Dangerous Liaisons Read online

  Peck’s opponent, a tall, lean man with dark hair graying at the temples and sweat pouring down his face, managed to avoid the ball whizzing toward his nose. He swung his racket; when it connected with the target, Jake could hear his strangled grunt coming through the glass. With the smash and echo of the ball, the smell of heated sweat and the sound of labored breathing around him, Jake spent the next few minutes observing Sebastian Peck.

  Despite his bulk, the man’s movements were smooth, precise and exact. Jake figured it would take little effort for Peck to scale the seven-foot brick wall that surrounded the gated community where Ormiston lived. And if Peck didn’t feel like climbing the wall, he could tear it apart with his bare hands.

  Game ended, the players pounded each other on the shoulder, shook hands. The dark-haired man grabbed a gym bag, opened the door to the court and passed by Jake while chugging water from a plastic bottle in deep, greedy gulps.

  Jake pursed his lips, thinking again of the minute puncture the M.E. had found on Phillip Ormiston’s neck. The man had been scheduled to play racquetball with Sebastian Peck the night someone had plunged a needle into him. That in itself didn’t make Peck a suspect, but it did put his name on the list of people Ormiston would let get close.

  Jake stepped to the door of the court where the gym owner was swilling an orange liquid out of a plastic bottle. “Nice backhand.”

  Lowering the bottle, Peck sent a winner’s grin across the court. “Thanks. Are you my next game?”

  Jake raised a brow at the trace of a Swedish accent that would doubtless reduce some females to bubbling pools of wanting. “No, but you and I have business.”

  As he crossed toward Jake, Peck pulled the black sweatband away from his blond mane. “What sort of business?”

  Jake took in the chiseled face, sharp cheekbones and gray eyes that looked almost silver and contained a coldness that put his cop’s radar on alert.

  “I’m Sergeant Jake Ford.” When he swept back the flap of his coat, Peck’s grin dimmed. “I have a warrant to search Phillip Ormiston’s locker.”

  “It’s about time you got here,” Peck said as he accepted the warrant from Jake. “That cop you’ve got milling around the men’s locker room is making some of my clients nervous.”

  “Really?” Jake asked pleasantly. “Might be interesting to find out why.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Peck said, holding up a hand with fingers that looked like rods of iron. “People come here to get away from stress. Most cops emanate an aura of stress and cynicism that transfers to those around them.”

  “I’ll try to hold my emanations to a minimum while I’m here.”

  When the hunk angled his head, blond hair skimmed his muscled shoulders. “Nicole mentioned she met a cop who had negative biorhythms. That would be you, right?”

  Jake’s thoughts skimmed to Nicole, to the kiss that had been all steam heat and exploding passion. He tightened his jaw. “This visit isn’t about me, Peck. It’s official.”

  Peck glanced at the warrant, then remet Jake’s gaze. “Technically, you don’t need this to look in Ormiston’s locker.”

  Jake propped a hand beside his holstered Glock. “Is that so?”

  “Only Ormiston’s name is on the locker. No one else has legal access to it. Dead people have no reasonable expectation of privacy.”

  Jake narrowed his eyes. “You a lawyer?”

  “No, I used to date one.” Peck’s mouth curved. “Monique is a master of the Eastern philosophy, feng shui. I always listened to what she had to say.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  Jake had to admit that Peck had made a valid point about the warrant. And it told him there was more than just empty space beneath all that blond hair. Technically, Jake didn’t need a warrant to open Ormiston’s locker. But technicalities sometimes blurred when defense attorneys got hold of them. For all Jake knew, someone—maybe even the killer—could have given Ormiston something to stash in the locker that could be used as evidence. If that was the case, and the police didn’t have a warrant before opening the locker, a defense attorney could argue that his client did have a reasonable expectation to privacy, so the cops violated his client’s rights because they didn’t have the proper piece of paper. If a judge agreed, the prosecution could find itself up to its neck in alligators.

  “Having a warrant just ties everything up into a nice, neat package,” Jake commented.

  “I assume the reason you’ve got a cop watching that locker, and the fact that you went to the trouble to get a warrant, is because Ormiston was murdered.”

  “You don’t need to assume anything. It’s a fact.”

  “I knew he didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Too healthy. Ormiston worked out on a regular basis, watched what he ate. Mostly, he was in alignment.”

  Jake resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, well, not in alignment enough to keep himself from getting murdered. I understand he was scheduled to play racquetball with you yesterday evening.”

  “That’s right.” Peck raised his plastic bottle, chugged more of the orange liquid. “He didn’t show.”

  “Did you try to track him down and find out why?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s common for a client to miss an appointment. Things come up. Sometimes an evening spent lying on the couch sounds better than a hard workout.” He shrugged. “I prefer it when a client calls to cancel so I can shift my schedule. But I don’t dwell on it if they don’t.”

  Jake dug the key ring he’d found in Ormiston’s office out of his suit coat. “Let’s have a look at what’s inside locker number seventy.”

  “Sure. This way.”

