He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not Read online

  Lange swept his gaze over her. She was small, he had to admit, barely five foot four at best. Her bright yellow dress was a loose, flowing creation, but somehow managed to hug her body in all the right places. She wore sensible flat soled shoes and carried a purse big enough to double as a briefcase, making a fashion statement of duty, not beauty. A full head of white-blonde hair fell from a center part and billowed into soft curls just past her shoulders. There was nothing glamorous in her light dusting of makeup, but the effect was fresh and unique. To Lange, she looked like sunshine itself.

  In a moment of pure honesty, the hardened ex-cop spoke to her softly. “You, Miss Ashli Wilson, are a beautiful woman. Yes, I can see where a man might be obsessed with you. So I will ask you again, in there anyone you can think of that might be obsessed with you, or that might wish you harm?”

  “Harm?” The thought seemed to startle her more than his words embarrassed her. “Do you think I am in danger, Mr. Sterling?”

  “The question is, do you think you are in danger?”

  “I-I don’t know.” She shuddered at the very thought. She raised big blue eyes up to his. “But the truth is, I am starting to get scared, Mr. Sterling. The police won’t help me, not until this person actually makes a move against me, and I’m afraid by then it might be too late. That’s why I came to you. Will you help me? Will you protect me?”

  When she looked up at him with such wide, innocent eyes, when she pleaded with him in that whisper-soft voice, there was really nothing else he could do. Even though the case’s validity was questionable at best, and even though he was already stretched thin on time and resources, there was no way he could possibly refuse a plea such as hers. Even though an inner voice warned him to think it over, Lange Sterling heard his own voice answering as he stood and extended his hand.

  “Yes, Miss Wilson. I will take your case. I will protect you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Less than eight hours later, Lange was regretting his hasty decision. What was he thinking, taking on another case? He barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone devote the time and surveillance a case such as this required. And yet, here he was, rearranging his entire schedule to take on a questionable case, and he was breaking one of his cardinal rules to do it: he was going in completely unprepared.

  Lange was a stickler about prepping for a case. Normally, he would go in with a case file already established. It was his policy to know as much as possible about each case he worked on. To that end, he always did a complete background check immediately after taking on a new client. There would be notes, photos, sometimes even preliminary legwork, all tucked inside a file he would carry to this initial meeting. He prided himself on being well informed and well prepared; surprises could be disastrous in his business.

  But today there had been no time for prep work. After Ashli Wilson left his office, he spent the remainder of the morning handling paperwork and phone calls; the afternoon he spent with clients and realigning priorities. He wrapped up one investigation, delayed another, and lost the business of a third client not willing to share his attention. Without a decent meal or any additional sleep, he was now running on fumes. And as if going in unprepared wasn’t enough, he was also going in late.

  Turning onto the street given as Ashli Wilson’s address, Lange scanned the neighborhood to get a feel of the demographics. Typical for an old city such as Richmond, there was a mix of old and new in the neighborhood. On the right side of the street, a huge antebellum mansion, complete with six white columns, sprawled across half the block; its counterpart stood on the left, a newly constructed complex of upscale condominiums. The neighborhood was nice, but just shy of affluent. The other residences were neatly kept but more modest – a handful of Craftsmen style homes, a couple of ranches, a new construction of stone and cedar, and another with a more modern feel.

  As he swung into the condo complex, he belatedly punched her name into the search engine on his phone, thinking any information was better than none. When it only brought up some television personality, he tossed the phone onto the seat in frustration. He compared the house number on the paper to the house numbers on the units, but the sequencing wasn’t making any sense. Circling the building, he cursed himself again for going in unprepared.

  “I’m on the wrong side of the street,” he muttered aloud, realizing his mistake. She lived in the antebellum mansion. Which meant she either came from money, or wasn’t as ditzy as she seemed. “If I’d done my research, I’d know these things.” He continued to berate himself as he pulled his truck into the circular driveway gracing the front of the mansion.

  Lange grabbed his phone and tucked a small notebook into his shirt pocket. As he walked up the steps of the mansion, he looked around in appreciation. The lawn was neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds were blooming with color, and the porch boasted a fresh coat of slate blue paint. A set of yellow wicker furniture beckoned from one end of the long veranda, while a half dozen rocking chairs, painted yellow with blue cushions, welcomed from the other. The house itself was three stories tall, painted white with slate blue shutters and doors, and, despite its advanced age, was obviously well cared for.

  The double doors were a work of art, with thick stained glass panels that depicted a beautiful bouquet of daisies. Above the doors was a plaque proclaiming this “The Daisy House, circa 1853, Register of Historical Places.” A modern intercom system and electronic keypad were tastefully hidden behind an intricate metal panel beside the doors.

  Finding her number on the panel, he pressed the intercom button. After a slight delay, he heard her breathless reply float out onto the porch. “Yes?”

  “It’s Lange Sterling. I’m here for our appointment.”

  “Is it that late already?” She sounded truly surprised. “I just got home.”

