With Deadly Intent (4 page)

Kittredge proffered his hand. She hesitated until she heard the director cough. Not
wanting a lecture on the importance of maintaining good public relations, she
reluctantly let him envelope her slender fingers with his.

He smiled warmly. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Prescott.”

“Oh? Why is that?” At her suspicious stare, he released her and moved back several steps.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her lab coat and balled them into fists. A nosy
reporter was something she could do without right now.

The director cleared his throat. “Amy's been processing material found on the body and
clothing of a male homicide victim. Have you learned anything helpful?”

She nodded. “His assailant, or someone he knew may be Asian, blood type A, group M, Rh
positive. The person works at a metals trade specializing in aluminum and he, or she,
may own wearing apparel containing dark green wool.”

Kittredge turned a page of his note book and came closer. “Could I ask how you arrived at
your conclusions?”

“I had three strands of hair two inches long. The short, sharply clipped length indicates
they probably came from a man. The hair shaft's circumference measured more than that of
the average Caucasian, which makes me suspect the person may be Asian. The hair roots
enabled me to determine the blood group and Rh.” She shrugged. “That's about all I know
at the moment.”

“You mentioned clothing.”

“Oh, yes. A scrap of wool one-thirty-second of an inch in length had gotten caught on the
victim's jacket zipper. It may, or may not have come from the assailant.”

He gave a low whistle. “One thirty-second! Good Lord, how'd you find it?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “With a magnifying glass.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Just
like Sherlock Holmes.”

He flushed. “What about the man's trade?”

“No magic there either. All three hair strands showed traces of aluminum dust.” She
fiddled with a button dangling by one thread and glanced at her watch. “If that's all,
I'd better get on with my analysis.”

“Yes, of course.” He chewed his lower lip. “Perhaps another time. How about ... ?”

“No.” She slid off her stool and left the room without looking back.

When she returned, the reporter had gone, but just before noon one of the secretaries
brought her a message. Simon Kittredge wanted to meet her in the coffee shop for lunch.
She wadded up the note and flung it into the waste basket.

He had some gall, thinking she'd help him pick Oren's life apart so he could have a
story. Anger churning inside her, she went to the women's lounge and wolfed down her
tuna sandwich and apple. The food landed in a lump in her stomach and she spent the
afternoon chewing Rolaids.

That evening, she came out of the elevator and started along the crowded double-wide
corridor. Before she reached the two guards stationed by the front door, the man who had
ruined her day materialized at her side.

“Amy ... uh—Dr. Prescott,” he said quickly. “I wanted to talk to you about Oren.”

“Leave me alone,” she said, and kept on going.

In two strides, he was in front of her. “But, you don't understand ... Please, let's have
dinner. I need to...”

She dodged past him, and made it to the door. Rain struck her in the face as she rushed
outside. Neons touting bail bond companies and Spin's Friendly Tavern tinted the
swirling fog a blush pink.

Snatching off her glasses, she shoved them into her tote bag and headed up Third Avenue.
At the Arctic Building, she turned the corner and started up the hill. For once she
didn't pause to study the sculpted walrus heads circling the white stone structure's
midriff. First she would lose the reporter in the crowd of homeward bound commuters.
Then it would be safe to grab a bus to her apartment.

Breathless from the climb, she threaded her way through the crush on Fourth Avenue.
Halfway up the block, she got a catch in her side and had to stop. She peered through a
steamy window at diners seated at tables inside McCormick's Fish House & Bar.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She started, and spun around to find Kittredge
standing behind her.

“Please, I must speak to you,” he said.

She scowled at him. “I'm not talking to you or any other reporter. Now, shove off, or
I'll call a cop.” He made no move toward her, so she unfurled the umbrella she should
have used much sooner and set off again.

“I ... knew ... Elise...”

His words, spoken as if he'd ripped them from his throat one-by-one, turned her around.
“When?” she began, then stopped. The man had his arms wrapped across his chest as though
holding himself together. One glimpse of his misery-etched face erased the rest of her
questions.

