Tibbet’s eyes sharpened their focus, and he motioned for Paul to lead the way. They pushed through the fast- dispersing onlookers to climb the stairs to Torie’s suite.
“I opened the door, so I guess I should tell you my prints are on it. That’s her blood. She said she threw her things into the room before the cops showed up when the car blew.”
“Yeah, duly noted.”
Paul pushed the door open and stood aside to let Tibbet get the full effect.
“Damn,” the cop breathed the word. “Someone hates this girl, bad.”
“Ya think?” It was all Paul could manage through the haze of anger and fear for Torie which threatened to blind him.
Paint sprayed over the walls spelling, “You Lose!” The mattress was tossed off the bed, and Torie’s belongings were scattered over the floor, smashed and broken. The suitcases were torn asunder, zippers dangling, the aluminum rods from the handles twisted and bent. A colorful shirt was shredded, and the scraps of it flung about the room like confetti. In the small kitchen, meager supplies were smeared on the counters, and part of a loaf of bread had been tossed randomly around the room. One piece had impaled itself on a lamp finial, giving the toppled light fixture a Dali-esque quality.
“So tell me again why you were back here?” Tibbet finally broke the silence.
“I put her in another hotel. Came back for her gear.”
“Ah. Well, I guess you’ll be buying her some stuff instead.” He pulled a cell phone from his belt, and using it like a walkie-talkie, called the damage in. “Looks like we got us a secondary crime scene, gents.”
There was a crackle of static and some generalized cursing before an affirmative and request for location came back through. Tibbet relayed and closed the phone.
“Give me a number where I can reach you, Jameson. Then go buy the lady something for the morning. I think the Target over off Snyder, on Mifflin, is still open.”
Evidently, through some mysterious process of evidence and elimination, he and the detective had gone from adversaries to allies.
“Thanks,” Paul said, rattling off his cell number. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock, my office.”
Taking the detective’s advice, Paul agonized over what to get at the Target. He had no idea. Deodorant, yes, but socks or hose? And what size? Resigned to making bad choices all the way around, Paul picked jeans in several moderate sizes, grabbed both socks and hose, chose four blouses in various colors and sizes, and compromised on shoes by getting a pair of slip on sandals in a medium. It was the best he could do for now.
“What the hell do I know about women’s sizes?” he muttered, plunking everything on the counter in a heap. When the teenaged checkout girl kept looking at him as she rung things up, he got more and more frustrated.
“Uh, sir? Uh, did you want the shoes too?” The girl pointed to the cart.
“What? Yes.” He tossed those up on the belt and whipped out his credit card. By the time he got to his car and from there to the hotel, he was completely irritated.
Slipping into the hotel room, he called out. “Torie?”
In the main part of the room, lights blazing and television on, Torie lay sprawled on top of one of the beds. Momentarily frightened, Paul hurried over to check for a pulse. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, however, he noted the rise and fall of her chest. The motion rustled the wrinkled cotton blouse, exposing creamy skin where the shirt had ridden up.
“Don’t go there, Jameson,” he warned himself. “That is
To combat the images in his head, he turned down the covers on the other bed, flattening the pillows and turning down the blasting heat. Torie must have been cold when she came in, but the room had reached roasting levels now.
He turned on the bathroom light, but pulled the door closed. That would give her some ambient light if she woke in the night.
“Hey,” he called softly, rubbing a hand down Torie’s arm in an attempt to rouse her. “Torie, let’s get you in bed. Come on, Torie, wake up, just a little.”
Other than moaning as she turned over, coming precariously close to the edge of the bed, she didn’t flicker an eyelid. The colorful skirt rode up her legs, showcasing long toned calf muscles. Her feet were bare, her toenails a coppery red.
“Damn.” Paul looked away, focused on the late night comedian cracking jokes on TV. “Damn, damn, damn. Get a grip, dude,” he warned himself.
With the utmost care, he slid one arm under her legs and the other behind her shoulders. Bracing his legs, he lifted her, pivoting to deposit her gently in the other bed. While not heavy, Torie was definitely no feather either. Solidly built, elegantly muscular, she was an armful of sexy, lean woman.
“I am not thinking about that now,” he told himself out loud.
“Dev?” she muttered, clutching at the pillows, shifting against the sheets. “Oh, Dev…Good…”
His blood pressure rose at the soft moan of another man’s name. Served him right, though, for thinking about her in any way other than as a client, or as Todd’s former fiancee.
The mere thought of Todd brought him back to reality with a thud. Blocking everything else from his mind, he pulled the covers over Torie, turned off the lights and television, and left as quickly as he could manage.
He would have Martha call her first thing in the morning to wake her and tell her what had happened at the Extended Suites. He would keep his distance. He would not think about her as a woman. Or even feel sorry for her. After all, she could have killed his best friend.
“No.” He stated it in the darkness of the car as the truth of it rang in his mind. He’d dealt with his share of criminals, and there was no way Torie could have killed Todd. No way she could have shot him and hauled his body