  As he rolled his eyes in exasperation, he hoped there was no video cam. Trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, he asked, “May I come in, Miss Wilson?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course. I’ll buzz you in. I’m at the top of the stairs and to the right. Apartment 5.” A pleasant melody sounded, granting him access behind the heavy doors.

  Stepping into the foyer was like stepping into another era; houses just weren’t made like this anymore. A wide hallway divided the home in half, and ran from the front stained glass doors all the way to a set of identical ones in the back. There was marble beneath his feet, but the floor down the corridor was a gleaming hand-hewn wood, darkened with age. The walls were papered in dark blue damask, with enough white trim molding, all elaborately carved, to keep the color from feeling heavy. The few pieces of furniture in the foyer were all antiques, from the massive hall-tree beside the door to the small settee and side chair tucked into a corner. But the real beauty of the room was the stairway, a curved creation that swept from the right of the foyer, up and over the hallway, to float into the second floor of the grand old home with style and grace.

  Lange ran an appreciative hand over the bannister, admiring the fine workmanship of a century past. The wood was warm beneath his touch, worn smooth from years of handling and polishing and perhaps, he imagined, a dozen children sliding down its curved path. If he ever took the plunge into home ownership, this was exactly the kind of house he would want.

  He ascended the magnificent stairway, his steps practically silent on the heavy wool runner of muted gold, cream and blue. The second floor opened into another wide corridor, this one flanked by paned windows in the front, double French doors at the back, and two apartments on either side. Lange turned right, toward the doorway marked with a scrolled wrought iron “5".

  Just as he rapped on the door, he heard a shriek from inside the apartment. He immediately reached for his pistol. “Miss Wilson! Are you all right? Open up, this is Lange Sterling!”

  The door swung open and the woman inside threw herself at him. The force of her hurled body into his unsuspecting arms was enough to make him stagger backwards. He quickly regained his footing, his arm
s instinctively closing around her for security.

  “What is it? What happened? Is there someone in your apartment?”

  “N-No,” she managed to say. For someone so petite, she clung to him with amazing strength.

  Easily lifting her feet off the ground, Lange stepped forward into the apartment, kicking the door shut after he carried her through the threshold. She was obviously terrified. Continuing to hold her, he stroked her hair in awkward assurance, murmuring words of comfort as he glanced around the room for signs of distress. Seeing none, he held her until the trembling in her body began to subside, until he became painfully aware of how soft and warm and feminine she felt in his arms.

  Slowly, before he did something stupid, he eased her away. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No, just- just frightened.”

  “Why? What happened? Did you hear from him?”

  “I-I’m not sure.” Untangling herself from his arms, she moved forward into the living room on unsteady legs. “Sorry. I know I over-reacted,” she murmured. Her tone was still dazed as she elaborated, “I got a letter. An envelope. When I opened it, something cold and wet fell out.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. I was opening it just as you knocked, and between the sudden noise and the feel of something wet... I- I sort of panicked. I flung it across the room.” She indicated the scattered mail strewn about on the floor. Bending down, she began to search for the mysterious object. Soon she was on all fours, looking in earnest.

  Trying his best to be a gentleman and not stare at the delightful view she presented as she crawled around the floor in a dress, he diverted his attention by asking what she thought it might have been.

  “Whatever it was, it was wet and wiggly.” She crawled past him, completely ignorant of the tantalizing words and view of her upturned bottom.

  With a little groan, Lange decided the only thing to do was to help her. Dropping down onto one knee, he ran his hand over the carpet, his eyes still lingering on her. Would she feel this soft, this plush, if he ran his hands over her body, the body she so innocently offered a view of? Would her skin heat with friction at his touch, the way the carpet did? Hell, would he be able to think of her in a strictly professional manner?

  His fingers touched something beneath the chair, something wet, and his wayward thoughts immediately snapped to attention. “I think I found it,” he announced.

  “What is it?” She scooted closer to him as he turned over his palm and offered the object for inspection.

  “A goldfish!” she cried in relief, having expected something much more sinister.

  Then, as confusion set in, she repeated, “A goldfish?”

  “A goldfish. A practically dead goldfish.”

  “What does it mean?” she asked in utter vulnerability.

  She looked at him with big blue eyes rimmed by unbidden tears, and he knew then that he would do anything in his power to keep those tears from falling. He thought of several things a dead goldfish could mean; a stupid prank, an ill-chosen joke, a subtle warning from a slick and twisted mind. He reminded himself not to overreact as the last thought sent a chill of fear to his heart.

  “I don’t know what it means,” he told her honestly, getting to his feet. “But I need to dispose of it. Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Corner, beside the stairs.”

  As Lange went into the small powder room and disposed of the goldfish, Ashli continued to crawl around on the floor, collecting her scattered mail. She was unaware that her dress had inched its way up as she moved, until he came out of the bathroom and stopped with a sudden intake of breath.

  He saw two flashes of pink, one in the form of silky nylon, the other in her cheeks. Ashli hurried to her feet, painfully aware that the man had just seen her underwear. Covering her embarrassment with a sudden flare of indignation, she whirled on him and demanded, “Now do you believe that someone is watching me?”

