Eyewitness. Part 11

Comfort. a warm body. For the first time the idea crossed Doug's mind that he could use that vulnerability and need to get the answen he wanted. And he s.h.i.+vered, as though something cold and slimy had crawled across his skin. He couldn't-wouldn't do that. It was a dangerous idea, a reprehensible thought.

And besides-the knowledge was forming in his mind and in his soul with the solidity of concrete-it wasn't just answers he wanted from Joy now. He wasn't sure when or how it had happened, but he knew he wanted more.

A whole lot more.

"So." He took a deep breath and added almost to himself , "I guess it's back to square one." , She was still gazing at him, her eyes wary, full of apology and appeal. He realized that she was holding on to his wrists, and that her thumbs were moving back and forth along the rigid tendons. For a moment his mind blanked, as q there'd been a brief power glitch, erasing all his recently programmed logic and resolve. He closed his eyes and willed himself ruthlessly back on-line. d.a.m.n, he thought. When this is over. He sighed and said softly, "Joy, I know you're scared. Don't you realize, if you tell me what you know; who you saw that night, it'll all be over? We can protect you. There won't be anything more to fear. Come on... "

She spoke in a whisper, as if her vocal cords had rusted. " " I wish I could tell you " " "You can. "

She shook her head. He felt her trembling. He thought, If I kiss her. if I hold her. The phone rang. Even all the way from the living room it seemed unbearably strident and loud.

Joy's body jerked; his went rigid. She let go of his wrists and he moved his hands to her shoulders, then they both waited, tensely listening to Maurice's profanity and counting rings, until the answering machine clicked on.

Joy cleared her throat. "Shouldn't you answer it?"

He shook his head. "If it's important, they'll call my-"

His beeper went off. swearing, he s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his belt and punched it into silenoe. "It's the station," he muttered'I have to. " He started out of the room, then on second thought ducked back in and scooped the forensics photos into a pile and dropped them into the box he'd taken them from. " Don't go 'way- I'll be right back: '

In the living room, he barked "Shut up, Maurice" as he picked up the phone and punched his most often used preprogrammed b.u.t.ton.

"MacDougal," he said into the recciver. "What've you got?" He took out his notebook as he listened, asked a couple of questions and jotted down some brief directions. "Got it. I'm on my way."

When he went back into the bedroom, it didn't look as if Joy had moved a muscle. She was standing right where he'd left her, still holding her arms across her middle as if she had a stomachache, looking lost and scared.

"I have to go," he said tersely. "Sorry..." He was already in the closet, sc.r.a.ping hangers. First storm of the season, and he never could find his d.a.m.ned raincoat. There.

He hauled it off its hanger, turning to look at Joy as he shrugged it on over his suit jacket. "You'll be okay here. Just remember-don't answer the door, no matter what. Got that? Probably wouldn't be a bad idea to leave the lights off in the front rooms, and stay away from the windows, just in case. Okay?"

She nodded.

"Okay. I don't know how long I'll be..." He had to leave, but oh, how he hated to. All of a sudden he felt like a nervous parent, leaving his kids without a sitter for the first time. His stomach was tied in knots of dread he told himself were not premonition. "I'll be back as soon as I can " he told her, and went out into the October dusk.

A moderate rain had begun to fall.

"look, he's leavin'," said JoJo.

"Shoot-watch out," hissed Daisy, backing hastily into the shadows behind the trunk of a large eucalyptus tree and dragging JoJo with her.

Preacher, who was already in hiding, peered out over her head and murmured, "Well, well. Looks like here's our chance to see if our Mary's hidden away in there. As soon as he's out of here-then we go."

"Right," croaked Daisy.

They watched the garage door tilt open, and a little while later an old white Mercedes backed out of the driveway and took off down the hill in a cloud of diesel smoke.

"Okay, now. " The three eased cautiously out of hiding, looked up and down the narrow, deserted street, then scuttled across like wind-driven leaves.

