The Ex. BEVERLY BARTON
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Название: The Ex
Автор: BEVERLY BARTON
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780007328949
isbn:
“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked. “Another lover?”
“No, I wasn’t expecting anyone else.” She felt a sudden sense of unease. What was wrong with him? He was acting so strangely. And he looked odd.
Maybe it wasn’t him; maybe it was her. After all, she had drunk three glasses of champagne. Perhaps she was picking up on strange vibes where there were none.
He reached out and grasped her shoulders. She quivered.
“What’s wrong? You’re shivering,” he said.
She stared directly at him, studying his tense features, as his big hands bit painfully into her shoulders. Oh, God, how could this be? She didn’t understand what was going on.
“You’re acting as if you’re afraid of me.”
“I—I am.” She tried to pull away, but he held her in his strong grip. “Let go of me.” When she struggled against him, he pushed her backward, his dark eyes boring into her with unadulterated hatred. “I don’t understand—”
She felt addled, her thoughts fuzzy, her mind playing tricks on her.
As he shoved her backward, she somehow managed to escape his tenacious grasp. She had to get away from him. She turned and ran, intending to lock herself in the bathroom and use the telephone in there to call for help. But before she reached the bathroom door, he caught her by the wrist, whirled her around and flipped her over and onto the bed.
The satin sheets felt cold and clammy against her bare arms and legs. The dark shadow of the man hovering over her appeared menacing and dangerous. Why hadn’t she realized sooner that something wasn’t quite right?
Because you drank too much champagne.
He came down over her, bracing his knees on either side of her hips, trapping her beneath him. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, her voice paralyzed by fear.
Don’t panic. Maybe he just wants to play rough. Maybe he isn’t going to hurt you.
“You’re a fool, Lulu,” he said in that strange tone of voice. “And I feel sorry for foolish women.”
“What—what are you talking about? Please—”
“Do you know what I do to foolish women?”
He reached over and picked up one of the king-size pillows from the head of the bed. She tried to shove him off her, but without success. He was too big, too strong. He lifted his knee and pressed it against her belly, effectively holding her in place and enabling him to use both hands to maneuver the pillow.
“I kill foolish women,” he told her. “I kill them softly…tenderly…and put them out of their misery.”
“No!” She managed to scream once before he covered her face with the huge pillow. Oh, God, he really was going to kill her. Smother her.
Help me, please, dear God, help me.
She wriggled and squirmed, thrashing her head about, seeking air, but he kept the pillow securely in place. With what little strength she had left, she grasped his wrists, but the effort proved useless. Within seconds her hands loosened. Her arms dropped languidly to either side of her still body. Her chest ached. Swirling gray circles appeared in the blackness behind her pillow-covered eyes.
Lulu had one final coherent thought.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!
Jim Norton figured it was going to rain. His arthritic knees were giving him fits and had all afternoon. But what could an ex-jock, who’d had bones broken, muscles strained and ligaments torn, expect when he hit forty? His ex-wife had once dubbed him her six-million-dollar man because he had so many artificial body parts.
Jim groaned. The last thing he wanted on his mind tonight was Mary Lee. Their marriage had ended six years ago. It was past time he got over her.
“What are you grunting about?” Chad George asked. “Pissed because Inspector Purser assigned us this case right before you were scheduled to go on vacation?”
“Nah, nothing like that. I didn’t have any special plans. Mary Lee nixed my idea of taking Kevin camping for a week. I can always reschedule my time off. Besides, Purser knows when to send in the best the homicide division has to offer.”
“Gee, thanks, Jim. I had no idea you thought so highly of me.”
“Go fuck yourself, Boy George.”
Chad’s face turned beet red, a close match to his wavy auburn hair that he kept cut military short.
“I’m getting damn sick and tired of the jokes about my being pretty enough to be a girl,” Chad said. “What do I have to do to get you and the other guys to ease up on the ribbing— run my face through a windshield or let some knife-happy perp slice-and-dice my rosy cheeks?”
Jim chuckled. “The only reason we dish it out is because you can’t take it. Act like you don’t give a shit and it’ll stop soon enough.”
Chad harrumphed as he turned their black Ford Taurus onto Galloway Drive. “I’d like to believe that.”
“Believe it.”
Jim had been partnered with the darling of the department on a string of cases these past three months since Chad’s former partner, Bill Delmar, retired. Jim couldn’t fault the kid on his professionalism. But on a personal basis, newly promoted Sergeant Chad George could be a pain in the ass. He was often a bit too cocky and always a bit too sensitive. Hell, at twenty-eight, the guy should have wised-up. A police officer, especially one in the homicide department, wouldn’t last long if he didn’t learn to distance himself from the job just enough so that the intensity of murder and mayhem didn’t bleed over into every aspect of his life. It was no secret to anyone who knew him that Chad lived and breathed his job. Odds were he’d make lieutenant in a few years and just keep moving right on up. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he had his own personal angel—none other than Congressman Harte, who was Chad’s uncle-by-marriage.
Jim had been a lot like Chad at his age—minus the angel—but he figured there was no point in telling the boy to do as he said and not as he’d done. Ten years ago, Jim hadn’t listened to older and wiser men on the force who’d tried to warn him. If he had listened, maybe his former partner would still be alive. Maybe he and Mary Lee would still be married. And maybe he’d get to see his son whenever he was off duty and not just on alternate weekends and a couple of holidays a year.
“It’s not every day there’s a homicide in Chickasaw Gardens,” Chad said.
Jim glanced out the window, visually skimming over mansion after mansion in this old, well-established Memphis neighborhood, where homes often sold for somewhere between one and two million dollars. And in Tennessee, million-dollar houses were far from the norm for the average citizen.
“Who’d СКАЧАТЬ