Chapter Six

“Kimberly?”

I blinked, my eyes unfocused, as the room swam about crazily, forming spinning geometric figures. Slowly, the chalky ceiling and a row of gray skylights, two floors above me, settled into clarity.

“Kimmie?”

How long had it been since someone beside my family or Delia called me that?

Hank’s face floated into view. Curious? Concerned? At least his eyes no longer carried that hint of accusation I’d seen before darkness claimed me. I must have fainted. When was the last time that happened?

Never. I was stretched out on the hard leather sofa. Had he carried me here?

Hank kneeled on the rug beside me. A gentle hand stroked my hair. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, trying to remember what caused me to faint. A joke about Rick. No, no joke. He said Rick was dead. So had the TV. Confusion fluttered inside me as fear gripped my middle in a tight vise.

Not simply dead.

Murdered.

Had I heard that right? I brushed my hand across my face to clear mental cobwebs. This was no movie shootout, no baseball game, no dance sequence.

This was real.

I struggled to sit up and gentle hands assisted me. His palms rested on either side of my ribcage, holding me upright. My gaze focused on Hank. His mouth was moving, but all I heard was a vicious buzzing in my ears.

Pay attention.

“We don’t have a cause of death. Perhaps beaten.”

My hands shook. Rick was dead. Murdered.

Licking my parched lips with a cotton ball of a tongue, I tried to speak, but nothing emerged. An inner blizzard took possession of my body, freezing my insides all the way to my bones. I shivered, folding my arms together across my chest.

“Here.” He pulled off his leather jacket and wrapped it around me.

His warmth remained, and I burrowed into the jacket, hoping for transference of its heat. The familiar scent of sandalwood soap wafted up to me, a disturbing reminder of the past, but it didn’t bring pleasure. My world spun at a topsy-turvy angle as my vision blurred and sharpened, expanded in length and reduced in shape, like I meandered in a crazed funhouse faced with distorted mirrors.

He squeezed my shoulder. “Would you like a glass of water? Or I could put something into your coffee.”

I cleared my throat and words pushed out in a hoarse whisper. “Something strong. The bar’s at the end of the counter.”

Hank left my line of vision. Words blazed in front of me, giant red letters scrawled across the windows.

Murder!

I shook my head to clear the ghastly view. This couldn’t be true. I’d seen Rick...when? Hours ago. I didn’t want to think about the messy scene I’d left in the wine shop. We had a horrible argument and I emerged feeling like I’d been through an emotional meat grinder.

At that moment I wanted him dead. I wanted to bash him with the baseball bat he nagged me about or strangle him with that damned diamond pendant he wanted back. Instead I got into my car and drove away, driving through a rainstorm of tears.

My silent wish had been granted by some genie with a wicked sense of humor. Joking about about killing him during a drunken binge was one thing. The actual occurrence, well, that was something else. Something scary.

“Do you want me to call someone? Delia?” Hank returned and held out my mug.

The scent of liquor rose along with the strong smell of coffee. He sat on the sofa beside me, not relinquishing the mug. Together we lifted it to my lips and I sipped gratefully, letting the warm, potent liquid open my parched throat. The liquor blazed a hot trail through my icy insides, but it didn’t thaw me much.

“Delia left last night. You know how she always wanted to see the Amazon? Her husband arranged a river cruise...” I stopped. He probably didn’t remember that much about Delia.

“You mentioned Delia.” Hank had always been a difficult man to decipher and that could make me crazy. Like now. What was he thinking?

I chewed on my lower lip, remembering the craziness before my collapse. What must he think about my reaction?

The chiming of the doorbell startled me, and I nearly dropped the mug. Luckily, he still held it. What could that be? More bad news? No, I knew the alternative. It would be much worse.

“Let me get that.” He rose, setting the mug on a glass coffee table. I could read him now. He was relieved at the interruption.

“Thank you.” My voice sounded hoarse, unfamiliar. “I’m not home, okay? To anyone.”

“I understand.” He squared his shoulders as though he was a warrior headed to battle. That was exactly what I feared he faced—a media battle.

The phone buzzed, but I ignored it. The mystery of the numerous messages was solved. I knew my newsroom had called, but other stations were probably calling too, wanting my reaction to Rick’s death. Voices drifted up from below, but I couldn’t make out words. Hopefully Hank was playing bodyguard.

Footsteps came up the steps and I turned, prepared to thank him. I didn’t want to resume the conversation, but I should explain why I reacted in such a bizarre manner. But instead of Hank, Reba’s frizzy red hair popped up the stairs.

“You okay, girlfriend? We’ve been worried.” She loped into the room with a look of concern on her pale face, making the flashes of green at her eyes and the red slash of mouth stand out. As usual she wore skin tight black leggings. Her baggy sweater was an unnatural shade of lime and her mules resembled pink stilts.

“I’m fine.” I drew a deep breath, looking beyond her. “Where’s Hank?”

“The Chief? He had to return to the crime scene. You know cops. Wham, bam, I gotta go arrest people, ma’am.”

