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“Ahh, that came out wrong.” Richie pulled her back to him. “I wasn’t thinking of her like that. It’s about the Lipstick Sicko making her strip down. That, and how he could’ve killed her at any time. I’m her partner, Cindy, and I completely failed her.”
Cindy sighed and relaxed in Rich’s arms, strumming his flat belly lightly with her fingertips.
“You did everything you could do. I know what you mean, though. Lindsay winked at me outside the Chronicle Building on the way to her rendezvous with that freak. She was trying to assure me that she was going to be okay when there was no way she could know that. I felt utterly helpless.”
“Exactly.”
“I wanted to do something, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing.”
Rich kissed her palm. “I’m always knocked out by the bravery of women,” he said. “Like you, Cin. Working ‘crime.’ Living here.”
Cindy’s mind flashed over the “living here” part. She’d moved to this sunny apartment in the Blakely Arms, a great building in a borderline neighborhood, only to learn after her furniture arrived that someone was killing residents of the building.
“I’m scared all the time,” Cindy said. “What you’re calling bravery, that’s me pushing back against my fear of everything. That’s how I take care of myself.”
“Is that what you want? To take care of yourself?”
“Sure. But that doesn’t mean I want to be alone.”
“No, huh?”
Rich pulled her tight, and she tilted her head back so she could look into his gorgeous face. She cared about him so much, it almost hurt.
“We ought to bunk together, you know?” Rich said. “I’d feel better if you weren’t here at night by yourself.”
“You want to move in so you can protect me?”
“Wait, wait. What I mean to say is, I’m crazy about you, Cindy. Dating and so forth, it’s great. But I want to be with you. I want more.”
“You do, huh?”
Rich grinned at her. “Scout’s honor. I sure do.”
Chapter 71
SARAH’S ARMS BURNED so much, the pain was like fire, only worse. But she maintained the static hang from her chin-up bar until her muscles simply refused to obey any longer.
She dropped to her feet and shook out her hands for five minutes. Then, workout over, she went into the living room and settled into Trevor’s ugly but incredibly comfortable recliner. She opened her laptop and was grading tests, half listening to the TV, when she heard Kathryn Winstead, Crime TV’s most appealing reporter, engaging Marcus Dowling in an emotional interview.
Looking at Dowling, Sarah felt a shock of pure hatred. Still, she dialed up the sound and studied how much the monster had changed. Dowling had grown a beard and lost weight, and although he looked haggard, he still had the formidable presence of a movie star as he played the grieving husband role to the max.
Dowling’s voice cracked and he even stammered as he told Kathryn Winstead that he was “empty inside.”
“I wake up soaked with sweat,” Dowling told the reporter. “For a m-m-moment, I think I’ve had a nightmare and I turn to where Casey should be lying beside me, and then it all comes back and I remember her c-c-calling out to me, ‘Marc! Someone is in the room.’ And then the shots. Bang. Bang.”
Sarah grabbed the remote and rewound the DVR.
What did he say?
She listened again as Dowling quoted Casey calling out to him. As far as Sarah knew, he had never gone public with Casey’s last words before. The funny thing was, Casey had screamed out for her husband. That was true.
But there had been no shots.
Sarah put her laptop aside and went to the kitchen. She washed her face under the faucet, got a bottle of tea out of the fridge, and gulped it down. That movie star had balls the size of coconuts. He was counting on her not to come forward because no one would believe her if she did. It would be Marcus Dowling’s word against hers—and she was a thief.
Sarah returned to the TV, wound back the interview, and watched a sympathetic Kathryn Winstead say to Dowling, “And the police still have no suspects?”
“I haven’t heard from them in several days, and mean-while Casey’s killer is still out there with a fortune in jewels.”
