrumming through the bar for a moment as the band closed their second set. The dance floor emptied out. The sound system kicked in with the siren call of a Duke Ellington riff.

“So tell me, Justin,” she said, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have responsibilities back at your own place?”

“At times, certainly,” Justin said, “but I’m careful about who I hire, and business is good enough that I can afford to hire the best. The sort of managers who operate better when the boss is gone.”

“Are you planning on leaving?” Sandra asked.

“Not permanently, but I like to travel, and I don’t like to be tethered to my business. What’s the point of living if you aren’t free to enjoy it to the fullest?”

“Are you a rover, then?”

“I used to be. I’ve seen every corner of the world and lived to tell the tale.”

“But going places is not your full-time avocation these days?”

“No. I have roots here in Chicago.”

“A rolling stone with roots?”

He laughed and Sandra smiled. Ever since her marriage had turned into a waking nightmare, she’d lost her ease with men. But even under these circumstances—the redheaded kid and her recent inexplicable paranoia about being stalked by something—talking with Justin felt natural, like he was an old friend. She wondered what it would be like to spend time with him when she wasn’t feeling half-crazed.

Still, the more they talked, the more they talked about. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or just the unique perspective Justin seemed to have on everything, but Sandra found herself enjoying his company. He talked a great deal about England. He’d only been in the U.S. three years or so. He admitted to parents with old money, but said he had been something of a rebel when he was young. He had run away from home and played in a punk band in his teens, then worked as a bouncer at a tough club in London before he’d reconciled with his parents as an adult. He also told her how glad he was that he’d made his peace with them then—his parents had died in a car accident five years ago. He still missed them. But he’d been spared the guilt of losing them without ever apologizing for the things he did as a wild kid.

At first, Sandra stayed close-lipped about her own life, but as Justin offered more and more, never pushing for details from her, she began to loosen up. She talked a little bit about what she did as a detective. She could tell he was intensely curious about that, but she usually shied away from that topic. It surprised her that the words came so easily. She was surprised to find that she really did want to tell him what her life was like. Wanted him to understand.

“I can’t talk about current cases, except in generalities. I will tell you this, though. That case where you saw me—it’s the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever worked on.”

“That’s a broad term, especially for Chicago. What constitutes ‘weird’ to a big city cop?” Justin asked.

“Let me put it this way. It’s got everything you’d want for a
Twilight Zone
episode, up to and possibly including dragons.” She smiled a bit as she pictured the strange scale in her mind. No one had been able to classify it yet. Dragons were as likely a supposition as anything anybody had managed to come up with so far.

Justin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dragons? That’s a new twist on big city crime. Do you like dragons?”

“Don’t know many dragons.” Sandra sipped her drink—maybe it was time to switch to straight orange juice. She was talking too much.

“I was enamored of them as a child.” Justin said, “Perhaps it’s an English thing. I knew more about dragons by the time I was twelve than a literature professor knows about Shakespeare.”

“How odd. Did you seek help?”

“I got better.”

They ordered another round and as Sandra began sipping her new drink, this time OJ straight up, she studied Justin. Silence hung between them. Neither felt the need to fill it immediately, but finally Sandra spoke. “So I think it’s time I turned your game on you.”

“Is it?”

“Indeed.” She affected his English accent. “I know how you got my name. So let’s try something a little more difficult. Using the data you have so far, what else can you deduce about me?”

“I feel outmatched. I don’t do this for a living.”

“Try anyway.”

“Right. Very well, then. You are a detective. I would guess you’ve been one for a while, but…”

“But?”

“This was not your first career choice. I would wager that your decision to go into law enforcement came about through something which happened in your life. You seem to regard crime as a personal affront.”

She smiled. “Not bad.”

“You are a detective out of a need to impose justice, not out of a sense of vocation.” He paused. “I have a question for you, if I may break the bounds of the game for a moment.”

“Maybe,” she replied. “I don’t promise to answer it.”

“If you were a criminal, what crime would you commit?”

She pursed her lips. “Not as tough a question for me to answer as you might think. Definitely—”

Something besides small talk captured Sandra’s attention, and her words trailed off into silence. Through the smoke and milling crowds of people, she saw the redhead in the trench coat moving toward the door. He paused and looked right at her, inclining his head toward the exit.

“You want to do me a favor?” she said to Justin, but never taking her eyes off the kid in the trench coat.

“Certainly,” Justin said. He craned his neck to see what she was looking at.