The Arms Of The Law Read online

  “Lally?” Nikita approached her carefully. “Are you all right?”

  Lally’s eyes popped open. Her face, a sickly shade of white, was covered with a fine film of perspiration.

  “What are these?” Vachon said, looking at the doctor’s walnut desk. “Pen sketches of lollipops and prone stick figures?” He raised meaningful eyes to Nikita. “Two female figures and a male wearing glasses.”

  “Dr. N.?” Lally screwed up her eyes as if they hurt. “Is that you?”

  Nikita smoothed her patient’s limp hair. “It’s me, Lally. Focus on my face.”

  Lally licked parched lips, blinked and clawed at her hair—or would have if Nikita hadn’t caught her hand. “I came…. I saw…. It’s tonight, Dr. N. That’s what the voice told me. It said tonight would be the time.”

  Nikita glanced at Vachon, then at Lally. “Time for what? Did the voice say?”

  “Time for another one to die.” The line of Lally’s mouth hardened as her glassy green eyes at last rose to meet Nikita’s. “Time for you to die, Dr. N.”

  TIME FOR NIKITA to die…

  A rush of delighted anticipation had peppered the murderer’s actions earlier in the evening. The anticipation smoldered and fizzled out when Nikita failed to answer her apartment door.

  A search of her suite had yielded nothing except comfortable furniture and pretty ornaments. Wouldn’t you just know she’d choose not to spend her night off work curled up in front of the television. Damn her, why couldn’t she have taken Vachon’s advice and gone home to bed?

  The murderer had given the door a satisfying slam, checked the corridor for curious bystanders then hastened to one of the lesser-used stairwells and taken refuge.

  Must be calm; must not overreact. But everything had been made ready. The good ship, the death ship, was set to weigh anchor again tonight. Nikita had a lot of nerve messing this up. She’d pay for that nerve and not die easily, the murderer decided, giving the pocketed syringe a vindictive squeeze.

  First things first, however. Lally must be made to sleep through the night. Not that she could tell any really damning tales, but why take stupid chances? Knock the mouse out till dawn.

  The pressure had increased on the syringe. Sammy Slide was in jail where he certainly deserved to be. But allow him to bask in the glory of a triple murder? Not a chance. He was a dunce not a dupe. This had been set up to fall one way, and fall it would, as the murderer dictated.

  Power, that was the key. Control of others through clever manipulation. It was challenging, rewarding and exhilarating. It was also extremely fulfilling. Forget alternatives. There would be no reprieve. Nikita must die tonight.

  Resolved, the murderer exited the stairwell and moved cautiously through the shadows.

  Ten minutes passed, and caution flew out the window. Now anger charged the murderer’s mind.

  Vachon was here, with Nikita. The pair of them together, and increasingly suspicious.

  The murderer broke into a cold sweat. Fear of discovery seeped in. Had this gone on for too long? No. Precautions must be taken. The only discovery tonight would be that of two corpses—known in life as Nikita Sorensen and Daniel Vachon.

  A vicious smile hugged the murderer’s lips. The good ship would debark on schedule after all, it seemed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Vachon’s blood boiled at Lally’s chilling statement Nikita, die? Like hell!

  He moved swiftly to crouch beside Nikita, more to reassure himself that she was safe than out of any desire to be close to Lally. “How do you know Nikita’s going to die?” he demanded. “Who told you?”

  “I’m…” Lally faltered. “I’m not sure. A voice.”

  “Talia’s voice?”

  “Vachon,” Nikita warned. She sounded shaky but determined.

  Undeterred, he pressed, “Who was it, Lally?”

  But she gave her head a shake and dropped her chin to her chest. “I don’t know. It’s just there, in my head, like the things I see, only different.”

  A psychic voice. Exasperated, Vachon rocked on his heels. Did she seriously expect him to believe that crap?

  A sound from the doorway intruded on his annoyance. A glance over his shoulder revealed a face. Only for a split second, but long enough for him to recognize its owner.

  “Flynn,” he growled. Clamping a hand on Nikita’s neck, he said firmly, “Stay here.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it, Nikita. Don’t leave this office.”

