Culture Shock Part 19

Those flatfooted fools couldn't catch him in a million years. He was far too smart.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Two weeks, and no progress on the case or solving the body switch. Kevin had left on Sat.u.r.day and had called that night, Sunday night, and already once today, to check on new developments. It pained Cynthia to tell him that nothing had changed.

At the table, with Alex across from her, she finished up her nightly collection of accounting files. She closed the last folder and glanced at him. "You know this isn't fair. I'm doing two jobs."

"I know you hate working the serial case, but if you were doing my regular a.s.signments, you'd also have to write up reports for everything. You're lucky the detectives are compiling everything for you and Mike."

"No, you're lucky. If I had to write up a report, I'd be bringing them home for you to do. So I'm still the loser here."

"I know," he said, remorse in his voice. "You have no idea how I wish I could help you. I get so antsy sitting in your office, thinking of things I could be doing. It would sure help if we could tell Mike."

Her tired body straightened. "Why can't we? Aren't you close enough to him to make him believe you?" She leaned her face into her palm. "Alex, I'm sick and tired of trying to pretend to be something I'm not. What if I really screw up? Someone could get hurt. I'm not a cop and I can't pretend forever. Besides, this isn't what I want to do with my life."

Alex pondered her words for a moment. "I know Mike pretty well, but I'm not sure I know anyone well enough to make them believe this story. Yeah, Kevin believes us, but look what we've turned him into. He can't talk about it to anyone either. I'm not so sure he doesn't think we're both nuts anyhow." He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, I've got a deal for you. Let's enlist Mike's help with the information we've discovered about Sorenson and Cratski. If we can solve the murder case, I'll consider trying the shock thing again."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up.

"Really. We can't tell Mike what happened to us, but the more I think about our friendly building super, the more I believe he's our man. We don't have anything concrete but we might as well run with what we have."

Cynthia's adrenaline overrode her tiredness. She pushed her files to the side and rested both arms on the table. Alex had her full attention. "What do I tell Mike?"

"Let him in on all the things we've discovered, like running Cratski and finding out he's dead. Share with him that...I...you went into the man's apartment and found a receipt in someone else's name. And tell him about the electrical wiring, the blue rags and Sorenson's suspicious behavior. Suggest that they put some sort of surveillance on the front and back entrances of the building and keep a record of his comings and goings. If we had done this already, we might not have had another victim as dead as her plastic companion."

"That's gross, Alex," she said with disdain.

"Sorry. I've got to get you out of uniform before you get as callous as I've become."

Cynthia insisted that Mike drive while she jotted down notes for her report from their last stop, another dead end, but they at least issued a fix-it ticket for bald tires. Suddenly, they seemed to be working traffic stops again despite their present a.s.signment and that meant writing reports.

"Stupid traffic stops and paperwork." She grumbled under her breath.

Mike cornered way too fast, and a scrawling line marred her perfect penmans.h.i.+p. "Hey, I'm trying to write here," she complained.

"Sorry. I guess I'm just getting bored. h.e.l.l, we can't even ha.s.sle the prost.i.tutes anymore until we catch this creep."

She laid the metal clipboard in the seat. "Can we park somewhere for a few minutes. I have a lead I'd like to share with you."

"Sure." Mike turned into a Wal-mart parking lot, switched off the engine and swiveled in his seat. "What gives?"

Cynthia laid out everything she and Alex had agreed to share. The furrows in Mike's brow deepened with every fact she revealed, and at the end, his lips had thinned to the point of invisibility. He released a loud breath.

"Why haven't you told me any of this before?" His elevated tone showed his upset.

Cynthia dipped her chin. She wished she could tell him the whole story but she'd promised Alex she wouldn't. Instead, she tried to word things just right. "I wanted to make sure I had my facts straight. No use in making fools of ourselves."

He took a deep breath. "I suppose that's a valid excuse. But we're supposed to be partners. You know, a team?" His tone softened.

