Chapter Ten

 

Damon left the court house, wishing he could disappear, but he had to face the media. He held his head high as he passed the throng of reporters, commenting only that he hoped the police would find his wife’s killer soon. He grabbed a newspaper from a coin machine, glanced at the headlines about the third serial murder. “Damn cops,” he muttered. “With this break in the case, why bail? I should be free.” He cursed and vigorously rolled up the newspaper to chuck into the trash. Just before he released it into the overflowing bin, he stopped. The more he knew, he thought tucking the paper under his arm, the better his chance of staying out of the line of fire. Another smart move might be to swing Malia to his side, especially if she was teetering on the edge. But it would take a hell of a lot of self-control; she was a pro at getting under his skin.

Damon waved for a cab and went straight home. He needed a shower to wash off the jailhouse filth. He’d barely gotten dressed again when the door bell rang. Damon thought about not answering it, but the sound of a familiar female voice changed his mind. He had a ridiculous desire to see the beautiful detective, a desire that made no sense under the circumstances. Then he got angry at himself, and, in spite of his vow to win Malia over with kindness, he greeted the cops with a cold, “What do you want now?”

“We came to apologize,” Malia said. “I could blame the pressure of this case, but you do have a strong motive.”

The motive comment twisted in his gut. Dammit, he couldn’t knuckle under and play a forgiving guy, even to get in Malia’s good graces. He snorted. “That’s it? You call that an apology? And why bail? You know I couldn’t have murdered that woman. I was locked up.”

Ku growled, “Maybe you hired a hit man to throw suspicion away from yourself. Or lucked out and a copycat serial killer gave you an alibi. Time will tell.”

Damon curled his hands into fists, but kept them at his side. “Show me the evidence, or get off my back.”

Ku’s eyes narrowed and he puffed out his massive chest, gearing up to take him down.

Malia stepped between the men, stirring the air with her faint and totally arousing female scent. “We don’t need this unnecessary tension, guys. We all want the same thing.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ku said.

Malia turned to Ku. “It might be better if you wait in the car.” The sweetness in her voice scared the hell out of Damon.

When Ku was out of earshot Malia said, “Look, Damon, I think we both want to find Kiki’s killer. But you’re holding back information, and it’s casting doubts about you.”

Her voice, full of reason and sincerity, didn’t fool him. She wasn’t telling him everything either. Talk about lack of trust. “I don’t know why you think I’m holding out on you. But if I were, I’d never tell you. I sure as hell won’t help you convict me.”

Malia stared him straight in the eye. “Are you telling me your secret will prove you guilty?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I was in jail when the last victim was murdered. What more do you need?”

Light from the open drape threw shadows across her face, softening her resolute expression. “Evidence! No one can convict you if the evidence tips in your favor. “What are you afraid of?”

“Of being railroaded. Ku’s sure I’m guilty, and I get the feeling he’d twist the evidence to prove it.”

“Ku may have made up his mind, but he’d never tamper with evidence.”

Unconvinced, Damon cut her a sharp look. “You know your stuff, Detective, but you’re off your mark on this one. Your legal mumbo jumbo states that I have a right to remain silent.” He knew she wouldn’t let it go; she was too tough, too determined.

She blew upward at wisps of hair. “Just remember, I gave you a chance to come clean. Don’t doubt for a minute that I’ll find out what you’re hiding. Then I just might arrest you for interfering with an investigation. If you’re really an innocent man, I’m wasting my time digging out info that might not even have a bearing on the case, delaying the uncovering of the real killer.”

The passion in her tone reached inside him and added to his guilt. If only he could trust her to understand why he’d kept silent. But that was asking a lot of a cop, even a diligent cop like Malia Reed. “Can’t you just trust me?” Of course she couldn’t, but Damon wanted it enough to risk sounding like an idiot. And he wanted to trust her. But if he did, he’d really be an idiot. “What about gut feelings?”

“I consider them, but they aren’t always right. In the end it’s only evidence that counts.” With that, she turned and left, leaving him feeling miserable and almost wishing he had dared to spill his guts, but he’d never been a gambler.

****

Damon continued to type as the phone jangled repeatedly. He would let his recorder take it. But what if it was Malia with news about Kiki’s killer? With his luck, it would be Detective Ku. Damon looked at the caller I.D. and didn’t recognize the number. But it still could be one of the detectives. Wearily he lifted the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Damon Shaw?” a man asked.

“Who wants to know?” Damn, it wasn’t Malia. He sure as hell had no time for a telemarketer. He started to slam down the phone.

“Wait! Don’t hang up,” the man said. “I have sensitive information about your wife’s murder and wanted to clear it with you before going to print.”

“Who the hell is this?” The bastard had sparked his curiosity.

“Joe Lowen, reporter with The Advertiser.”

Damon knew the reporter by name only. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“You were seen in front of the Martin house the day of the murder. Cops think that’s where your wife was murdered. Any comments?”

Damon’s neck prickled, and he broke out in a sweat. The first question that came to mind was who had seen him? He had a gut feeling he was talking to the killer. “Look, Lowen, a call from my agent is coming in on another line. I’ll get back to you in about five minutes.”

“I’m calling from a payphone,” the deep voice said, “but I’ll be in my office in ten minutes. Call me there.” He gave an extension. Damon hung up, counted to three, then dialed it. The extension was wrong for Lowen. It took several minutes before he finally got through to the real Lowen who, as he’d guessed, hadn’t made the call.

With sweaty palms, Damon called Malia. She wasn’t in, so he left a message on her recorder guaranteed to get her attention: “I just got a call from the killer.”

He hung up. Then his brain caught up with his trigger reaction. He slammed the flat of his palm to his forehead. What the hell had he done? If he told Malia what the man said, he’d have to admit he was outside the Martin house on the day of Kiki’s murder, and that just might put a noose around his neck. Jesus, he’d played right into the killer’s hands.

****

Al Lee hung up, then paused to admire his black wig and expertly disguised reflection in a beveled wall mirror. “You’re just too damned good!” he told his smiling image. He pulled the strings, and all of them – the cops, Malia, Damon – danced to his will. Damon couldn’t help but know that he’d talked to Kiki’s killer. Al wished he could be a fly on the wall and watch the formerly estranged new widower plunge deeper into his hellish nightmare. The ex-military bum’s quick-thinking and tendency to act fast would be his undoing – and an off-balance man is easily toppled. The poor sap couldn’t even tell anyone that the killer had called without admitting that he’d stalked his wife. How secrets twist our souls and make us vulnerable.