  He darted across the threshold, spied the hem of Donald Flynn’s lab coat and followed as the man plunged recklessly into the shadows. A snarl and a minor scuffle preceded the scrabble of Donald’s feet in full flight.

  “Who the hell let him out of his cage?” Martin grunted from the darkness.

  Vachon halted. “Which way?”

  Even in heavy shadow, he saw Martin’s lip curl. “How should I know? He didn’t signal.”

  Vachon pinned him to the wall with his forearm. “Which way?”

  Martin croaked, “Left”

  A fire door clanked shut, confirming the direction. Vachon released his grip, paused for a precious second then turned. He’d taken precisely three running steps when a thump and an angry curse reached his ears.

  “Don’t look at me,” Martin said defensively.

  “Quiet” Vachon stopped. The thud came again, from an office to his right “Whose is it?” he demanded of Martin.

  “Dee’s. But that’s not her swearing.”

  Not unless she’d been taking testosterone injections. For the first time, Vachon drew his gun. “Find Flynn,” he said to Martin. “He’s probably gone to the cellar.”

  “Yeah, right, any self-respecting ghoul would. Man, if you think…”

  Vachon ignored the belligerent protest and tested the office door. Locked. He stood back, took aim and gave it a kick with his heel.

  The door crashed open. “Don’t move,” Vachon ordered the silhouette inside.

  Panther swift, its owner dived for cover.

  Vachon swore.

  “Behind the desk,” Martin whispered at his elbow.

  Vachon moved in. “You can’t escape,” he told the intruder. He nudged the light switch with his shoulder. “You might as well give up and come out.”

  A pool of light bathed the room, throwing puddled shadows on the carpet Vachon’s eyes took in details. Pictures yanked off the walls, desk drawers torn open, files from the walnut cabinet strewn across the floor, seat cushions dislodged, books tossed from their shelves.

  He moved closer, treading carefully. One of the shadows stirred. “There’s no point hiding,” Vachon said levelly. He kept his gun poised. “Just stand-up slowly with your hands where I can see them.”

  A feral snarl emanated from behind the desk. The shadow shifted and began to unfurl. Vachon spied gold blond hair and found himself gritting his teeth. Damn you, he thought and squeezed the butt end of his gun harder. Damn you to hell and back.

  From nothing, the figure resolved into a man, a tall, slender man with the face of an angel—and the soul of a demon. Manny Beldon’s hands came up slowly as Vachon had instructed. They did not, however, come up empty.

  Martin said, “Oh, God,” but the words fell on deaf ears. Vachon could see as well as anyone, especially one whose gaze was currently directed down the barrel of a very large, fully loaded police special.

  “COME ON, Lally,” Nikita urged. “I’ll take you to your room.”

  Instead of standing, Lally assumed a lotus position. Were her eyes a brighter shade of green? Nikita wondered uneasily.

  “No one made me come here,” Lally confided between deep breaths. Then she vacillated. “At least I don’t remember anyone making me.”

  “No voice?” Nikita asked.

  “I—I don’t think so. I didn’t like the tea she gave me, though.” Her eyes popped open. Hazy green, Nikita noticed, relieved, yet wishing Vachon would return. “Why do my night drinks taste so yucky sometimes, Dr.
N.?”

  “I didn’t realize they did.”

  “Where’s Verity?”

  Good question, Nikita reflected dryly. “In her room, I think,” she replied.

  “Verity doesn’t like Talia, you know. Talia told me Verity was scared because Talia’s not as nice as me and doesn’t always do good things. She thinks Talia’s a murderer. But—” Her bottom lip wobbled. “I think she’s wrong. She is wrong, isn’t she, Dr. N.? You’ll tell her, won’t you? Talia likes you, and so do I. Talia gets mad sometimes, but when I tell her no, she listens to me. I’m older than her, that’s why she listens. You have to listen to people who are older than you.”

  The last part was Lally’s father speaking, a voice from her childhood, abusive, autocratic and an absolute authority for most of her life. But who was the “she” Lally kept mentioning? Not Verity. Talia?

  “Second that opinion, my dear.” Lally was applauded unexpectedly from the doorway. Dean Hawthorne touched arthritic fingers to his hat, smiled benignly at both women and, striding in, announced, “I was told downstairs that Deana had left for the evening. Of course, the nurses must be mistaken. Deana told me earlier that she had to work.”

