Page 32 of Convincing Alex (Stanislaskis #4)

Judd flexed his hand on the steering wheel as he turned on West Seventy-sixth. He wasn’t nervous this time. He was eager.

The idea of bringing Wilson J. Tremayne III—a U.S. senator’s grandson—in for questioning in the murders of four women had

him chafing at the bit.

They had him, Judd thought. He knew they had the creep. The artist’s sketch, the blood type, the voiceprint. It had been quick

work on that, he mused. Flavored with luck. Bess’s tape had been one of those twisted aspects of police work that never failed

to fascinate him.

It was Trilwalter who’d identified Tremayne from the sketch. Judd remembered that the boss had taken a long, hard look at

the artist’s rendering and then ordered Alex to the newspaper morgue. The desk clerk had picked the reprint of Tremayne’s

newspaper picture from a choice of five.

From there, Alex had used a connection at one of the local television stations and had finessed a videotape of Tremayne campaigning

for his grandfather. The lab boys had jumped right on it, and had matched the voice to the one on Bess’s tape.

It still made him queasy to think about what had been on that tape, but that was something he didn’t want to show to Alex.

Just as he knew better than to let Alex spot his eagerness now.

“So,” he said casually, “you think the Yankees have got a shot this year?”

Alex didn’t even glance over. He could all but taste his partner’s excitement. “When a cop starts licking his lips, he forgets

things. Miranda rights, probable cause, makes all kinds of little procedural mistakes that help slime ooze out of courtrooms

and back onto the street.”

Judd clenched his jaw. “I’m not licking my lips.”

“Malloy, you’ll be drooling any minute.” Alex looked over at the beautiful old building while Judd hunted up a parking space.

The Gothic touches appealed to him, as did the tall, narrow windows and the scattering of terrace gardens. Tremayne lived

on the top floor, in a plush two-level condo with a view of the park and a uniformed doorman downstairs.

He came and went as he pleased, wearing his Italian suits and his Swiss watch.

And four women were dead.

“Don’t take it personally,” Alex said when they got out of the car. “Stanislaski’s rule number five.”

But Judd was getting good, very good, at reading his partner. “You want him as bad as I do.”

Alex looked over, his eyes meeting, then locking on Judd’s. There wasn’t eagerness in them or excitement or even satisfaction.

They were all cold fury. “So let’s go get the bastard.”

They flashed their badges for the doorman, then rode partway up in the elevator with a plump middle-aged woman and her yipping

schnauzer. Alex glanced up and spotted the security camera in the corner. It might come in handy, he thought. The DA would

have to subpoena the tapes for the nights of the murders. If they were dated and timed, so much the better. But, if not, they

would still show Tremayne going and coming.

The schnauzer got off at four. They continued on to eight. Side by side, they approached 8B.

Though the door was thick, Alex could hear the strains of an aria from Aida coming from the apartment. He’d never cared much for opera, but he’d liked this particular one. He wondered if it would be

spoiled for him now. He rang the buzzer.

He had to ring it a second time before Tremayne answered. Alex recognized him. It was almost as though they were old friends

now that Alex had pored over the newspaper shots and stories, the videotape. And, of course, he knew his voice. Knew it when

it was calm, when it was amused and when it was darkly, sickly, thrilled.

Dressed in a thick velour robe that matched his china-blue eyes, Tremayne stood dripping, rubbing a thick monogrammed towel

over his fair hair.

“Wilson J. Tremayne?”

“That’s right.” Tremayne glanced pleasantly from face to face. He didn’t have the street sense to smell cop. “I’m afraid you’ve

caught me at a bad time.”

“Yes, sir.” Never taking his eyes off Tremayne’s, Alex took out his badge. “Detectives Stanislaski and Malloy.”

“Detectives?” Tremayne’s voice was bland, only mildly curious, but Alex saw the flicker. “Don’t tell me my secretary forgot

to pay my parking tickets again.”

“You’ll have to get dressed, Mr. Tremayne.” Still watching, Alex replaced his shield. “We’d like you to come with us.”

“With you?” Tremayne eased backward a step. Judd noted that his hand eased down toward the doorknob, closed over it. Knuckles

whitened. “I’m afraid that would be very inconvenient. I have a dinner engagement.”

“You’ll want to cancel that,” Alex said. “This may take a while.”

“Detective—?”

“Stanislaski.”

“Ah, Stanislaski. Do you know who I am?”

Because it suited him, because he wanted it, Alex let Tremayne see the knowledge. “I know exactly who you are, Jack.” Alex

allowed himself one quick flash of pleasure at the fear that leaped into Tremayne’s eyes. “We’re going downtown, Mr. Tremayne.