Water from her drenched hair dripped down her neck as she studied him. Could he be
putting on an act to get her attention?

He stared back at her with pleading eyes. “You'll catch cold standing out here.”

She flung up her hands. “Oh, what the hell? Is Italian okay with you?” She handed him the
umbrella so both of them could take advantage of its shelter.

“Any place you like. I've just returned to Seattle after a six month absence, so I'm
practically a stranger.”

“It's a five-block hike, but worth it.” She took his arm so she could match her stride to
his. “Where've you been?”

“Working out of the London office.”

She indicated a left turn. “When did you get back?”

“Three days ago.”

“Oh...” Letting go of his arm, she strode along in silence, her mind teeming with the
possibilities his chance remark had opened up.

Obviously the man had been in love with Elise. Why else would he have reacted as he did
to the mere mention of her name? He could have gone to Lomitas Island, learned Elise was
living with Oren, killed her in a jealous rage, and made it look as if Oren had done it.

She walked faster and her mind kept pace. If she phrased her questions subtly enough,
perhaps he'd give himself away. She shivered. Then, both of them would know he was a
murderer. Another chill climbed her spine. How far did she dare go to free Oren?

Down the block, she glimpsed the red and white striped metal canopy that shielded the
entrance to Maria's Pasta House. She pointed. “There it is.” With Simon loping along at
her side, she made a dash for it.

Inside, subdued lights and stubby candles in circular, red containers on white-clothed
tables provided the only illumination.

A rotund man clad in black pants and a pink shirt with flowing sleeves bustled up to
them. “Good evening, Amy. It's a pleasure to see you.” His welcoming smile broadened as
Simon emerged from the shadows. “Ah, how nice. You have a gentleman friend.” He arched
an eyebrow and sidled closer to Simon. “Often, I have told her that brown eyes as
beautiful as hers were made for smiling, not sadness. Don't you agree?”

“Hm-m-m?” Simon stared blankly, as if the man had spoken in some foreign language, then
he blinked and said, “Oh ... yes. Yes, of course.”

Amy gave her umbrella a threatening shake. “Cut the sales pitch, Errol, and find us a
quiet table where we won't be disturbed.”

His hearty chuckle jiggled his three chins. “Right this way. I have just the place for
you"—he chuckled again—"and your friend.” He hung up their coats and led them to the
back where a lattice screened them from the rest of the patrons, handed them menus and
left. A few minutes later, he put his head around the edge of the screen. “Victorio has
arrived. I could have him serenade you with his violin.”

Amy glared at him. “You do and I'll brain him with it.”

After the man retreated, Simon said, “Isn't Errol an unusual name for an Italian.”

Amy put on her glasses and opened the menu. “His mother never missed an Errol Flynn
movie.” When the waiter came, she chose Fettuccine Alle Vongole. The baby clams simmered
in cream sauce and topped with grated cheese were the best in town. Simon selected the
fettuccine also, and a bottle of Zinfandel.

When the waiter brought the wine and started to fill her goblet, she shook her head.
After he left, Simon picked up the bottle. “You'd better have some of this.”

“No, thanks, I seldom drink,” she said primly. What a whopper. While married to Mitch,
she had had to drink. If she didn't, he accused her of spoiling his good time with her
holier-than-thou attitude.

Simon still held the bottle. “Try a few swallows, Amy. You're probably chilled clear
through.” He drew his brows together in a concerned frown. “If you don't get warm,
you'll be sick.”

For no accountable reason, her throat filled. She blinked fast to keep from disgracing
herself in front of a stranger. “All right, but take it easy.”

She took a swallow and regarded him over the rim of her glass. His damp hair had just
enough wave to curl into wispy duck tails above the neck of a white, cable knit sweater
that stretched tight over muscular shoulders and chest.

She clamped her teeth together, hard. A person like her would give Freud a nervous
breakdown. First, she chose a man to play the villain. Then, knowing he was off limits,
she felt “safe” and started getting romantic twinges.