  “Maybe she—” Nikita started to say “lied,” but stopped “—changed her mind and went home.”

  “Without informing me? Impossible.” He circled them the way a vulture might, from a calculating distance. “I hear you had quite a scare today, Nikita.”

  What was that gleam in his eyes all about? Nikita forced herself not to squeeze Lally’s hand too tightly. Her patient looked anxious enough already. Her gaze hadn’t left Dean’s face since he’d entered the room.

  “You’re Dr. D.’s father,” she said in a raw whisper. “I know you.”

  He stopped circling to regard her solemnly. “Ah, yes. We’ve met before, haven’t we, my dear? More than once, I believe.”

  When he reached out to shake her hand, however, Lally shrank back. Her fingernails bit into Nikita’s palm. “I see—I—you put her in a closet!”

  Without really changing, Dean’s mouth assumed disturbing proportions, like a watercolor beginning to run in the rain. “My dear Lally.” He sounded mildly shocked. “I trust you aren’t accusing me of cruelty.”

  Lally stepped backward, clearly terrified. “He put her in a closet, Dr. N.”

  “Who?” Nikita asked, not understanding. She shot Dean a puzzled look, noticing as she did that the knuckles of his right hand had gone white on top of his walking stick.

  Lally’s voice gained strength. “I see a closet There are mothballs inside, and toys. Dolls. I—” She jerked her hands free abruptly and stumbled backward wide-eyed. “He put her there!” A tiny sob escaped her. She blinked and whispered, “On the good ship Lally-pop…But that’s not right. It isn’t Lally-pop.”

  A scowl marred Dean’s forehead. “What is this nonsense?” he demanded. “I tell you I had no part in the murder of those young women—if that’s what your babbling patient is endeavoring to imply, Nikita. Put her in a closet, indeed. It was a freezer where they found the second one, in any case.”

  And inside my car before that, Nikita recalled, not liking the grisly direction of her thoughts. Dean would never harm anyone. He didn’t even like to kill bugs. Then again, bugs might not be worth his notice.

  She realized that he was flexing his bent fingers. His eyes shifted to the darkened corridor. “I think—” he began, but was interrupted by Lally, who saw his hand reaching out to close the door.

  She scuttled sideways, using Nikita as a shield. Her eyes threatened to pop out of her skull. “I see you,” she accused in a fear-choked voice. “She was little, and she broke your stethoscope. You—you dragged her upstairs. You locked her in the closet. He did it, Dr. N. He shut her in there just like my father did. He said she was going to learn not to touch his things, that his word was law. It was Dr. D. He told her that she was going to learn to obey him in all things, even if—”

  Her outburst ended in a garbled sob. Nikita stood dead still, her gaze fixed on Dean’s inscrutable face. “Even if what, Lally?” she prompted, her heart sinking slowly into her stomach.

  Lally dug her fingernails into Nikita’s forearms as she whispered. “If it killed her, Dr. N. Even if it killed her!”

  VACHON AND MANNY faced each other, guns drawn, like rival mobsters. But Vachon couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the trigger.

  Uttering a savage curse, he gave up the struggle and lowered his weapon. “Do it, Manny, if you can. I can’t”

  Something faltered in Manny’s expression. As if in slow motion, his arms sagged. His curse matched Vachon’s for vehemence. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded through his teeth. “You said you were going to grill Flynn again.”

  Vachon returned his intense stare. “You said you were going to a concert.”

  Manny raked disheveled hair from his face. “I changed my mind.”

  “And decided to ransack Deana’s office instead.”

  Martin suddenly came to life. “Hey, that’s right This is Dee’s office.”

  “Shut up,” Manny snapped and pointed his gun at Martin’s booted toes. “In fact—” he thumbed the trigger “—get out.”

  “Deana’s his wife,” Vachon reminded Manny with a grimace. “He has a right to ask.”

  Manny’s fair brows shot up. “You’re defending the guy who made it possible for Paulie Warsaw to walk?”

  “I was just doing my…” Martin’s chin dipped. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered. “Shut up.”

  Manny was trying to sidetrack him, Vachon realized. Or he would try, given half a chance. “Why?” he asked simply.

