Bleeders Read online

  “Poor little pooch.”

  Unable to see his face, Trisha couldn’t tell if Pete really cared about the animal or was just being sarcastic.

  She picked out another dishtowel from the pile and started to fold it, wondering why a person who lived alone with her maid would need so many dishtowels. Trisha had two back at her apartment in Virginia. Of course, she didn’t do much cooking at home. She didn’t do much of anything at home except sleep. She was a hopeless workaholic and most of the time she was away on assignment.

  Adele swept into the kitchen in swirl of purple, the color of her floor-length Polartec robe. “Trisha, what are you doing?” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to whisper, Adele. I’ve told you that.”

  “Yeah, but you never know. He could be listening. Drac might have bugged the place.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Well, you never know.” She pulled up a chair and started folding. “You don’t have to do Inez’s work, you know.”

  “I know. But it helps pass the time.”

  “You want me to make coffee? It’ll help you stay up.”

  “Yeah, that would be nice. But I should make it. I’m the maid after all.”

  “Sit. I make the coffee around here. Inez makes terrible coffee. I’ll go ask Pete if he wants some.”

  Trisha motioned for Adele to stay in her seat. “I’ll ask him. Pete?”

  “Yeah?” he said through her earbud.

  “Adele wants to know if you want coffee.”

  “Yeah, I heard her. I’d love a cup.”

  “He says yes, he’d love a cup.”

  “Ask him if he wants espresso?”

  “No thanks,” Pete said. “Just regular coffee. Milk and a little sugar. Half a—”

  “Teaspoon,” Trisha finished. They’d been partnering long enough for her to know how he took his coffee as well as his favorite beer (Guinness) and his preferred kind of bagel (poppy seed).

  Adele went to the sink and filled the coffeemaker’s water reservoir. “There’s some rum cake left from dinner. And I think there’s a cannoli in the fridge.”

  “Pretty soon I won’t need to wear this padding the way you’re feeding us, Adele. Lasagna tonight, eggplant and veal parmagian last night, manicotti the night before, sausage sandwiches and peppers-and-eggs sandwiches for lunch. I can’t keep eating like this.”

  “I can,” Pete said.

  Adele spooned ground coffee into the basket. “You can stand a few pounds, Trisha. You’re too skinny. Men like girls with curves. Just ask Pete.”

  Pete cracked up. Trisha wished she could shut him off, but she couldn’t.

  “Who knows? Maybe they do.” Trisha wished Adele would drop the subject of men. Gene Lassiter still hadn’t called her. She snapped another dishtowel off the pile.

  Adele switched on the coffeemaker, then leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “If I’m being a pain-in-the-neck busybody, you can just tell me to shut up and mind my own business, but I have to ask you something.”

  “You can ask me anything, Adele.” Trisha assumed she had a question about Drac and the investigation. She’d had plenty so far.

  “You’ve been looking pretty down in the dumps. Is something wrong?”

  “You mean with the investigation?”

  “No, I mean personally. You don’t look happy.”

  Pete chortled. “Here comes Dear Abby.”

  Trisha frowned. She didn’t like discussing her personal business with anyone, and she knew Adele was angling for a heart-to-heart.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I mean, I’d be a lot happier if we had Drac off the streets, but you know…”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Pete said.

  Shut up, Pete, she thought.

  “Aren’t there any single guys in the FBI? You must meet eligible men at work, no?”

  Trisha shrugged, determined to put a damper on this conversation.

  Adele lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “How about Pete? He’s kind of cute.”

  Pete laughed hysterically.

  I hope you fall off the bed, she thought.

  “Tell her I’m gay,” he said. “I dare you.”

  “There are a lot of nice guys out there,” Adele said. “Don’t give up hope. I’m keeping my eye out for you.”

  “I appreciate that, Adele.”

  Just what I need, Trisha thought.

  “As a matter of fact, I have three fellas in mind I think you should meet.”

  Pete laughed so hard he started to cough.

  “Now you have to be open-minded, Trisha. A good man doesn’t have to look like Brad Pitt. You have to get to know them.”

  Trisha whipped another dishtowel off the pile. She was tempted to tell Adele to mind her own damn business. But Trisha was going to be stuck with her twelve hours a day for the duration of Operation Bear Trap and there was no telling how long that would be. It would make for a pretty miserable assignment if Trisha told her off.

  “The plant manager at my frozen foods factory in Queens. He’s a real doll. Carmine D’Urso is his name. He’s a little bit older but a very nice man. He was born in Italy, but his English is very good. And he’s single. Never been married.”

  “I can see your first date,” Pete said. “Lady and the Tramp slurping up spaghetti. Adele’s spaghetti!”

  Trisha was going to kill him if he didn’t stop laughing.

  “Then I know this guy in the neighborhood,” Adele said. “In fact his name is Guy. He’s a dog walker. Well, actually he’s a novelist, he says. He’s never had anything published, but he seems very sweet. And he’s so good with dogs.”

  More gales of laughter from Pete. “Sounds like a real high achiever, Trisha. Don’t let this one get away.”

