that description? The man she’d helped outside the club had spoken to her with an English accent. That accent had disappeared when he’d been searching for her on the sand. How much of his appearance was phony, too? The beard? The mustache?
“Knock, knock. Ms. Duran?”
A male voice called from outside the curtain.
“That’s me.”
The man brushed aside the curtain and pulled it closed behind him. “I’m Detective Brody. How are you feeling, Ms. Duran?”
“Elise. You can call me Elise. I feel...warm.” And it wasn’t because a fine specimen of manhood had just emerged from curtain number three. At least she didn’t think it was.
“That’s good after what you’ve been through.” He pointed to the plastic chair by the wall. “May I?”
“Sure. Of course.” It beat craning her neck to look up at all six feet something of him.
“They’re keeping you warm enough?” He tipped his chin at the space heater glowing in the corner.
She nodded, although she wondered if she’d ever feel warm again.
Detective Brody dragged the chair to her bed and slipped out of his suit jacket. He hung it over the back of the chair, smoothing the expensive-looking material. Hunching forward, he withdrew a notepad and pen from the pocket of his crisp white shirt.
“The EMT reported that you were out in the bay trying to escape from someone. Tell me what happened from the beginning, Elise.”
His dark eyes zeroed in on her face, making her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. She shook her head. He was a policeman and she was a victim—she was the only woman in the world for him right now.
She took a deep breath. “I was coming out of a club on Geary Street at two in the morning—the Speakeasy. Do you know it?”
“Private club, right? Stays open past two.”
“My friend got invitations from a member.”
“Was your friend with you at—” he glanced at his notepad “—one-fifty?”
“I was alone. I left her inside the club.”
“Had you been drinking?”
His tone got sharper and the muscles in his handsome face got tighter. She was glad she wouldn’t have to disappoint him.
“One drink’s my limit, and I’d had that at around eleven o’clock when we first got there.”
His spiky dark lashes dropped over his eyes briefly, and Elise knew she’d just passed some test.
“How were you getting home?”
“Taxi. There’s no parking in that neighborhood. I had the bartender call me a taxi, and I went outside to wait for it.”
“What happened next?”
Goose bumps rippled across her arms, and she pulled the blanket up to her chin. “I saw a man standing beside a car. The trunk of the car was open.”
“Did he see you? Speak to you right away?”
“I’m sure he saw me, although we didn’t make eye contact. He must’ve seen me come out of the club, but by the time I looked at him he was bending over the open trunk.”
“What kind of car? Make? Model?”
Was he serious? “I’m not sure. It was a small, dark car, old.”
“Then what? Did he talk to you?”
Elise licked her lips, and she could still taste the salt from the bay. “He seemed to be struggling with something. Then he poked his head around the open trunk and asked me if I could give him a hand.”
“Did you?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have.” She knotted her fingers, studying his face for signs he thought she was an idiot. She didn’t see any.
“I walked toward him, and that’s when I noticed his arm.”
Detective Brody’s dark brows shot up. “His arm?”
“It was in a cast.”
The pen dropped from the detective’s fingers and rolled under the bed. He ducked to retrieve it. When he straightened in his chair, his handsome face was flushed.
He cleared his throat. “The man’s arm was in a cast?”
“A full cast almost up to his shoulder, like he had a broken arm. When he asked me for help, I...I didn’t think anything of it. I wasn’t suspicious, and he looked...”
“He looked what? What did he look like?”
She shrugged and the blanket slipped from one bare shoulder. “Normal. He looked normal—blond hair, kind of on the long side, jeans. Normal.”
“We’ll get to the rest of the description in a minute. So, what did you help him with?”
“A box.” She folded her arms across her stomach, where knots were forming and tightening. “There was a box on the ground that he was trying to get into his trunk.”
“And you helped him with the box?” His hand froze, poised over his notepad, where he’d been scribbling her every word since retrieving the pen.
“I didn’t get the chance.” She clutched her arms, digging her nails into her skin. “When I bent over the box, he hit me on the back of the head.”
Detective Brody jumped from the chair, knocking it to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” His sudden movement had caused her to jerk forward, and the blanket fell from her shoulders.
“A man with a cast asked you for help and then bashed your head in. Did he stuff you in the trunk?”
“Yes, yes. Has this happened before?”
Closing his eyes, he stuffed the notepad in the pocket of his shirt. His lips barely moved as he mumbled, “A long time ago.”
“What? A long time ago? Last year?” She hadn’t heard about any crazed killers in the news lately. Were the cops trying to hide a serial killer from tourists?
He righted the chair, brushed off his jacket and dropped onto the hard plastic. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “How’d you get out of the trunk? How’d you get away?”
Did he plan to let her know whether or not somebody was running around San Francisco abducting women?
“M-my dress must’ve gotten caught in the trunk when he closed it. I came to, and there was a light in the trunk.”
“Wouldn’t there have been some indicator on the dash that the trunk was open, alerting