  The tension in Manny’s body bordered on explosive. Even his ears turned an unbecoming shade of brick red. His lips barely moved as he growled, “I was looking for her safe.”

  Vachon caught Martin’s lightning swift glance at the empty oak bookshelves. Only a drooping fern remained. Although the smirk that flitted across his lips answered Vachon’s unspoken question, it did nothing to alleviate the warning prickle that lifted the hair on the back of his neck. Something to do with Nikita and danger and a hundred other sensations he didn’t like or understand.

  Manny must have caught Martin’s glance, too, because he shot out from behind the desk. Gun in hand, he grabbed the other man’s lapels and hauled him forward until they were nose to nose. “Where is it?” he demanded.

  Martin’s eyes fixed on the gun. “That’s Dee’s business. Take it up with her.”

  Still holding Martin, Manny stuck his gun in his waistband. Vachon crossed to the bookshelves and began to inspect the old wood. Martin made a sound of defeat as part of the paneling popped open beneath his exploring fingertips.

  Manny released his prisoner instantly. “Get out of the way.” Using his shoulder, he endeavored to shove his partner aside. But Vachon was prepared and centered his weight.

  “Don’t,” Manny said as Vachon rubbed his fingers together above the combination lock.

  Vachon pressed his ear to the steel pad. “What?”

  Manny’s fists wadded. “I don’t have a warrant.”

  “Aha!” Martin pounced on the grudging admission and immediately began to spout a ream of rights, violations and charges.

  Vachon ignored him and allowed his fingers to touch the cold metal. His last hope had been severed with Manny’s words. No search warrant could only mean one thing.

  Tiny, unexpected bolts of fury shot through him. He snatched Manny’s lapels and shook. “Tell me,” he ordered. His skin felt alternately frozen and fiery. “What the hell are you doing here? And why didn’t you bother getting a warrant to open this safe?”

  “Letters.” Manny managed to choke the words out. “That’s all, Vachon, just some letters I, uh, wrote.”

  Martin sputtered indignantly behind them, but Vachon recognized a lie when he heard one. “Bull,” he said and tightened his grip. “Tell me what you’re really after, or I swear, I’ll dial the phone fo
r that jackass husband of hers.” Vachon’s eyes bored into Manny’s defeated ones. “Do you know the combination?”

  “Who, me?” Martin asked in a blend of confusion and annoyance. “No. This is Dee’s private safe. Private as in—whoa, yeah, fine.” He held up his hands in surrender as Vachon rounded on him. “Break into it if it makes you feel better. Who gives a damn about a bunch of letters?”

  Manny had lapsed into a brooding silence, and Martin’s pride was clearly wounded. That left Vachon to deal with the lock. Every nerve in his body twitched as he spun the dial.

  Images of Nikita danced before his eyes. Why? Was she alone with Lally? Lally, whose other personality was unpredictable at best?

  But Nikita was good at her job, damned good. She insisted that neither Lally nor Talia was capable of committing murder. So where did the looming danger come from? Did Deana know something about Lally that Nikita didn’t? Was there a secret file on the woman locked in her safe? Maybe, but why would Manny be so desperate to retrieve it? Unless, of course, he believed Deana to be under some kind of threat.

  Instinct told him that none of those answers made sense. There was something, though, some detail his brain wanted to recall but couldn’t. A piece of the puzzle that needed to be fit into place before the final picture could be perceived.

  His fingers were stiff and clumsy. A snatch of a song nagged at him, making it difficult to concentrate on the tumblers. Something about Lally-pops and prone stick figures.

  He detected a faint click and reversed directions. Two digits to go. Another click. His mouth had gone dry. He felt Manny’s uneven breathing stir the hair on his neck. One more number.

  “Come on, you bas—” he ground out, then heard the final click and pushed himself away.

  Manny gripped his arm. “Please, Vachon.” His face betrayed no emotion, only strain. “Let me do it.”

  “Let you open Pandora’s box?” Nikita’s face floated through Vachon’s mind’s eye. Beautiful, Slavic features; good at her job; gentle, compassionate—and alone with Lally Monk! “Sorry, partner,” he said flatly, and yanked on the handle.