Dumb. Real dumb. She tossed back another gulp of Zinfandel and immediately regretted it.
If she kept on at this rate, she'd soon be chattering like a chipmunk—and that's just
what he wanted. Well, two could play that game.

The arrival of the waiter with their salads delayed her next move. She waited until Simon
began to eat before she leaned forward and asked, “Were you in love with Elise?”

His lettuce-laden fork halted on the way to his mouth and he set it back on his plate. “I
thought I was. And for all the wrong reasons.”

“Wrong reasons? I don't understand.”

He picked up his fork and made roads through torn bits of romaine. Finally, he let out a
long sigh. “I met my wife, Julie, just after I graduated from college. We were married
five years.” He frowned. “Five good, happy years.”

He drained his wine glass, refilled it, and downed another swallow. “I was on assignment
in Africa. Julie decided to join me for a visit. The plane crashed...” He swallowed and
continued in a flat, emotionless tone. “She and our unborn son were killed.”

Amy drew back. “How terrible.”

He carefully aligned his knife and spoon with his plate. “My work kept me from going
completely out of my mind.” He ran his hand over his face. “But even so, I'd find myself
listening for Julie's step outside the apartment door, or I'd run after some woman on
the street, thinking it was her. I couldn't believe someone as vital and full of life as
Julie could be dead.”

Amy put out her hand to touch his arm, but drew it back before he noticed.

Simon lapsed into silence while the waiter removed their scarcely touched salad plates.
“Ten months ago, while doing an article on the Empty Space Theater, I met Elise. She was
helping with props, make-up, and wardrobe. She had Julie's silver blonde hair, the same
sapphire blue eyes—she even resembled her.”

He looked directly at Amy for the first time. “Three weeks after we met, I asked her to
move in with me.” He shifted in his seat. “It didn't work. I expected her to have the
same sweetness, the same warmhearted nature as Julie.” He shook his head. “Stupid of
me.”

Their fettuccine came and for a time they concentrated on their food. As she ate, Amy
decided to take a roundabout route to gain the information she needed.

“My father is medical examiner for Lomitas Island,” she began.

“Yes, I know.” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “As a matter of fact, I met him when
I visited Lomitas.” He regarded her for a moment. “And I know quite a bit about you
too.”

She stared at him, unable to believe how easy he'd made it for her. “So you
were
on the island this weekend.”

A puzzled expression came over his face. “No, this happened several years ago. I'd been
assigned to do a profile on Senator Halliday. He referred me to Oren who invited me to
stay on Lomitas Island with him and his mother while I worked on my story.”

Amy felt like a child holding a popped balloon. “You came to the lab this morning to get
a story on Oren, didn't you?”

“Not exactly. I knew you worked there and decided we should talk about the charges
brought against Oren.”

She listened with growing frustration. “Someone else could have killed her.”

He frowned. “According to the paper all the evidence indicates...” He pointed his finger
at her. “You think I did it, don't you? No way, lady. And I can prove it.”

Eyeing her, he knocked back a healthy draft of wine. “But, I can understand how Oren
could have been driven to it.” His fingers gripping the wine glass whitened at the
knuckles. “Elise did ... things.”

“Things ... ? What kind of things?”

He wet his lips. “I'd rather not go into the specifics.”

Amy crumbled a piece of bread stick. “A number of details in this case don't jibe.”

“Like what?”

“We didn't find any fingerprints, not even on Elise's purse or billfold.”

“Don't most criminals know enough to wipe everything they may have touched.”

“Generally. But Oren and Elise had had that island apartment for several months and
people leave their prints on surfaces they don't even think about.” She picked up
another bread stick and nibbled the end. “How would you describe Elise?”

His eyebrows shot up. “'You've never met her? Oren gave me the impression you and he were
very close.”

She hesitated, not wanting to reveal her past to a stranger. After an instant, she gave
an inward sigh. If she expected to get information, she'd have to make a fair exchange.
“I got married five years ago.” She creased her napkin into tiny pleats. “Afterwards,
Oren and I didn't see much of each other.”