Your presence is requested for questioning on the murders of four women. Mary Rodell.” His voice grew quieter, more dangerous,

on each name. “Angie Horowitz, Crystal LaRue and Rosalie Hood. You’re free to call your attorney.”

“This is absurd.”

Alex slapped a hand on the door before Tremayne could slam it shut. “We can take you in as you are—and give your neighbors

a thrill. Or you can get dressed.”

Alex saw the quick panic and was braced even as Tremayne turned to run. He knew better—sure he did—but it felt so damn good

to body-slam the man up against that silk-papered wall. A small, delicate statue tipped from its niche and bounced on the

carpet. When he hauled Tremayne up by the lapels, he saw the gold chain, the dangling heart with a crack running through it

that was the twin of the one they had in evidence. And he saw the fresh white bandage that neatly covered the wounds Rosalie

had inflicted as she fought for her life.

“Give me a reason.” Alex leaned in close. “I’d love it.”

“I’ll have your badges.” Tears began to leak out of Tremayne’s eyes as he slid to the floor. “My grandfather will have your

badges.”

In disgust, Alex stood over him. “Go find him some pants,” he said to Judd. “I’ll read him his rights.”

With a nod, Judd started for the bedroom. “Don’t take it personally, Stanislaski.”

Alex glanced over with something that was almost a smile. “Kiss off, Malloy.”

They had him cold, Alex thought as he turned into Bess’s building. They could call out every fancy lawyer on the East Coast,

and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. The physical evidence was overwhelming—particularly since they’d found the murder weapon

in the nightstand drawer.

Opportunity was unlikely to be a problem, and as for motive—he’d leave that up to the shrinks. Undoubtedly they’d cop an insanity

plea. Maybe they’d even pull it off. One way or the other, he was off the streets.

It went a long way toward easing the bitterness he’d felt over Rosalie’s death. He hoped it helped Bess with her grief.

He’d nearly called her from the station, but he’d wanted to tell her face-to-face. As he waited for the elevator, he shifted

the bunch of lilacs he held. Maybe it was a weird time to bring her flowers, but he thought she needed them.

Stepping into the car, he tucked a hand in his pocket and felt the jeweler’s box. It was even a weirder time to propose marriage.

But he knew he needed it.

It scared him just how much he’d come to depend on having her with him. To talk to him, to listen to him, to make him laugh.

To make love with him. He knew he was rushing things, but he justified it by assuring himself that if he got her to marry

him quickly enough, she wouldn’t have time to change her mind.

She believed she was in love with him. After they were committed, emotionally and legally, he would take as much time as necessary

to make certain it was true.

The elevator opened, and Alex dug for his keys. They’d order in tonight, he decided. Put on some music, light some candles.

He grimaced as he fit the key into the lock. No, she’d probably had that routine before, and he’d be damned if he’d follow

someone else’s pattern. He’d have to think of something else.

He opened the door with his arms full of nodding lilacs, his mind racing to think of some clever, innovative way to ask Bess

to be his wife. The color went out of his face and turned his eyes to midnight. He felt something slam into his chest. It

was like being shot.

She was standing in the center of the room, her laughter just fading away. In another man’s arms, her mouth just retreating

from another man’s lips.

“Charlie, I—” She heard the sound of the door and turned. The bright, beaming smile on her face froze, then faded away like

the laughter. “Alexi.”

“I guess I should have knocked.” His voice was dead calm. Viciously calm.

“No, of course not.” There were butterflies in her stomach, and their wings were razor-sharp. “Charlie, this is Alexi. I’ve

told you about him.”

“Sure. Think I met you at Bess’s last party.” Lanky, long-haired and obviously oblivious to the tension throbbing in the air,

he gave Bess’s shoulders a squeeze. “She gives the best.”

Alex set the flowers aside. One fragile bloom fell from the table and was ignored. “So I’ve heard.”

“Well, I’ve got to be going.” Charlie bent to give Bess another kiss. Alex’s hands clenched. “You won’t let me down?”

“Of course not.” She worked up a smile, grateful that Charlie was too preoccupied to sense the falseness of it. “You know

how happy I am for you, Charlie. I’ll be in touch.”

He went out cheerfully, calling out a last farewell before he shut the door. In the silence, Alex noticed the music for the

first time. Violins and flutes whispered out of her stereo. Very romantic, he thought, and his teeth clenched like his fists.

“Well.” Her eyes were burning dry, though her heart was weeping. “I can see I should explain.” She walked over to the wine