His jaw tight, he adjusted the focus on the high-powered binoculars. He forgot to breathe, forgot everything until the woman finished paying the cabbie, slung her oversized tote bag over her shoulder, and turned. Her face blurred, and then filled the lenses.
“Bingo,” Marsh said, softly.
With the keen eye of a hunter, he cataloged his prey’s features. Full, sensuous mouth. High cheeks. Eyes wide-spaced under winged black brows. Wine-colored hair parted just off center and falling in sleek folds to her shoulders.
What clinched her identity for Marsh, however, was the pin on the lapel of her caramel-colored linen jacket. Even from this distance, he couldn’t mistake the wink of diamonds as she hurried up the walk. Eyes narrowed, he adjusted the focus to zero in on the fanciful little unicorn brooch.
Triumph brought a savage smile to Marsh’s face. He recognized that pin. He’d seen a picture of it in the case file. A laughing Becky Smith had purchased the expensive piece just weeks ago and airily instructed the clerk to charge it to David Jannisek’s account. The store clerk had described the pin in detail to the detectives trying to track down Jannisek. He’d described the luscious Ms. Smith in some detail, too.
Marsh had to admit the clerk hadn’t missed the mark. Becky Smith was a looker. Her face appeared more fine-boned in the flesh than in the photo on her three-year-old driver’s license. What hadn’t shown in the photo were her killer body and the mile-long legs that gave Marsh an unexpected kick to the stomach.
The gut-level reaction annoyed the hell out of him. Of course she would come equipped with supple curves and a mouth made for sin. She’d have to pack something extraordinary to keep a playboy like Jannisek dancing to her tune…along with the half dozen other men who’d enjoyed Becky Smith’s companionship at various times in her busy career as a cocktail waitress.
Blanking his mind to the body displayed to perfection by tight jeans, a black stretchy top and the hip-skimming linen jacket, Marsh waited with mounting anticipation for her to climb the few steps to the front stoop.
She went up the shallow stairs, reached for the door, froze.
“That’s right, sweetheart.” Wire-tight with tension, he kept the binoculars on her profile. “The door’s open. Make you nervous?”
She hesitated, indecision in every line of her body. Interminable seconds ticked by. Marsh held his breath, willing her to take the next step. Finally, she gave the door a tentative push. It swung wide open, revealing nothing but blackness inside the small stucco house.
“Go inside,” he urged fiercely. “Come on, you know you want to.”
His prey hovered on the stoop. Any woman with half a lick of common sense would turn around and run to the nearest house with lights on to call the police. Marsh was counting on the fact that Rebecca Smith would do exactly the opposite. Every bit of information he’d gathered on the fickle, flirtatious Becky indicated she was better known for her kittenish sensuality than her common sense.
After endless seconds of indecision, she stepped into the darkness. The lights inside the house flicked on, spilling a bright glow into the night. Long moments later, the front door slammed shut.
Savage satisfaction coursed through Marsh’s veins. Phase One was under way.
Dropping the binoculars, he checked his watch. Five minutes—he’d give her five minutes before he implemented the next phase of his plan to trap Ellen’s killer.
His pulse hammering, Marsh leaned against the wall. It didn’t bother him in the least that he was operating outside the parameters of his authority, and with only the tacit consent of the locals. Or that the detective in charge of the case had clearly considered staking out Rebecca Smith’s house a waste of time.
Marsh had been a cop long enough to trust his instincts, and his walk through the house next door had convinced him Smith would come back. She might be the world’s sexiest waitress. She certainly qualified as the world’s worst housekeeper. But she also, Marsh discovered during his search, had expensive tastes. Very expensive. A woman who collected diamond jewelry and undies of the Neiman-Marcus variety wasn’t going to leave them all behind.
With a grunt, Marsh fought to banish the erotic image that jumped into his mind. He had no business imagining the woman he’d just pinned in the binoculars in a pair of those skimpy, lace-trimmed thong panties. Her long legs and rounded hips would certainly do them justice, though. No wonder Jannisek had gone off the deep end and lost more at the track than he could ever hope to pay back, in an attempt to impress Rebecca Smith.
The gambler’s unpaid debts had come close to getting him killed, Marsh remembered, with a twist of his gut. Instead, Ellen had taken the bullets meant for Jannisek.
He flicked another impatient glance at his watch.
Three minutes to Phase Two.
His blood racing with anticipation, he closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on the woman next door. The open front door would have shaken her. She’d be scared now, and with good reason. In three minutes, Marsh intended to frighten her even more.
Her nerves jumping like live electrical wires, Lauren Smith stood amid the shambles of her sister’s bedroom. Discarded clothes lay everywhere. Glossy fashion magazines were scattered across the floor and the unmade bed. An empty pizza carton occupied the chair by the window. The stuffed and porcelain Garfields Becky collected grinned down gleefully at the mess.
Was anything missing? Had the place been burgled? For the life of her, Lauren couldn’t tell.
Becky thrived on chaos. In her home. In her work. In her life. With a mere ten months separating the sisters, it had always amazed Lauren that they could look almost like twins, yet possess such diametrically opposite personalities. The laughing, irrepressible Becky flitted through life as though it were one huge game to be played to the fullest. Cautious, careful Lauren had always followed more slowly, often cleaning up the messes Becky left in her wake.
Like this one.
“What the heck have you gotten yourself into this time?” she murmured, as she had repeatedly since she’d returned to Denver from a quick, up-and-back trip to D.C.’s National Gallery of Art late this afternoon. She’d hit the button on her phone recorder, and heard her sister’s voice leap out at her.
Something had happened, Becky had exclaimed. She…she needed to take some time to think things through and decide what to do. Call me, she had demanded. A second message had expressed impatience that Lauren wasn’t home, and then cut off abruptly then in Becky’s usual haphazard style.
Lauren had called immediately, only to listen in frustration to the endless ringing. Nor had Becky answered her cell phone. Lauren had redialed repeatedly, wondering and worrying.
What had happened? What did Becky need to think through? Even more disturbing, what had put an uncharacteristic tremor in her sister’s voice?
Lauren’s worry had mounted with each unanswered phone call. After hours of pacing and dialing, she did what the sisters had always done in a crisis—rush to the other’s aid. With just moments to spare, she caught the seven-ten flight out of Denver for Phoenix.
Now that she was here, though, she didn’t have a clue what to do next. Where was her sister? Had she skipped town, or merely gone out for the evening?
Chewing