  “Then there’s my interior decorator’s son. Very nice young man and always so well dressed. Now I know what you’re thinking—an interior decorator’s kid, he has to be gay. But I really don’t think he is. His mother swears he isn’t.”

  Pete was pounding on the mattress.

  Maybe you’d like to meet this one. Jerk!

  “Now I know a few more possibles, but you should meet these guys first. I can arrange a little dinner party. Invite them all. See which one you like.”

  “Like the Dating Game!” Pete said.

  “Is the coffee ready?” Trisha said, hoping to get Adele off this topic.

  She glanced at the coffeemaker. “Not yet. Now what do you think about this dinner party idea? It would be no bother at all. We can invite Cindy, too. I know what I’ll serve. We’ll start with a nice antipasto—”

  Bzzzzzzz!

  Trisha turned toward the intercom on the wall.

  Pete stopped laughing. “Company?”

  Trisha looked at the pasta clock. “A little late for that.”

  “That’s odd,” Adele said. “I’m not expecting anyone”

  Trisha followed her to the intercom. Adele picked up the receiver, and Trisha leaned in to listen.

  “Mrs. Cardinalli?”

  “Yes, Billy?” Billy was one of the night doormen.

  “There’s a Mr. Lassiter here to see you.”

  What the hell was he doing here? Trisha’s first thought was that she didn’t want to see him, not looking like this. She was sure he’d lost interest in her and seeing him would be very awkward. But then she came to her senses. She was on the job; time to stow her personal problems.

  “What’s going on?” Pete said.

  “The doorman says Gene Lassiter is here to see Adele. She says she wasn’t expecting him.”

  “Well, he does have a friend in the building,” Adele said. “He dropped by once before.”

  “You never told us tha
t.”

  “What’s to tell? He’s a friend, and he’s my money manager. And a very nice young man. He’s someone else you should get to know.”

  “Enough, Adele. This is serious.”

  The older woman looked offended. “What do you mean? I’m just trying to help you.”

  “Mrs. Cardinalli?” Billy the doorman on the intercom. “Should I let him up?”

  Adele looked to Trisha for an answer. She felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach. “Okay, let him in,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay, Billy,” Adele said. “Send him up.” She pressed a button on the keypad next to the intercom that allowed the elevator to come up to the penthouse.

  Trisha looked her in the eye. “Act natural, Adele. He won’t even know we’re here.” She whisked out of the kitchen. “He’s on his way up, Pete. I’m taking my position.”

  She trotted through the living room, her hand on the gun in her pocket to keep it from banging against her thigh. She wasn’t thinking about Gene not being that into her. She was thinking only one thing: Someone was here who shouldn’t be.

  Down in the lobby the elevator doors closed, and Lassiter was relieved to have the doorman’s suspicious eyes off him. He pressed the penthouse button and felt the tug of the elevator ascending. He took off the glasses without lenses and the baseball cap—Boston Red Sox this time—and pulled the wads of Kleenex out of his cheeks, stuffing his disguise into the pockets of his blazer. The spinal needle and plastic tube were tucked under his lapels.

  He stared up at the lighted numbers and heard muted dings as the elevator went from floor to floor.

  Come on, he thought. Come on!

  His hands trembled in his pockets, and his stomach was queasy. His need to kill was a constant gnawing in his groin. He’d never felt this desperate, and that worried him. Was he losing his touch? Except for that one time in San Francisco, he’d never even come close to getting caught. But things had gone terribly wrong, and he blamed Trisha. He wanted her so badly he wasn’t thinking straight. He should never have gone home with that slut Robin. That was just stupid. He had to calm down and get back on track. Trisha was the prize, but he had to save her for later when he could savor every last drop. Bleeding Adele would set him straight and tide him over until he could have Trisha, the appetizer before the entree.

  His eyes were on the numbers. …8… 9 …10… 11….

  “Hello, Adele,” Lassiter said. “I hope this isn’t too late to be stopping by. I’m not interrupting your card game again, am I?”

  “No, no, we only play on Fridays. I’m on my own tonight. Come in. Want coffee?”

  “Too late for me. I’ll be up all night.”

  “Visiting that friend of yours in the building?”

  “Ah… yeah. Friend of a friend actually. But now we’re friends.”

  “Oh… that’s nice.”

  Trisha stood in the hallway closet with her back to the coats, the door closed, listening to them. What the hell is he doing here? she wondered. What does he want?

  Pete’s voice through her ear bud: “Is that Lassiter?”

  She tapped on the transmitter twice, their signal for yes. She couldn’t talk. Adele and Gene were just a few feet away on the other side of the door.

  She was sweating bullets, and not just because it was stuffy in the closet. She didn’t want to believe that Gene could be a suspect, but he’d walked into their stakeout unannounced so for the moment that made him one. She hoped he’d make this visit short and just leave. She didn’t want have to face him. Ever.

  “You know, I was just thinking about you, Gene,” Adele said.

  “Oh?”

  “You know Cindy McCleery’s sister? Trisha? She’s such a nice girl, and from what I understand, she’s unattached. I was thinking she’d be perfect for you.”

  Trisha felt as if someone had dropped a bowling ball on her stomach. Enough, Adele! Stop!