"That's why I'm telling you now."

"Then let's head back to the station and have a chat with the Captain. The publicity on this case has gotten so intense, I'm sure he's open to anything that might lead to an arrest."

The engine whirred to life, and they sped toward the station. Mike remained silent for the entire drive, but at least his brow had relaxed. Recalling his disappointment at keeping a partner in the dark, feelings of guilt niggled at her. If he found secrecy about a few facts so upsetting, what would he think if he knew he shared the cruiser with a woman?

With their car parked in their numbered slot, Cynthia followed her partner down the long corridor and waited until the watch commander answered Mike's knock.

Her palms sweated like crazy as they sat in Captain's Casey's office while she told him about John Cratski and her suspicions. Not p.r.o.ne to dripping hands, she found yet another thing she hated about being a man. Did Alex contend with this problem every time he got apprehensive?

While she waited for the captain's response, she swiped the wetness on her pants.

There was no emotion in the commander's face as he pondered her story. His angular jaw tensed while his dark eyes fixated on the wall behind her. Finally, he lowered his gaze. "I may be putting my a.s.s in a sling but I'm approving camera equipment to help with surveillance on your building. I'm willing to trust your instincts, Carlyle. Since we don't have anything else, I sure as h.e.l.l hope this pans out." His stare intensified. "Find a place to put the equipment, and you've got twenty-four hours. That's twelve hours each to man the camera. I'm not paying a penny more towards overtime. Our budget is already stretched to the limit." He stood, back ramrod straight, walked toward the door and opened it. "Now get out and catch somebody...anybody. The media is killing us by making us look like a bunch of fools. The baby doll killer is right here in our own backyard, so nab the a.s.shole."

Before Cynthia walked out into the hallway, she paused in front of Captain Casey.

"Thanks, Sir. I just have a strong hunch about this, and I hope I'm right."

"We all hope you're right, Carlyle, we all hope you're right."

Alex's arm ached from carrying the file-filled attache. He set the case on the floor while he fished in his purse for his keys. The light bulb in the hallway had burned out and the corridor was darker than usual. As always, the same musty odor was ever present.

A spasm traveled down his arm when he reached for his shoulder bag. Cynthia might be sick of doing the paperwork, but he was pretty d.a.m.n tired of carrying it home every night.

He took a moment and flexed his right arm to work out the kink before unlocking the door. With briefcase in hand, he nudged the door open with his foot and walked inside. The smell of beer hung in the air and he eyed the full trashcan in the corner.

The place smelled like a bar. Cynthia probably hated how he'd stunk up her place. If he noticed the odor, then it had to be bad. He eyed the trash and decided he'd better empty it and light a candle before she came home. His place probably smelled of roses.

His mind flashed to her cologne. He eyed the aged sofa and remembered the night they sat there and cuddled. The recollections stirred a need he hadn't felt in a while.

Unfortunately, the circ.u.mstances weren't quite as perfect now as they were then. Oh, to go back and do things differently. He never would have considered she might have been more comfortable without the lights on. He eyed the lamp on the end table. "You two-bit piece of s.h.i.+t. This is all your fault."

He deposited Cynthia's homework on the table and went into the bedroom. No way was he risking a trip to the dumpster in her work clothes. He'd already been down that street and wasn't anxious to relive the tongue thras.h.i.+ng. He threw his purse on the bed and turned to the closet.

Her old jeans and t-s.h.i.+rt were his favorites, and he put them on, remembering to hang her work clothes back in the closet. He had no idea if they were washable or dry cleanable, but for the sake of neatness, and missing yet another lecture, he'd let her worry about that. A trip to the laundromat was definitely in order. Towels and underwear were getting scarce, but he was short of quarters.

After tying her tennis shoes, he packed everything down inside the garbage bag, tied the top and headed out the door. He took the stairs slowly, listening for footsteps along the way. He'd run out of patience with Carpenter, the neighborhood Casanova, and would avoid him even if it meant hiding somewhere.