"I sure do hate rain," Daisy grumbled, sniffing as she turned up the collar on her topmost coat and pulled down the brim of her baseball cap.

"Be glad it isn't worse," Preacher remarked. "I wouldn't like to climb these steps in snow, for example."

"Yeah," said Daisy, "better watch your step. They're kinda slippery." She didn't object when Preacher took her az'm; after all, he wasn't getting any younger.

"That's all right," said Preacher cheerfully, glancing over his shoulder at JoJo, who was plodding stolidly behind them. "If we do slip, JoJo will catch us-won't you, my friend? "

"Yeah," said JoJo, smiling his jack-o'-lantern smile. "I'll catch ya: '

They reached the top, breathing hard. "Ring the doorbell ," Daisy instructed.

"Wait: Preacher put out a hand. " I hear someone. " He leaned closer to the door panels. " Dear me. He seems to be yelling something about. cops: " " Probably the TV, " said Daisy. " " Lotta people leave the TV on when they're away, to make people think there's somebody home."

Preacher suddenly reared back as if he'd been poked with a sharp stick. "My word-I don't believe they allow language like that on television."

"" Cable, " said JoJo, nodding wisely.

"Ah," said Preacher, looking profoundly uncomfortable' Yes . harrumph.

Perhaps an X rated channel. "

"Never mind the d.a.m.n TV," hissed Daisy, punching him in the arm. "Ring the doorbell. How we gonna-"

"Somebody's comin'," said JoJo.

"Shoot!" Preacher and Daisy spun around simultaneously , backs flattened against the door panels.

All they could do was stare in frozen dismay at the man in the dark coat who was making his way steadily up the long flight of steps. He appeared to be finding it tough going , as if he had a bad leg, or something.

Anyway, he was concentrating hard on the job, watching his feet, so he was maybe a third of the way to the top before he even looked up. When he did, a look of absolute shock came over his face. He turned, awkwardly and without a word, and started back down the steps, moving much more rapidly than he had been on the way up. When he reached the bottom he turned rigbt and headed up the hill at a good fast clip.

Preacher and Daisy waited until the man had disappeared from view in the darkness and rain, then simultaneously exhaled. "Whooee," said Daisy, "who d'you suppose that was? "

"Some friend of the cop's," said Preacher, mopping his brow with a handkerchief of undetermined age and condition'I do believe it's the same one we saw him with this morning. Dropped by for a visit, no doubt. "

"Uh-uh," Daisy declared. "So why didn't he come on up, say howdy, like regular folks? I don't like this." She was already on her way down the steps. "He's probably goin' to find a phone right this minute. Come on-I don't know about you guys, but I ain't waitin' around for the cops to get here."

"What about Mary?" JoJo asked, looking forlornly back at the door. "Maybe she's in there. Maybe we oughtta holler, like you done down at her house."

Daisy paused and looked back at Preacher. Preacher shrugged. "Why not? It'll only take a second, and then we'll know." He opened his mouth.

"It's the cops!"

Preacher and JoJo looked at each other, then scrambled over each other, making for the steps. Daisy was already halfway down and picking up speed; she could move pretty well for somebody her age.

"What now?" she panted, when they were all three safely back in the Bronco, streaming water and breathing hard.

"We wait," wheezed Preacher grimly, one hand on his chest, approximately over his wildly pumping heart. "And watch: '

It was along time after the sounds of scuffling footsteps had faded into the general rush of the rain before Mary was able to stop s.h.i.+vering. She felt cold. so cold. Her neck and shoulders were cramped with tension. Her fingers were stiff from clutching that d.a.m.n s.h.i.+rt of MacDougal's, as if holding it close to her body could somehow infuse more warmth into it. But what she really wanted-what she longed for was his body, his warmth. If only he were here, she thought, if only he would hold her, wrap his arms around her, she would never be cold, nothing bad could ever happen to her again.