  Lassiter smiled, ignoring the pitch for Trisha. “You know, Adele, I’d love a glass of water. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Of course, Gene. No trouble at all. This way.”

  He followed her as she walked to the kitchen, focusing on her hair. She wore it in a flip that covered the nape of her neck, a style that a younger woman would wear. A Natalie or a Trisha. His eyes roved around the apartment, checking to make sure they were alone this time.

  “So you’re by yourself tonight,” he said.

  “I’m afraid so. Inez’s day off.”

  And your driver? he thought. He wouldn’t be around unless she was going out, which she obviously wasn’t dressed in her robe. The gnawing inside of him became a delicious titillation. The way was clear.

  He walked through the dining area and into the kitchen. Adele was at the refrigerator, filling a glass with ice cubes. A green glass bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water was on the counter.

  “Tap water is fine,” he said.

  “This is better.” She lifted the quart bottle. “Everything Italian is better.” She laughed at her own silly comment and he joined in, but his thoughts were on her eyes. They crinkled when she laughed. So did Trisha’s. Natalie’s eyes probably did too, but she hadn’t done any laughing when they’d met. He’d never noticed this about Adele, and it was a welcome surprise. It made it easier to overlook the iridescent green eye shadow and the fact that her eyes weren’t blue.

  She poured from the bottle. He stared at her heavy breasts beneath the robe. He’d done big-breasted women before. Even a borderline obese woman in Chicago. It didn’t make much difference in terms of getting the needle in.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing him the glass.

  He sipped the effervescent water, the ice chilling his tongue. He stared at the bottle. It was mostly full. Heavy enough to knock her out. He’d drink half of what was in his glass, then help himself to a refill. But instead of pouring, he’d grab the bottle by the neck and bash her over the head with it. Stun her with the first blow, then do it again if he had to. He wanted her disoriented but not unconscious. If she could walk, all the better. He wouldn’t have to drag her.

  He took a gulp, then checked the level in his glass. He took another gulp.

  “You hungry?” she asked. “I can make you a sandwich. I have some leftover chicken parmagian’.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I just had dinner a little while ago.” He sipped some more. He was almost halfway down. In his mind he could feel the thud of the bottle hitting her head. He’d used a wine bottle once. It didn’t break. The hair and scalp cushioned the blow. That’s why he might have to hit her twice.

  He took one more sip, ready to make his move. But then he noticed something on the counter right behind her. A rolling pin. A marble rolling pin on a wooden stand to keep it from rolling. How appropriate, he thought. The Ravioli Queen always brags that she makes her own pasta from scratch. With that very rolling pin no doubt. He took another sip. All he had to do was go to the counter for more water, grab the rolling pin, and BAM!—he was in business.

  “It’s awfully quiet out there,” Pete whispered through the transmitter.

  “I think they’re in the kitchen,” Trisha whispered back. “I can hear them talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

  “Think you should check it out?”

  She was tempted to say no, that Gene was harmless, let him just leave on his own, but in this situation no one should be considered harmless. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, her reluctance to leave the closet was her fear of embarrassment. She had a perfectly good reason for being there dressed this way, but it would still be humiliating if he saw her. And she could probably kiss goodbye any slim chance she might have had with him.

  “Trisha,” Pete whispered. “You gonna check this out or what?”

  “Give it a minute. Maybe he’
ll just leave.”

  Lassiter drank most of the water in his glass. “I was thirstier than I thought,” he said. “Mind if I take a little more.”

  “Sure, of course.” Adele reached out to take the glass, but he was already on his way to the counter to help himself.

  He picked up the bottle and started to pour. He could feel his conscious brain shutting down the way it always did whenever he got to this point. He was on autopilot, energy for the kill throbbing through his veins. Images flashed in his head, the steps he had to take. The bottle, the rolling pin, Adele’s head, her bed, bras, scarves, belts, the needle, the tube…

  Adele leaned against on the counter, just an arm’s length away. The rolling pin was behind her. He picked it up and felt its weight in his hand. It was heavier than he’d expected. He’d have to be careful not to kill her.

  “Ah, Gene? Can I help you with something?” Adele sounded nervous. Fear flickered in her eyes.

  Something wasn’t right. He smelled coffee. Fresh brewed. He scanned the counter tops and spotted a coffeemaker by the sink, its red light glowing. The glass pot was full. Eight, maybe twelve cups. Why so much?

  “I thought you said no one was here.” He tightened his grip on the rolling pin.

  “I… I said my girl was off tonight.” Adele’s hands shook. “Gene, put that down. It’s very heavy. You’re making me nervous.”

  She was hiding something. Fury took control of him. He raised the rolling pin, intent on punishing her for lying to him.

  “Gene! No!” She raised her pudgy hands to protect her face.

  He grabbed her upper arm to hold her steady, the rolling pin over his head. “Adele, you should never have—”

  “Stop! Drop it!”

  He whipped his head toward the doorway. Someone was in the dining area just on the other side of the doorway. A paunchy woman in an ugly yellow housedress. She held a gun pointed at him, held it in both hands the way cops do on TV.