Luckily the coast was clear and Alex was able to deposit the trash and get back upstairs safely. He realized he'd left the door slightly ajar after all his warnings to Cynthia. What a great role model he was. He couldn't even follow his own advice. Besides, he'd only been gone a couple of minutes. No harm, no foul.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Alex took a beer from the fridge, kicked off Cynthia's tennis shoes, sat and curled his sock-clad feet up on the couch. He picked up the remote control, thankful that The Cairns management had at least updated their television sets, if nothing else. He scanned the channels. The lack of progress in the kidnap/killer case, now dubbed The Baby Doll Killer case by Captain Casey, was the topic on every single newscast.

A noise behind Alex diverted his attention. He turned. No one was there. He scanned the kitchen area and wondered if another mouse had gotten inside the apartment. He shrugged and focused back on the news. He'd set a trap later. How much damage could a mouse do to this pit?

Footsteps sounded behind him. He glanced back. "Cyn...what are you doing ...? You!"

Alex fought with what little strength he could muster with Cynthia's small frame, but struggled in vain. He couldn't budge the hand that covered his mouth and nose. What was the acrid smell that burned his nostrils and made his eyes water?

He kicked and thrashed out, trying to gain release from the arms gripping him. The coffee table toppled over, sending his beer flying. The half-empty bottle landed with a dull thud and lay in a puddle of growing foam.

Alex's mind urged him onward, screaming at him to yell, kick, and fight. Do something to get someone's attention. But how? Cynthia's heart raced faster than he'd ever felt.

Whatever he inhaled sucked at his consciousness, but still he flailed at his captor. His energy waning, his fists packed no punch. The room grew wavy, then blurry, then darker. "Please..."

An evil laugh followed him into oblivion.

Mike had agreed to take the first twelve hours. Cameras were inconspicuously mounted on adjacent buildings and would record data from the front and back entrances of The Cairns. A monitoring room had been set up in the nice hotel across the street.

Cynthia thought about the twelve hours she'd soon spend there. No doubt the posh interior and furnis.h.i.+ngs would spoil coming back to her dumpy apartment. She stood outside her door and looked up in disgust at the burned-out bulb. At least the lack of light hid the water stains and peeling paint.

Cynthia barely touched her key against the lock and the door opened. Strange that the king of public safety had left the apartment unlocked.

She burst through the door, eager to tell Alex about their success in getting the surveillance approval, but skidded to a halt as soon as she saw the table on its side. "What the heck?" Her breath hitched as her gaze a.s.sessed the room.

"Alex!" She yelled and walked into the bedroom, then the bathroom. "Where are you?"

She hurried back to the living room and spied the spill. With paper towel in hand, she soaked up the liquid and threw away the empty container. Other than a tipped over table and a stream of beer, everything else was normal. But where was Alex? Her imagination threatened to run wild. She sensed something wrong the moment she discovered the door unlocked.

Standing in the center of the room, Cynthia pondered what to do. Her attache case sat on the table as usual, and in the bedroom, she found her purse with wallet still inside. Surely, he wouldn't leave without ID and money. She couldn't report him missing because she didn't know if he was...and she wouldn't actually be reporting him, she'd be reporting herself. She held her hand to her brow. "Oh, G.o.d. I'm the missing person. What do I do now?"

Her heart thudded.

The apartment on the left sat empty. She didn't know the name of the old man on the other side, but maybe he'd heard something. Asking wouldn't hurt. She walked out into the hallway and rapped on his door. He answered, looking much frailer than she remembered. Wispy pieces of white hair stood in disarray and sagging jowls gave him an angry appearance. His hands shook with tremors. "What?" he barked.

"Excuse me for bothering you, sir, but I'm a friend of Ms. Frietas, your next door neighbor. I'm worried by the fact that I found her door ajar and her things disturbed. I was wondering, might you have heard anything out of the ordinary?"