What should I do ? What should I do ? She'd done exactly what MacDougal had told her to do-left the lights off, kept quiet, stayed away from the windows, even though everything in her had wanted to look. She still wished she'd tried to see who it was that had come creeping up MacDougal 's steps, then scurried off again in such a hurry. She really didn't think it could have been him. He'd come alone-somehow she knew that. This had sounded like more than one person-kids, probably-but if she'd looked, than at least she'd have known for sure. But she'd been too afraid, literally frozen with fear. She was so sick and tired of being afraid.

If you tell me what you know, it'll all be over You'll have nothing left to fear.

Oh, G.o.d, she thought, if only that were true. A wave of terrible desolation swept over her; she looked around the room, up at the ceiling, everywhere, like a trapped animal searching for a wayout. But there wasn't one. No matter which way she turoed, she could only lose.

Here in MacDougal's bedroom, surrounded by his clothes, his keepsakes, pictures of his family, she'd never felt so isolated, so utterly friendless, so alone. She had no one in the world to turo to except a cop who only wanted from her the one thing in the world she couldn't bring herself to give him. In a way, she supposed it had a kind of bitter irony.

The mantelpiece was there, an arm's reach away. She did reach out a hand, finally, wistfully touching first one photograph , then another. A portrait of MacDougal's parents . another of a man who bore a striking resemblance to MacDougal, with a pretty woman and three smiling children There were others, too, that she knew weren't family. A wedding group, with MacDougal as best man. MacDougal holding a baby in a christening gown, flanked by the proud parents, with the photo signed, "To " G.o.dpapa' Doug, with love and thanks from Jim, Carol and David. "

She stood there staring at the last one for along time. Then she turned slowly, a little stooped, like a very old person or someone in great pain, and groped her way to the bed. When she sat on the edge of it, something sharp poked her in the thigh. She pulled it out from under her and discovered that it was the snapshot and the broken frame. MacDougal and his three buddies. She clutched it in her hand, rocking slightly, back and forth, back and forth. A tear rolled down the side of her nose and dripped off the end, landing with a minute splash on the glossy surface of the photograph.

I can't tell him, she thought. Not now. Not ever.

MacDougal would simply never believe her. And he would hate her forever for telling him such a terrible lie.

Chapter 11.

It was another blonde. very young, but much too old. And at one time, probably pretty. Someone's daughter Doug thought of those words and of the woman he'd spoken them to as he stared down at the sprawled and crumpled body, like a sodden doll abandoned to the rain.

"Workin' girl," said Burnside, who was balanced on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet beside the body. " " Looks like she had an expensive habit to support, too: He glanced up at Doug, the raindrops on his gla.s.ses turning to crimson in the flas.h.i.+ng lights of a black-and-white.

"Yeah?" Doug growled. "Well, she's somebody's daughter-and don't you forget it." He bit off the last word , turned up the collar of his raincoat and went to greet the arriving detectives from North Hollywood Division.

The blonde-and the case-technically belonged to North Hollywood, since she'd been dumped on the north side of Mulholland, but since odds were she'd met the john, dealer or pimp who'd beaten her to death down on Hollywood Boulevard, they flipped for it. Doug lost.

Normally he'd have hung in, anyway, since it looked as if it was probably going to be a co-op case, but tonight he had unfinished business on his mind. Burnside, who was probably a little wary after his partner's surly remark and looking to score some points, offered to stick around and take notes. So as soon as the ME showed up, Doug checked out and headed home.

Someone's daughter. All the way back to his place the phrase kept playing over and over in his mind, but the face that went with It wasn't the dead blonde's. It was Joy Donnelly 's. She was somebody's daughter, too.

Who are you, Joy Donnelly-or Mary Jo Delinsky? Whose little girl are you ?

