“Absolutely. My cousin knows Jeremy Fischer personally.” That was all he needed to say. “Trust me. It can’t be him. And here’s the other thing…the reason I’m calling right now. I just found this out, and I tried to contact Leslie Nakano to let her know, because she and Fischer were somewhat friendly and I found out through Cherry that Fischer was coming over to her house tonight. I never heard back from Leslie, I mean, so I contacted Cherry. So that worries me alot.”
Joe swore, short and loud. “Probably worth checking out, I’d say. I’ll get overthere—”
“I’m already here. At Shenstone House. But since I don’t know what he’s up to—if anything, and I’m not packing—I thought you should know. There could be a perfectly innocent reason, and, hell, I could be interrupting a romantic dinner,” Declan said very lightly and humorously, “but something about it doesn’t sit right. I’m afraid Leslie might be in danger. And I’m alreadyhere.”
“Wait for us to get there,” Joe said. “Helga’s off tonight, wouldn’t you know, so I’ll have to call in Pretzel.” His hesitation was understandable, as Officer Fred Pressel, aka Pretzel, was about as thin and salty as his nickname, and pushing sixty years old on top ofit.
Declan’s mouth turned grim. Well, at least Joe knew what he was doing. “I’m pulling up the driveway now. I won’t knock or do anything until you get here.”Maybe.
“All right. On myway.”
“No sirens or lights,” Declan added quickly. “Incase—”
“I’ll make that call. Don’t do anything stupid, Zyler. This isn’t like themovies.”
Declan hung up and continued up the driveway with his headlights turned off. He thought it might be best if he arrived unnoticed, for several reasons—one of which being, if he was terribly wrong and interrupting something innocent, that he didn’t want to announce his mistake. He could just slink off home. In light of this decision, he parked as far away from the house as possible, out of easy sight from thewindows.
What a creeper youare.
Well, hell, it’s for a goodreason.
The motion-activated lights came on, however, illuminating two cars: Leslie’s and, presumably,Fischer’s.
Lights were on in the kitchen, but Declan couldn’t see any movement inside. There didn’t seem to be any lamps on in her suite. He wasn’t certain whether that was good orbad.
Unable to wait, his nerves jumping and thoughts popping, he climbed out of the car and closed the door quietly. Then he slunk up to the house, feeling like nothing more than a burglarhimself.
If Leslie sees me, it’sover.
But when he got to the kitchen door and saw the scene inside, his heart dropped to his feet and he no longer cared about beingcircumspect.
For there, slumped over the table and unmoving, was Leslie. There was a dark puddle of blood on the table…and John Fischer was nowhere to beseen.
Nineteen
Leslie hearda voice from far away. It dug into her mind and pulled, dragging her from the depths ofdarkness.
“Leslie!Leslie, wake up! Are you allright?”
Something pulled at her, touched her,botheredher. She fought it for as long as she could, but finally she opened her eyes. She had no choice. She opened them, blinked, focused—all with greateffort.
“Declan?” shewhispered.
“Oh, thank God,” he said. His face was tight and white beneath its tan. His hands were on her shoulders, turning her to look up athim.
“What—what are you doing here?” She blinked, sifting through the tangle of her mind. “Whathappened?”
“I don’t know.” Declan was speaking to her, but he was looking around the room with an arrested expression, as if he was expecting to see somethingdangerous.
She looked around too, and pieces of her memory began to clunk into place when she saw the two wine glasses and the half-empty bottle on the table. “The last thing I remember…I was sitting here with—John! John Fischer—he’s here. Or he washere—”
“His car is outside. He’s still here,” Declan said grimly. She realized with a start that he was holding one of the iron bars he used in his trade, and that her kitchen door was open. The window—smashed, and glass allover.
“Sorry about that,” he said in a low voice, still looking around, still brandishing the iron bar. “I saw you on the table like that, lying in a pool of blood, and I didn’t…” His voice stretched tight and he let itcease.
“Blood? Not from me…I don’t think.” Leslie touched the back of her head, which was pounding as if she had a migraine—not as if she’d been hit in the back of theskull.
“It’s red wine. But from the window—I thought it wasblood.”