  Jake followed the Norse god out the door and past the swimming pool where the water aerobics class was breaking up.

  “You play racquetball?” Peck asked over his shoulder as he and Jake skirted the workout gallery’s perimeter.

  “When I get time.” Over the sound of clanking weights and huffing lungs, Jake heard a giggle. Shifting his gaze, he saw a slinky brunette clad in a turquoise leotard and matching headband, white socks slouched artfully around her ankles, while she clutched what looked to be a five-pound weight in each manicured hand. The giggle was for the benefit of the tall, muscled trainer who rested his palms low on her belly and back to correct her posture for a lift.

  “We should schedule a game.” Peck paused at the entrance to a brightly lit hallway. “That could be the problem with your biorhythms. I sense you don’t balance relaxation and work well.”

  The earnestness in Peck’s expression told Jake he was absolutely serious. “It’s hard to work Homicide and keep things balanced. People don’t exactly make a point to get killed weekdays between eight and five.”

  “Even more reason for you to strive for harmony.” Peck stepped into the hallway, then turned into a locker room with rows of polished wood lockers, benches and dove-gray wall-to-wall carpet.

  Jake had never before been in a men’s locker room that smelled like roses.

  A uniformed cop with a flat stare sat on one of the wood benches in front of a row of lockers. His grizzly-bear girth was a sharp contrast to the two towel-draped men with wash-board-flat stomachs who stood in front of open lockers several feet away.

  “How’s it going, Andrews?”

  “Fine, Sarge,” the cop said, rising off the bench.

  Jake nodded toward the locker with the number seventy engraved on a small brass disk. “Anything going on?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Jake reached into his coat’s inside pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and eased them on. “Let’s see what we can find.” Stepping forward, he slid the key into the lock and swung open the door.

  “One pair of shoes,” Peck said, peering across Jake’s shoulder.

  “And an envelope.” Jake’s gloved fingers plucked the envelope from beneath one of the shoes. He lifted t
he unsealed flap, pulled out what was obviously a newspaper clipping. “An obituary,” he added, scanning the column. He looked up at Peck. “Did you know Eddie Denson?”

  Something flashed in Peck’s eyes. “He was a college kid who worked out here. He died in a car wreck a couple weeks ago.”

  Jake cocked his head. “How does a college kid afford a membership to this place?”

  “His parents belong. They have a family membership.”

  Jake shifted his gaze to the end of the obituary, saw that Denson’s service had been handled by one of Ormiston’s funeral homes. Why, Jake wondered as he slid the envelope and clipping into his coat pocket, had Ormiston hung on to this obituary?

  Jake turned back toward the locker. He picked up a shoe, shook it, slid his gloved fingers into the toe, making sure nothing was hidden inside. He repeated the process with the second shoe, then looked back at Andrews. “Bag these and log them into the property room.”

  “You got it, Sarge.”

  “Looks like your visit was a waste of time,” Peck observed.

  Jake peeled off his gloves. “Not so. I have to interview every suspect.”

  Peck’s gray eyes narrowed. “Am I a suspect?”

  “Ormiston trusted his killer enough to let him or her get close. Everybody who falls into that category is a suspect, until I can prove they didn’t do it. You’re on the list.”

  While Andrews loaded Ormiston’s shoes into a paper bag, Jake leaned a shoulder against a locker door. “How long had Ormiston been a member here?”

  “About six months. I’d have to check his file to get an exact date.”

  “Do that. Did he miss other racquetball games he had scheduled with you?”

  “No.” Peck crossed his arms over his massive chest. “We play…played once or twice a week. He’d always shown, until last night.”

  “Which didn’t concern you.”

  “I have to admit I was relieved.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Lately, Ormiston had a lot of complaints.”

  Jake sent him a thin smile. “I thought he was in alignment.”

  “I said mostly in alignment. His mind and spirit had moved out of synch. His aura had become muddy.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw Andrews’s brows shoot up his forehead. Jake held back a sigh. How much better could this get? “What did Ormiston complain about?”

  “Two things. Nicole, and an investment that went sour.”

  Jake kept his expression neutral. “What about Miss Taylor?”

  “He had yet to find a suitable mate through her agency. He said several times that Nicole wasn’t trying hard enough. I know the opposite is true. I told Ormiston that. No one is more dedicated to making her clients happy than Nicole.”

  “Did you tell Miss Taylor about Ormiston’s complaint?”

  “Yes. She had a right to know he was bad-mouthing her and her company. He could have caused her to lose clients and damaged her professional reputation.”

  “What was her reaction when you told her?”

  “She was naturally upset.”

  Jake had worked Homicide long enough to know that killing someone because they’d bad-mouthed your livelihood was not that far-fetched a reason. After some of the bizarre and petty motives he’d seen, he was willing to accept almost anything within some very wide bounds.

  Still, according to Nicole, Ormiston had second thoughts and phoned her office the day before he died to tell her he was renewing his contract. Because of that call, she’d had Mel Hall order the basket of muffins. Something had obviously changed Ormiston’s mind about the service she offered. Jake needed to find out what that something was.