Funny-a few days ago the burning question had been, Where are you, Joy Donnelly? Now it was who. But the things he wanted to know about her now had nothing whatsoever to do with his being a cop. Sure, he wanted to know where she'd been born, what kind of home she'd grown up in, whether she had parents, brothers, sisters . but only because he wanted to see in his mind's eye the kind of child she'd been, hear the embarra.s.sing, intimate little stories families tell on each other to perfect strangen with such loving glee. He wanted to know if she'd ever worn pigtails, stained her chin with a cherry Popsicle, climbed a tree in her Sunday best dress. He wanted to know if she ate Oreos inside out, and whether she liked going to the zoo, sharing a shower, reading the funnies sitting cross legged in bed on Sunday morning.

A far cry from "Just the facts, ma'am."

Since it was pouring buckets when he got home he took the inside stairs, from the garage through the laundry room, then the short flight up to the kitchen. On the way through the laundry room he noticed Joy's jeans spread out on top of the washer to dry, which brought vividly to mind the utterly delightful vision she'd made dancing in the middle of his kitchen, wearing his cast-off s.h.i.+rt.

What in the world was he going to do about the woman? How could he have allowed himself to fall in love with her?

He'd gone through life so carefully, taking no chances, making sure he never got to know anyone well enough to fall in love. And now look. It seemed that, while he'd been watching his step and tiptoeing around all the relations.h.i.+p possibilities in his path, his heart had been ranging recklessly ahead on a quest all its own.

He wondered why Joy hadn't put her jeans in the dryer, but when he checked he found the reason-there was already a load of his things in there, hopelessly wrinkled now, of course. He dumped them all into a plastic hamper, put the jeans in the machine and turned it on. Upstairs he could hear Maurice going into his usual "Cheese it, the cops!" hysteria. Good old Maurice, he thought wryly. A regular security alarm-better than a watchdog.

He left his raincoat dripping in the laundry room and went upstairs. The house was dark, and except for Maurice , very still. For once there was no light blinking on his message machine, so he went straight on through the living room without stopping, conscious of a quickening in his heartbeat, a tightness in his belly. Antic.i.p.ation, he knew that's what it was. He was looking forward to seeing Joy again, as if his absence had been a matter of days instead of hours.

What was he going to do about this?

The guest room door was closed. Doug's disappointment was as acute as it was undeniable. And silly. Why had he thought she'd wait up for him? And why because she hadn't did his house seem so empty and cold all of a sudden ? He'd lived alone all his adult life, for cryin' out loud! He was used to coming home to a foul-mouthed bird and a blinking light on his answering machine, chasing the emptiness with TV and the cold with a good, hot shower. What the h.e.l.l was happening to him, anyway?

His bedroom was as dark as the rest of the house. He didn't turn on the light, and he paused on his way to the bathroom just long enough to take off his jacket and toss it in the general direction of a chair that was already pretty much buried under a pile of his clothes. His tie followed, and then his s.h.i.+rt. He really was going to have to take some time to get caught up with his domestic ch.o.r.es, he told himself. The last few days had been a little. unpredictable.

He turoed on the light in the bathroom and leaned across the sink to study himself critically in the mirror, rubbing his jaws with a raspy sound. When he stopped that, another sound just as commonplace made his skin go cold and his scalp p.r.i.c.kle and the fine hairs lift on the back of his neck. A rustling sound, coming from his bedroom. An instant later he was flattened against the wall next to the open door, his heart in his throat and his gun in his hand.

While he waited there, quivering with tension like a c.o.c.ked bow, the sound came again-rustlings, and then. the softest of sighs.

Doug closed his eyes: adrenaline began to ebb from his body, leaving him frail and jangled. Sqvearing raggedly, he holstered his gun, then took off both holster and belt and laid them carefully over a towel rack. Leaving the bathroom light on, he walked slowly to his bed. And then for a while he just stood with his arms folded on his chest, gazing down at the woman sleeping there.

Why, he wondered, as a cool drop of rainwater slipped from his hair onto the bridge of his nose. Why, Joy Donnelly , or Mary Jo Delinsky, of all the women in the world, did it have to be you?

