Secret Admirer

The telephone awakened Eve from a deep sleep. She thought it was the alarm clock at first and reached out blindly to slap at the button. When the ringing persisted, she rolled over and grabbed the receiver.

“This is Barrett,” she said groggily.

“Eve? This is Clare. Foxx.”

Eve sat up, glancing at the bedside clock. Just after four in the morning. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got a situation, I’m afraid.”

Something in her voice sent a thrill of alarm racing up Eve’s spine. “What is it?”

“Bill Stringer’s daughter was found murdered in her apartment just under an hour ago.”

“Oh, no.” Bill Stringer was Vic D’Angelo’s partner. Eve didn’t know the detective well, but her mind instantly flashed to the picture of the young woman he kept on his desk. “Her name’s Lucy,” he’d told Eve proudly one day when she’d inquired about the photo. Eve remembered Bill picking up the picture and staring down at it. “Her mother and I call her Lulu. She hates it, of course, now that she’s all grown-up.”

Eve cradled the portable phone between her chin and ear as she began grabbing clothes from her closet.

“I want you and Tony to catch this one,” Clare told her.

Eve frowned into the phone. “Are you sure? I mean…it’s likely to get some attention.”

“I want a woman on this,” Clare said firmly. “And I want the best. I owe that much to Bill.”

Eve had no delusions. She fit only half of that criteria. Which meant Clare considered Tony Gallagher the best.

So why was she trying to get rid of him?

“What’s the address?” Eve threw her clothes on the bed as she picked up a pen and started scribbling.

“One other thing,” Clare said, after they’d talked for a few more minutes. Her voice held a strange edge. “Is Tony with you?”

The question shocked Eve. “No, of course not. Why would he be?”

“I called him a few minutes ago and didn’t get an answer.” Still that odd tone. “Maybe you’d better go by and see if you can rouse him. I want both of you on the scene as soon as possible.”

“I’m on my way.”

THE BANGING INSIDE Tony’s head matched the banging outside his apartment. For a moment, he lay drifting on the fringes of sleep, not wanting to open his eyes, but the pounding, both within and without, tortured him awake. He turned over and squinted at the clock. A little after four. Who the hell was knocking on his door at this time of morning?

“It damn well better be good,” he muttered, rolling out of bed. He reached for his clothes, then realized he was still wearing the pants and shirt he’d had on the night before. The shirt was unbuttoned, and somewhere along the way he’d lost his shoes and socks.

He struggled to recall the events of last evening. He’d gone to the pub, had a few drinks. Nick had been there. David. Fiona. Eve. That asshole, D’Angelo. Clare.

He’d waited outside for Eve, Tony seemed to recall, except…he couldn’t actually remember when she’d left. He couldn’t remember driving home, getting into bed.

This was bad, he thought. Real bad.

Reaching for his gun on the nightstand, he stumbled through the cluttered living room to the front door. The banging started again, and he yelled, “I’m coming, dammit.”

He started to unlock the door but found the bolt hadn’t been turned. Any cluckhead off the street could have come in and slit his throat for the few bucks in his wallet.

Drawing back the door a crack, he glanced into the hallway. Eve stood there, looking as fresh as a daisy in a white blouse and gray pants.

“What the hell—”

She pushed against the door, shoving it open and walking past him. “Where’ve you been? Clare’s been trying to reach you.”

“Clare…” He felt as if he were lagging at least two laps behind, trying to catch up. “What’s going on?”

He saw then that Eve wasn’t quite as pulled together as he’d first thought. Her hazel eyes were a little too bright, and her hair looked as if she’d combed it with her fingers. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, either, and her face was pale, blanched.

“Bill Stringer’s daughter was found dead in her apartment about an hour ago. She was murdered.”

The pounding in Tony’s ears suddenly grew louder, the pain in his head excruciating. He wiped a hand across his mouth, feeling the prickle of his whiskers. “Man,” he said. “Oh, man.”

“We’re catching this one.”

That didn’t sound right to Tony. What was Clare up to? “Why us?”

“She said she wanted a woman on the case, and she wanted the best. The latter wasn’t referring to me, I’m willing to bet,” Eve said without rancor. “We need to get over there.”

“Yeah. Sure. Just give me a minute.” Tony walked out of the room, feeling as if fireworks were exploding inside his head. This isn’t good. This isn’t good, his mind kept screaming.

He unscrewed the cap off a bottle of aspirin and downed a couple without water. Stripping, he gave himself two minutes under an icy shower, standing with his hands propped against the tile wall as the water pummeled him back to semiconsciousness.

Lucy Stringer had been murdered tonight. Tony closed his eyes, shuddering. He could see her pretty face, hear her voice complaining to him that her father still treated her like a kid. “He still thinks I’m about ten years old,” she’d grumbled at a Christmas party a couple years back. She’d pouted like a ten-year-old, but the look she’d slanted Tony was anything but childish. Lucy had liked to flirt, especially with cops, but everyone knew she was off-limits. Besides, she was a good kid. Never into any trouble that Tony was aware of.

He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her. At that Christmas party? No, more recently than that.

She sometimes came to the pub. She’d been there a few nights ago, hadn’t she? Or was it last night?

Tony struggled to remember, catching glimpses of her in his mind at the pool table, at the bar, in the corner talking to someone…but who?

Or was all this his imagination, induced by a killer hangover?

Bad word choice, he realized with a grimace, climbing out of the shower. He dried off, pulled on a pair of jeans, then picked up his shirt, shoes, gun and wallet, and carried them all out to the living room.

Eve glanced at him in surprise.

“You’re driving,” he said, and walked past her out the door.

TONY FINISHED DRESSING while Eve drove them to the address Clare had given to her earlier. Eve knew the area fairly well, but she was still surprised to find that Lucy Stringer’s apartment was only a few blocks from Tony’s.

She glanced at him as she turned down the street. He looked like death warmed over, she thought, and grimaced at her word choice. He’d taken a quick shower, but he hadn’t bothered to shave, and the stubble on his lower face was dark and thick, the shadows under his eyes almost purplish. He wore jeans and a faded CPD T-shirt, as usual not exactly the image a detective should cultivate, but then, Eve suspected his manner of dress was yet another way Tony tried to keep people at a distance.

Lucy had rented a garage apartment in a nice, middle-class neighborhood. The street was lined with police cars, and a Crime Scene Unit was pulled to the curb in front of the walkway. Eve maneuvered into a space, and she and Tony got out. As they walked across the damp grass, she could hear the faint sounds of traffic a few blocks over on the freeway, almost drowned out by the static transmission of a patrol unit radio.

She clipped her shield to her waistband as they walked by the two young patrolmen manning the yellow-ribboned perimeter. At the top of the stairs, she and Tony paused and gazed around. A mail slot had been cut in the front door, and the metal plate had already been dusted for prints.