  “What do you know about Ormiston’s investment that went sour?” Jake asked.

  “Just that he’d made one. He complained he’d lost a lot of money, but he didn’t say how.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “None of my business.”

  Jake made a mental note to call Ormiston’s son to see if he knew anything about the investment.

  “Ever overhear Ormiston argue with anyone?” Jake asked. “Ever hear about him arguing with anyone?”

  “Nothing comes to mind.” Instantly, Peck slid his gaze down the length of the locker room to the two men who had abandoned their towels in favor of street clothes.

  He knows something, Jake thought. “If you think of anything, call me.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to the Swede.

  Jake gave a nod to Andrews when the uniformed cop walked away, carrying the brown paper bag. Jake looked back at Peck. “I noticed when I got here that one of your clients logged himself in at the front desk. That standard procedure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do people sign out before they leave, too?”

  “Yes. The receptionist enters the data into the computer. We can go to each client’s file and see how often they’re here, and how long they work out during each visit.”

  “How about your employees?”

  “They punch a time clock when they arrive and leave.”

  “I need a copy of all your logs for the past week, through closing time last night.” Part of Nicole’s alibi was that she had worked out at Sebastian’s the previous evening. Jake acknowledged he wasn’t questioning that alibi—his cop’s sixth sense told him she had nothing to do with Ormiston’s murder. It was the man who wanted to make sure the alibi was airtight. The why of that was something he didn’t care to examine too closely.

  “Anything else, Sergeant?”

  Jake got the feeling Peck was itching to get the interview over with. “Is there a back door to this place? A way to get out where you don’t have to pass by the receptionist?”

  “There’s an emergency exit at the back of the gym. An alarm goes off when it opens.”

  “Any other door?”

  “One in my office,” Peck said after a slight hesitation. “It opens onto the hallway.”

  “So you can come and go without anybody keeping tabs on you.”

  Peck’s mouth tightened. “That’s right. This is my place. I come and go as I please.”

  “Where were you yesterday between noon and closing time?”

  “Here.”

  “Did you use the door off your office at any time yesterday to come and go as you please?”

  “I went out that way at closing time.”

  “Anybody see you leave?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  Jake pursed his lips. “You got any problem with me hanging around here awhile to talk to the trainers on duty, some of the customers?”

  One of Peck’s massive hands fisted against his thigh. “As long as you’re discreet. I don’t want my staff or my clients upset.”

  “They won’t be, unless they upset me first.”

  Peck’s eyes narrowed on Jake’s face, measured. “You should take Nicole’s advice and let me chart your biorhythms,” he said finally. “She’s good at body language.”

  Jake thought about how good her body had felt crushed against his. About how her mouth had opened beneath his, inviting him in. The lady was good at body language, all right.

  And a definite threat to his peace of mind.

  Ten hours, Nicole thought as the Jaguar’s headlights licked the curb along the dark, unfamiliar street while Mozart played from the CD. Ten hours since Jake pressed his body against hers and kissed her senseless. Ten hours and she still had to make a conscious effort to pump air in and out of her lungs whenever she thought about that kiss.

  Which had been about every five minutes since he’d stalked out of her office.

  The woman in her had wanted to curl up on the love seat and savor the liquefying pleasure of that kiss. The business owner had patted the loose tendrils back into her French twist, smoothed the jacket of her red suit, then left to attend the first of a series of meetings.

  When she returned late in the afternoon, one of the clerks had finished copying the file
s and videotapes Jake needed for his investigation. After checking the number on the business card he’d given her, Nicole had left a message on his voice mail. An hour later, a uniformed officer arrived and picked up the copies.

  Nicole knew it was best Jake hadn’t run that errand himself. She was realistic enough to admit that if he had walked into her office again, she would want to repeat that kiss.

  Just the thought was dangerous. As was the knowledge that her attraction to Jake Ford was not something she could fight for long, not even something she could manage, but rather an elemental force that could easily overwhelm her.

  “Not going to happen,” she murmured as the Jaguar crept along the street that ran straight as a ruler past well-tended homes illuminated by generous spills from porch lanterns and yard lights. Passion alone was not to be trusted. She knew that better than most. When Cole Champion walked into her life, emotion had engulfed her, overwhelmed her, swept her away. It had been the first time she had offered her heart to a man.

  And the last.

  She was far more savvy than she’d been at twenty—a woman tended to fortify her defenses when she came home and found her husband buck naked on the dining room table with some floozy. Devastated, Nicole had turned a deaf ear to Cole’s pleas for forgiveness, erected a barrier around her scarred heart and resolved that no man would ever cost her so dearly again.

  No man, she reminded herself when the image of Jake’s handsome face flashed through her mind. Just because he was gorgeous…and his kisses left her dizzy and dazed, she wasn’t going to let him rock her boat. In truth, she wanted the same thing for herself that her clients wanted—to find her perfect match, her soul mate. She intended to do that by listening to her head, not her heart.

  She would know when she found the right man. Her soul mate. Until then, she intended to put all her energies, all her emotions into making her business a success.