Chapter Six
It was a sunny July Saturday morning, the skies clear after three days of sullen gray. According to the weatherman, no rain was expected until the first of the week.
Sitting at the pretty little round oak table in the kitchen of her duplex apartment, Val sipped a cup of strong French roast coffee and read the Seattle Times on her iPad. Snoozie curled up in her lap, purring as she scratched behind his ears.
When her cell phone started playing a string of soft jazz notes, the cat leaped down and sauntered haughtily off to the living room, irritated at being disturbed.
Val grabbed the phone off the breakfast table and smiled as she recognized the number. “Hey, good morning, Samantha.”
“Hey, Val, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you must be busy getting ready for the show and all, but—”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got a problem with one of the dogs and I’m hoping you can help.”
“Sure. I don’t have to be at the theater till this afternoon, and I hate sitting here trying to make the hands move faster on the clock.
This week, I’ve had a manicure, a pedicure, a facial, a massage, and two appointments at the hair salon.
I am sooo ready to do something besides look at myself in the mirror. ”
“Great, because Mrs. Murphy’s poodle has something wrong with its paw, and I was wondering if you could take a look. Mrs. Murphy’s almost eighty. She barely gets by on her Social Security. She can’t afford to pay a vet bill.”
“Hey, it’s not a problem. Just hang on, I’m on my way.” Hair up in a ponytail, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a bright-blue Seattle Seahawks T-shirt, Val hung up the phone and grabbed her car keys and purse.
She saved most of the money she was earning as a model for college, but she had indulged herself in a slightly used snazzy little red Nissan 370Z sports car. Decent mileage, fun to drive, and not too expensive, at least in the pre-owned model she had purchased.
A few minutes later, she was driving the 520, crossing Lake Washington, making the ten-mile drive to Samantha’s pet-grooming parlor in Bellevue.
With her nerves already on edge because of the show tonight, she couldn’t think of a better way to calm down than spending time with one of her best friends.
Ethan got the phone call at ten thirty A.M. Since he didn’t have to be at the theater until noon, he sat at the computer in his apartment, Googling the ten women in the show who’d received the threatening note.
He had already read their personnel files but decided to see what might turn up on an Internet search.
So far, he’d finished the first five without anything jumping out at him.
He sat back in his chair and looked out the window.
His furnished twelfth-floor apartment had a balcony off the living room and great views over the city.
It wasn’t fancy, but with two bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths, he had plenty of room, and he liked living in Belltown, being where the action was in Seattle.
A remnant, he supposed, of his cop days in Dallas.
His cell had signaled twice before he pulled it out of the pocket of his jeans and pressed it against his ear. “Brodie.”
“We’ve got a problem, Ethan.” Matthew Carlyle’s voice vibrated with tension.
“What’s going on?”
“An hour ago, Delilah Larsen was found dead in her condo. She was strangled.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“What’re the circumstances?”
“Could be a break-in. The cops think maybe a burglary gone wrong.”
He thought of the note Delilah and nine other women had received. “Or not.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem.”
“Have you given the police the info on the notes?” Ethan asked.
“Met with the lead detective on the case this morning, guy named Bruce Hoover. He wasn’t happy we hadn’t reported the letters.”
“I’ll bet. What about the rest of the girls? Are they all accounted for?”
“We’re in the process. We’re putting a man on every woman in Seattle who got a note and placing guards on every floor of the Fairmont.”
Ethan thought of Valentine Hart and the promise he’d made to Samantha. Worry slid through him. “What about Valentine? She’s a family friend. You got someone with her?”
“Haven’t been able to reach her so far. I’ll stay on it, though.”
“I’ll find her. I’ll let you know as soon as she’s covered.”
“All right.”
“I want to take a look at the crime scene.” Getting as much information as possible was his second priority—after he had Valentine secured. “What’s the address?”
“It’s 342 Lakeside Avenue. It’s a luxury condo right on the water.”
Ethan figured Delilah Larsen could afford it. One of the models had told him her fee was five thousand dollars an hour.
“I’m not sure the cops will let you in,” Carlyle said.
“They’ll let me in.” He was a former police detective, and though Hoover was hard-nosed and set in his ways, Ethan had worked closely with the Seattle PD on a number of occasions since he’d started at Brodie Operations.
There was a good degree of mutual respect. “I’ll take a look and get back to you.”
Retrieving the shoulder holster he’d planned to wear to the theater, he pulled out his Glock nine mil, dropped the clip, and checked the load.
In Dallas, he’d carried a Sig P226, but he liked the Glock better.