It was impossible, unethical, d.a.m.ned awkward, unbelievably complicated, and made no sense at all!

I love her His heart gave him the answer with the quiet implacability of the child at the animal shelter who, after hearing all his elders' experienced and well-informed advice on suitability and bloodlines, gathers in the squirming stray with the big, sad eyes and says simply, "I want this one, Dad: '

He loved her. It was as simple-and as complex-as that. He didn't know when it had happened. Maybe he'd always loved her. Maybe he'd fallen m love with her picture all those years ago, which, when he thought about it, was a revoltingly adolescent thing to do.

But he knew one thing-it wasn't a fantasy, an eight-by ten glossy he was in love with now. It was a flesh-and-blood, all-too-human woman, with a quick temper and an even quicker laugh, and a stubborn streak a mile and a half wide.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, on the narrow strip she'd left him, overwhelmed, suddenly, by the enormity of what was happening to him. He reached out with a careful finger to touch away a strand of hair that seemed to be tickling the outer corner of her eye, but then, with a sharp intake of breath, halted and drew it back again, arrested by the moisture he saw pooled there beneath her lashes. The thought of Joy lying in his bed weeping hurt him in ways he'd never known before. Amazing, the way she seemed to have become almost a part of him, and in such a short time. Amazing how familiar she already seemed.

In fact, when he thought about it, he really was amazed at how much he knew about her, considering how little time he'd spent with her, and the fact that she seemed bent on telling him as little as possible about herself. He knew, for example, that she actually liked fast food. Also ugly animals And that she had the kind of imagination that imbues machines-like his car-with human personalities. He knew that most of the time she didn't wear makeup or a bra , that she shampooed her hair with something that smelled like strawberries. That she knew old hymns, and loved to dance, and that both millionaires and homeless people adored her. That once upon a time she had dreamed big dreams.

He knew that ten years ago this rare and beautiful woman had witnessed an unspeakable act and with it the death of all her dreams, and the most amazing thing of all was that neither the horror nor the tragedy had left a blight on her soul. She was as quick to laugh, to love, to give, as anyone could be.

No wonder, Doug thought, his chest growing tight with an unaccustomed tenderness. No wonder I've fallen in love with her. How could I help it?

He was suddenly taken by a white hot burst of pure rage-a most un coplike rage, a completely, imperfectly human rage-against the unknown someone who had caused his beloved such pain. In a very real way, he realized, the killer had taken two lives that night. And more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, Doug wanted to give Joy's life back to her.

Trouble was, he didn't see how he could do it without her help, and she seemed bound and determined not to give it to him.

Ah. well. He leaned over once more and this time did touch her, oh, so carefully fingering that one impish lock of hair back behind her ear. She stirred a little in her sleep, and he saw that she had the snapshot and frame-the one she'd dropped and broken-in her hand.

Shaking his head, aching with tenderness, he slid it from her fingers and placed it on the nightstand. Then he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers and whispered her name very softly, because he wasn't all that sure he wanted to wake her.

The truth was, he didn't know quite what else to do with her. She wasn't actually in his bed; she'd simply curled up on top of the comforter and pulled it over her from the other side. He didn't want to disturb her, but if he left her where she was, then he couldn't go to bed. She had all his covers. He didn't relish the idea of sleeping in the guest room, either , not with a man-hating feline on the loose in there.

Perhaps, though, he could take the comforter from that bed, bring it in here. He was about to risk doing that, feline and all, when Joy suddenly opened her eyes wide, raked a hand through her already tousled hair, threw back the comforter and sat bolt upright. She did all those things with the trembly jerkiness of a rudely awakened child, then frowned, and in a husky murmur said, "Wha'time izzit?"

"Late," said Doug gently, not bothering to hide his smile, or to stop his fingertips from exploring the heat-flushed curve of her cheek.

"OmiG.o.d," she mumbled, looking stricken. "I musta fallen asleep."

"Yep," said Doug, "you did." "