  “I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t already believed you,” he told her quietly.

  “Why on earth would someone send me a half-dead goldfish?”

  “Maybe it was supposed to be a completely dead goldfish. Are you earlier than usual getting home?”

  “No, a little later, actually.”

  “Is that the envelope it was in?” He nodded to the one she held in her hand. When she offered it to him, he inspected its blank front and empty contents, finding nothing whatsoever to even suggest a clue. “Was it on your door?”

  “My mailbox.”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders, dismissing the goldfish for the time being. He was more interested in the balcony, where the Peeping Tom had been. A wall of French doors opened onto the outdoor space, offering plenty of light and extended living space, and, perhaps, very little privacy. Typical for homes of its day, the veranda was long and wide, projecting out at least fifteen feet.

  “The balcony runs the length of the house?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s all connected, giving anyone access?”

  “More or less. We each have our own space. Mine runs the length of my apartment and is accessible from these doors only. Same for the other back unit. The two front units each have a smaller space in the center, accessible from the French doors in the hall, which are electronically coded. Each space is divided with a lattice panel.” She nodded, indicating the white lattice wall. Hers was covered in potted plants, strategically placed decorative tin panels, and clinging vines. Though not completely covered, the arrangement offered adequate privacy from her neighbors.

  “So basically anyone with a sense of adventure could swing out around the panel, or shimmy up a rope from the ground floor,” he surmised.

  “Basically. Assuming they had access to the other balconies or to the grounds.”

  “Privacy fence?” he asked, jotting notes into his little notebook.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Not bothering to ask for permission to see it, Lange started for the stairs. Ashli followed behind, reluctant to let a stranger see the core of her privacy without being there to somehow defend it.

  Twisting and turning its way up to the third floor of the grand old mansion, the staircase opened directly into her bedroom. The oversized room was spacious and light, but as she tried to look at it through someone else’s eyes, it seemed such a lonely room. Only one body slept in the bed meant for two, only one nightstand stood by its side. The room’s soft colors of pink and green were intended to make it appear cool and refreshing, but suddenly to Ashli it just felt cold.

  Lange walked past her bed, headed for the set of doors leading outside. This balcony was much smaller, by both length and width, and was exclusive to her apartment. With no center balcony, just its twin on the far end of the house, there was no need for a privacy panel up here. A wrought iron chair and side table nestled into one corner of the balcony, a cushioned chaise lounge stretched out in the other. He noted the singular chair, meaning she probably did not make a habit of bringing men to her bedroom.

  “Do you keep these windows covered?” he asked.

  “If I’m up here during the day, I might open the blinds. At night I pull the curtains shut.”

  From where he stood, he surveyed the room, all visible from the balcony. Opposite the wall with the bed, a comfortable reading chair and cluttered side table created a cozy scene around the fireplace. One corner housed an entertainment center filled with a flat screen television and a collection of digital movies; the other held a bookshelf, overflowing with books and magazines and assorted trinkets. Ashli was glad he did not survey the titles too closely, else he would know her weakness for romance novels. She rather doubted Lange Sterling would appreciate a tender love story.

  Lange glanced through the opened bathroom door, spying a lacy bra on the granite counter. “Keep those curtains drawn at all times,” was all he said as he t
urned curtly and left the room.

  Ashli followed him back down the staircase. She descended two steps behind, but she was practically level with his dark hair, which was still slightly damp from a recent shower. It left him with a fresh, clean, totally masculine scent. She was acutely aware of the knit sports shirt he wore, and the way it clung to his broad shoulders.

  The stairway, just to the right of the front door, emptied into what was originally a sitting room in its former life. It now served as the entry/dining room, and was occupied by a small antique oak dining set and china cabinet. Sectioned off by wide pocket doors, the sitting room flowed into the bedroom-turned- living room, which boasted an elaborate old fireplace at its far end. Built-in bookcases surrounded it, housing everything from a television and photographs to dried flowers and a stack of patchwork quilts. The floors were hardwood, covered by a large red and cream wool carpet with an intricate pattern. The room was uncrowded but somehow cozy, inhabited only by an antique sofa, wingback chair, an odd table with a lamp, and an old trunk that served as a coffee table. Against buttery yellow walls, all the woodwork was painted white, including the louvered wooden blinds over the French doors.

  Lange roamed about freely, concluding his tour in the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a granite-topped island.

  Seeing the space, he let out a surprised whistle.

  “There’s not a kitchen like this in any apartment I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “It’s a condo, actually,” Ashli corrected him. “I was fortunate enough to have it all custom- done.”

  Although she loved her entire home, the kitchen was Ashli’s pride and joy. What the room lacked in size was compensated by design. The long wall was filled with custom cabinets, double wall ovens, and a state of the art cook top. A corner pantry offered ample storage space, as did the commercial refrigerator. The four-foot granite island was bi-level, sporting a sink on one side, stools for eating on the other.