He shoved the pistol back in and slid the harness across his shoulders.
Grabbing a lightweight black leather jacket, he pulled it on, covering the weapon, and headed for the door.
As he rode the elevator down to the underground garage, Ethan swore softly.
They had tried to cover their bases. Clearly they hadn’t done enough.
He wished he’d programmed Valentine’s cell number into his phone, wished he’d given his number to her, but at the time it hadn’t seemed appropriate.
Now his stomach tightened at the thought that something might have happened to her.
Sliding behind the wheel of his Jeep, he fired up the engine. Since he didn’t have Valentine’s cell, he brought up Samantha’s number on his hands-free, heard the smile in her voice when she answered.
“Hey, Ethan. What’s up?”
“I need Valentine’s number. You got it?”
“Valentine? I’ve got her number, but if you want to talk to her, she’s right here.”
Relief trickled through him. “She’s at your house?”
“No, the shop. She’s—”
“By herself?”
“Yes, but—”
“Keep her there. Don’t let her leave.” Ethan ended the call. He wasn’t about to relay news of a murder over the phone. He called Carlyle, told him he had found Valentine with a family member and was on his way to provide protection. Then he pulled out on the street.
He needed to look at the crime scene, but Valentine’s safety came first. Receiving threatening notes was no longer some nebulous problem. No matter what the police believed, Delilah’s death wasn’t the result of a failed robbery—there was a killer out there.
And Valentine Hart was on the killer’s hit list. She was a friend of Sam’s, and Ethan had promised to protect her. Pressing harder on the gas, he drove onto the freeway and headed for the strip mall on Bellevue Way where the Perfect Pup was located.
Val had been to the Perfect Pup any number of times in the last couple of years. She and Samantha had met through their volunteer work with the Humane Society, and though Samantha was petite and half a head shorter, a married woman and pregnant, they had a lot in common.
Mostly, their love of animals. Val was studying to be a vet. At one time, Samantha had wanted to be a veterinarian herself. Though it hadn’t worked out, the pet-grooming business was a natural fit for her.
Val looked down at the little white poodle shivering on the stainless-steel worktable in the grooming room. Using a fresh swab, she finished cleaning the dog’s injured hind paw, wrapped its tiny foot in gauze, and gently taped the gauze in place.
“Missy doesn’t seem to mind the bandage,” Samantha said, stroking the dog’s soft white curls to help keep it calm.
The dog looked up at Val, then nudged her fingers, as if to say thank you. “Mrs. Murphy can probably take the wrapping off tomorrow,” Val said, giving the dog a friendly rub.
“I can’t believe someone would do a thing like that to a helpless animal.”
Someone had slipped a thin rubber band around the dog’s hind paw. The soft curls had kept it hidden. The constriction had started to dig in, hiding it even further, cutting into the flesh until it had started to bleed. Eventually, it could have cost the poodle its foot.
“People can be cruel, that’s for sure,” Val said.
A loud woof reminded them another dog, brought in just as Val had arrived, waited in grooming room number two.
Samantha grinned. “Harry’s calling. I guess he’s ready for his bath.” Harry was the exact opposite of the little poodle except he had the same white coat, a gigantic, shaggy, Old English sheepdog right out of a Disney movie.
“I’ve got to take care of him.” Sam tipped her head toward the waiting area. “Ethan ought to be here any minute. Why don’t you wait for him out front? I really appreciate your coming in, Val.”
“I’m glad I could help, but I’m not going to stand around and do nothing while you battle with that monster dog.” As if he heard, Harry started woofing. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
“You’ve got a big production tonight. You should be getting your beauty rest, not washing some oversized mutt.”
“I can’t leave till Ethan gets here, and it’ll go a lot faster with both of us working.
” She thought of the man who was on his way to the shop, a professional bodyguard whose appearance left no doubt he could handle the job.
She had no idea what he wanted, but a little ripple of anticipation went through her at the thought of seeing him again.
It was ridiculous. So he was hot. So what? Between the gym and her modeling, she saw hot guys all the time. She had no idea why she felt such a ridiculous attraction to this one.
With a grateful smile, Samantha led Val into the other shampoo parlor, which smelled like perfume and wet dog. “Okay, Harry, you know the drill. Come on, boy.”
Sam unhooked the leash attached to the wall, and the big dog rose to all fours. Samantha led him over to the big stainless tub filled with hot soapy water, and he jumped up in, sending water and soap bubbles flying.
Sam grinned at Val, and she grinned back, then both of them dipped into the water up to their elbows and started giving Harry a scrub.