Unauthorized Passion: Unauthorized Passion / Intimate Knowledge. Amanda Stevens
dollars is a lot of money. I know we have a deal. I’m trying to hold up my end, but you’ve got to give me some time.”
Another pause, then Cher said shakily, “Look, there’s no call for threats—”
But the line had gone dead, and as Cher hung up the phone, she felt the first tremor of fear at what she’d done.
* * *
CASSIE COULDN’T SLEEP. She couldn’t get her mind off the man she’d seen looking up at her balcony. She knew him. Knew his face, but she couldn’t place him. It was maddening, that glimmer of recognition, then nothing more.
Was he the same man she’d seen earlier in the alley?
Was he the killer?
But according to the news, the murder had taken place hours ago. Why would the killer still be lurking in the area? Wouldn’t he want to put distance between himself and the crime scene?
Unless he was afraid of being spotted on the street. Or unless…he lived nearby.
Finally, Cassie had worked herself up into such a state that she’d put back on the scarf and dark glasses, left the hotel, and gone across the street to use the pay phone she’d spotted earlier. When the operator had answered, she’d asked to speak to the detective in charge of the murder investigation, and to her surprise, she’d been put right through.
But the officer she’d spoken to sounded too young to be a detective, and rather than heading up a homicide investigation, Cassie suspected he’d been assigned the unenviable task of fielding all the crank calls that had undoubtedly come pouring in after the news broadcast.
He had politely taken down all her information, but he hadn’t seemed to attach much significance to what she’d seen. Maybe it was because they’d already apprehended a suspect, Cassie thought hopefully. Or maybe eyewitnesses at the scene had given an entirely different description of the killer. Whatever the cause for the officer’s cavalier attitude, Cassie was just glad she’d done her civic duty. Now she could go to bed with a clear conscience and get a good night’s sleep.
But now, in addition to worrying about whether or not she’d come face-to-face with a killer, she had to wonder if the police would be able to somehow trace that call back to her. She hadn’t given her name, or Celeste’s, but her voice had undoubtedly been taped. What if they came around the hotel asking questions? Should she continue to pretend to be Celeste, or should she come clean and give them her real name?
And if she did come clean, what would Celeste say?
And more important, what would Margo Fleming do if she found out what Celeste was up to?
Not your problem, a little voice reminded her. If Celeste had taken up again with her married lover, that was her business, but a tawdry affair couldn’t be allowed to take priority over a murder investigation.
Perhaps the best thing Cassie could do to truly get the matter off her conscience was to go down to the police station the following morning and tell them everything—
What was that?
Cassie bolted upright in bed, trying to identify the sound. A dog barked just outside her window, and then she heard a woman’s voice. She relaxed at the sound. She knew who it was. Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard, the guest in Suite 3C, was taking her Maltese, Chablis, for a late evening stroll.
Across the room, Mr. Bogart got up from his bed and trotted to the window to peer out into the darkness. He turned to Cassie and began to whimper.
“The power of suggestion, huh?” Cassie fluffed her pillow. “Well, too bad, buddy. You’ll just have to wait until morning.”
The dog pawed frantically at the glass, then turned and raced into the living room where she could hear him scratch at the door.
“I’m not taking you out,” she called.
He began to yelp, then howl, and after a moment, Cassie heard a series of soft thuds that sounded as if he might be throwing himself against the door.
“Oh, all right already,” Cassie grumbled as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Dressing quickly in jeans and a T-shirt, she pulled a baseball cap over her hair and clipped Mr. Bogart’s leash to his collar. Then off they went.
They took the elevator down to the lobby, and Cassie kept her face averted as she nodded briefly to the night clerk behind the desk. Outside, she wanted to go right, but Mr. Bogart insisted on going left. Rolling her eyes, Cassie let him take the lead, but when they came to the alley, she balked.
“Uh-uh. Not no way, no how,” she told the Chihuahua. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we went down that road? You got a boot up your little—”
Mr. Bogart jerked on the leash with such ferocity that Cassie was caught off guard. The leash slipped through her fingers, and the little dog took off like a shot.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she shouted behind him. This time, she wasn’t going to follow him. She didn’t care what Celeste said. That alley was teeming with perverts.
A moment later, Mr. Bogart came trotting out of the alley with a little white mop in tow. The rhinestone leash dragging behind the Maltese glittered in the light from the street, and Cassie stared at the dog in surprise. “Chablis? Is that you?”
Ignoring Cassie, the Maltese sat down and panted delicately in the heat as she watched Mr. Bogart spin in circles, chasing his tail and yapping in doggie-speak, “Look what I can do!”
“You’re hot,” Chablis’s rapturous gaze seemed to imply.
“Sorry to interrupt this love fest,” Cassie said dryly, “But where’s your mommy, Chablis?”
Just then, Cassie heard something that sounded like a groan coming from the alley. Her pulse quickened as she peered into the shadows. “Who’s there?”
The groan came again, louder this time, and then a woman’s shaky voice called, “Help! Please, someone help me…”
The two dogs turned and raced back into the alley with Cassie close on their heels. Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard lay just beyond the overhang of Cassie’s balcony. She’d propped herself against the wall of the hotel as she massaged her left ankle. When she saw Cassie, she let out a cry of relief. “Oh, thank God! I was afraid I might have to lie here until morning.”
Cassie rushed over and knelt beside her. “What happened?”
Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard was a tiny, wiry woman with a smooth cap of red hair, intrepid blue eyes and an imperious demeanor that could be, Cassie suspected, a bit terrifying at times. She was probably in her late fifties, but her face had been so carefully nipped and tucked that only the slightest tilt of her eyes gave away the work and her age.
“He came at me like a crazed animal!” she exclaimed, but Cassie couldn’t tell if the woman’s shrillness was due to fright or outrage. “I thought he was going to kill me!” She gazed around frantically. “Chablis! Where’s my baby?”
“She’s right here,” Cassie assured her. “But who attacked you, Mrs. Ambrose…Pritchard…?” She trailed off awkwardly, uncertain how to address the woman. “Did you get a look at him?”
“No, not really.” The tiny woman shuddered. “And I’m thankful for that, or else I know I would have seen that face in my sleep tonight. I only caught a glimpse of him over there, just beneath your balcony. When I called out…he rushed toward me. Came at me so quickly I didn’t know what to do. He could have had a knife or a gun…”
“You’re safe now,” Cassie murmured. “What did he do to you?” she tried to ask tactfully.
“He shoved me so hard I fell down, and then he fled that way—” Mrs. Ambrose-Pritchard pointed toward the rear of the hotel.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s my ankle.