The old man glared at Cynthia. "I'd say you're more than a friend, young man. I see you coming and going quite regularly. Now, what was it you wanted?"

"Noises? Did you hear anything strange, like yelling?"

After pondering Cynthia's question, he waggled an arthritic finger at her. "You know, I did hear something a while ago. Someone was being loud about something, but I didn't pay no mind. You youngins' always make more noise than you should."

Clearly, he provided no help. She smiled. "Well, thank you. We'll try to keep it down from now on."

As she walked back into her apartment she wondered what the old geezer had heard. Someone being loud about something? She should have asked for more clarification, but figured the old man couldn't give a helpful answer. The noise could have come from outside for all he knew.

Cynthia kept trying to convince herself that Alex had only left in a flurry of excitement over something. But what? Had he discovered a remedy for what ailed them? He would have called, not bolted out and left the apartment unlocked, plus he would never waste a beer. Her hands trembled.

A little voice in her head kept screaming the obvious. In her body, Alex resembled the victims and may have been next in line. She shuddered. G.o.d, surely he wasn't abducted from his own home, her own home. To prove the voice wrong, she had to find Alex, and now.

Cynthia closed the door behind her and made a beeline across the street to Mike. With a ba.s.s drum pounding in her chest, she maneuvered through the traffic. The truth shot through her mind: The heavy drumming was Alex's heart. She prayed her own was still beating.

Guilt washed over her. Was she more worried about Alex, or saving herself? Funny, her body didn't even enter the equation when she thought about him. She saw only his handsome face and heard his booming voice like things were when they first met.

Still, terrible images kept flas.h.i.+ng through her mind. She fought them. This was not the time to think about what might happen to Alex, to her. But, what would happen if her body died? Would Alex still live? Would she, since her mind wasn't with her body? She was totally out of breath when she reached the surveillance room.

Mike looked surprised when he answered the door. "Alex, you're early!"

"I know, something's happened and I need your help."

"What?"

"I...Cynthia...her table was knocked over and...." The words she blurted out made no sense.

"Slow down. Come in and sit, take a breath, then tell me what happened."

She sat on the floral sofa. "I went to see Cynthia and found her door unlocked. When I went in, the coffee table was on its side and...."

She paused to slow her breathing before telling him about the spilled beer on the floor. "I'm afraid something happened to her. She doesn't have family here so I have no idea where she would go this late in the day, and she certainly wouldn't leave her door open if she did. Her purse is still in the apartment with everything inside. That's another reason I'm worried."

"Do you have any idea how long she's been gone?" Mike asked.

"No. Usually she's there when I get home. I asked the closest neighbor, and he wasn't any help. The man's so old, I'm not sure he knew if he heard anything or not."

Mike sat in front of the monitor. "Let's play the tapes back and see if anything suspicious shows. I've been sitting here most of the time, but it's impossible to watch both doors at once."

Mike adjusted some b.u.t.tons. "I'll run the rear camera first."

Cynthia pulled up a chair and sat next to him. She prayed for a lead. Just one piece of footage to help them find him.

Mike fiddled with b.u.t.tons and brought the picture into focus. "What does she look like, Alex?"

"You've seen her. Remember the break-in call we responded to...the blonde's apartment?"

Mike gave a wolf-whistle. "Woo hoo, that's her? Why didn't you say so then?" He slapped Alex on the back. "Good going, man."

Cynthia wanted to scream! Her body was missing, with Alex trapped inside, and all Mike wanted to do was congratulate him on his dating choices. She suppressed her irritation and took a deep breath. "I didn't tell anyone because I don't like to mix my private life with my professional. Besides, I wasn't sure we were dating. We'd only seen each other a few times. So, can we get the tape rolling, please?"

The alley behind The Cairns appeared clearly on screen. From where the camera was situated she could barely see the dumpster, but enough showed to tell if anyone came or went in that direction.