My fingers caressed his leather jacket as disappointment surged through me. I’d wanted him to stay.

Reba surveyed the room. “Anything I can do? Make coffee or tea?”

I lifted my mug. “Hank made coffee.”

She dropped onto the black chair across from me and leaned forward as though prepared to grab me if I toppled. I must look like hell. Maybe the warm coffee and strong liquor would help.

“Do you know what happened?” I asked.

“The story is that a security guard on patrol noticed an open door. When he checked, he saw blood on the floor so he went inside and...” She lifted her shoulders and spread her hands wide.

“He’d been beaten?”

A brow twitched. “I hadn’t heard that.”

Hadn’t Hank mentioned it? “They’re sure it’s Rick?”

“The guard identified him. That’s why I came over. You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried you might...” She shrugged again. “It’s a good thing Chief Patterson came by. He seemed worried. He wanted to make certain I stayed with you. Our media vulture culture is in hot pursuit of the story.”

“How long do you think it’ll be before they turn up? Every station in town knows we dated but ironically, we broke up two weeks ago.”

Reba jerked back, shock widening her eyes. “You did?”

Guilt sliced through me and I turned away. “I haven’t told anyone except Mom and Delia. It wasn’t going to be secret much longer since he’s getting...I mean...was getting married in a couple of weeks.”

Reba leaned over and rubbed my hand. “Babe, I’m sorry. The two of you were inseparable.”

“I’m fine.” Even as I spoke, I knew that wasn’t true. I’d talked about killing the guy. I drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, practicing the exercises I used when I needed to calm down.

“Well, no one’s going to bother you. I’m here to run interference.”

As she spoke, my home phone rang again, followed quickly by the buzz of my cell. This would go on all day. I ignored them, but she hopped to her feet and marched to the counter.

I put down the mug and wiped my palm across my face. Who would want to kill Rick? Besides me, of course. Was it robbery? Probably. He’d never liked the beach bums that sometimes turned up at his door begging handouts.

Rising, I walked on wobbly legs to the wall of windows. The morning fog had receded and beyond the tinted windows, the Pacific was a boiling mass of waves, crashing on the sand sending foam, spraying in every direction.

Reba appeared next to me. “I called the assignment desk and ordered them to get our PR person to release a statement saying that you have no comment and asking to give you privacy. Uh...you wouldn’t know the name of his...new fiancée?”

“Bobbi something...with a B.” I stifled the urge to say Barbie or Bimbo. “I think the wedding announcement is supposed to be in tomorrow’s paper.”

She patted my arm. “Thanks, babe. I’ll get the desk on that.” She pulled a cell from her pocket and walked away.

Perhaps that would turn news crews in another direction. I bit back a smile as I thought of them chasing Bobbi the Bimbo instead of me. Had I told Hank about her? Oh, hell...what did he think of my weird reaction? No wonder he ran.

“Did Hank say anything?” I asked when Reba returned.

“Like what?”

“I didn’t believe him when he told me. I thought it was a joke.” I trusted Reba enough to know she’d accept my comments in their proper context so I explained my drunken conversation with Delia. “We also talked about finding me a new guy and she suggested Hank since I dated him before Rick. I thought she’d sent him so when he told me about Rick, I figured it was her doing and laughed like a lunatic.”

“Oh, fuck!” Reba slapped a hand to her face.

“I should have known Delia would never send a guy early in the morning. What if I’d answered the door in a ratty T-shirt?”

She rolled her eyes as she surveyed my clothes. “I doubt you own ratty T-shirts.”

The phone rang and I jerked around, frowning at the offending monster. “Maybe we should turn off the ringer or move it downstairs.”

“Good idea.” Reba tottered to the phone. She glanced at the caller ID and a quizzical look came over her face. “Paula Dominguez-Gardner? I didn’t know you were still in touch.”

Paula had been a pretender to my anchor throne. She’d thrown a fit because Alan and general manager Vincent Adams refused to promise her a weekly anchor spot and stormed out shortly before a newscast. She never returned. No one knew whether it was her choice to quit or she’d been fired. Two weeks later she turned up on another station using her married name, Paula Gardner.

“We haven’t spoken in ages. You know why she’s calling. Probably convinced her boss she could get me to talk. As if.”

Reba’s laugh was loud and contagious. We both knew Paula’s tactics. Chimes sounded and we exchanged startled looks. The media vultures had arrived.

“That’s probably her,” I said.

“It’ll be my pleasure to get rid of the bitch.” Reba unplugged the phone.

I returned to the sofa and huddled on the extra-firm seat, wondering if I would ever feel warm again. Despite the coffee with its strong mate, I still felt chilled. I listened for Paula’s whiny tone, but male voices floated up from below.

What a mess and no Delia to help, she’d be in South America by now. I couldn’t recall any crisis I’d faced since college when she wasn’t nearby to lend support.

Reba reappeared at the top of the stairs, followed by two men. Short haircuts, square jaws, ill-fitting suits with cheap ties, eyes that darted around the room like I might have stashed a body somewhere.

Police.