Someone to Watch Over Me

“You called DMV on your cell phone?” Shrader mocked. “The phone that doesn’t work up here in the mountains?”

“The very same one,” Sam admitted with a smile as the elevator doors opened. “Mrs. Manning needed some sort of explanation for her husband’s absence, and that was the most reassuring one I could think of at the moment.”

The lobby of Good Samaritan Hospital was deserted except for two maintenance men who were polishing the terrazzo floor. Shrader raised his voice to be heard above the noisy machines. “If you’re going to get all soft and gooey every time you talk to a victim’s family, you won’t last two months in Homicide, Littleton.”

“I’ve made it two weeks already,” she replied brightly.

“If you hadn’t transferred to Homicide, I’d be back at the Eighteen, doing my job instead of sitting on my ass up here.”

“Maybe, but if I hadn’t transferred, I would never have had the chance to work with someone like you.”

Shrader shot her a suspicious glance, searching for signs of sarcasm, but her smile was perfectly pleasant. “Logan Manning doesn’t even qualify as a missing-person case. He’s a misplaced person.”

“And you think it’s my fault that Captain Holland sent us up here?”

“You’re damned right.” He pushed his shoulder against the exit door, and the blast of arctic wind nearly blew both of them back a step. “The Mannings are VIPs. The mayor and Commissioner Trumanti are both personal friends of theirs, so Holland decided he’d better send someone ‘with social polish’ to deal with Mrs. Manning.”

Sam treated that like a joke. “And he thinks I have it?”

“That’s what he said.”

“So, why did he send you along?”

“Just in case there was any actual work that needed to be done.” Shrader waited for her to return his insult, and when she didn’t, he began to feel like a bad-tempered jerk. To even out the score, he poked fun at himself. “And also because he thinks I have a great ass.”

“Did he say that, too?”

“No, but I saw him checking me out.”

Sam couldn’t help laughing. Shrader knew his appearance was anything but attractive; in fact, it was downright daunting to strangers. Although he was only five feet six, he had massive shoulders that were disproportionately large for his short body and that complemented his thick neck, square head with wide jowls, and piercing deep-set brown-black eyes. When he scowled, he reminded Sam of an angry rottweiler. When he wasn’t scowling, he still reminded Sam of a rottweiler. Privately, she’d nicknamed him “Shredder.”

Back upstairs, on the third floor of the hospital, a young doctor was standing at the foot of Leigh’s bed, reading her chart. He left quietly, closing the door behind him. The additional morphine he’d ordered was already seeping through Leigh’s veins, dulling the physical ache that suffused her body. She sought refuge from the torment in her mind by thinking about the last night she’d spent with Logan, when everything had seemed so perfect and the future had seemed so bright. Saturday night. Her birthday. And the opening night of Jason Solomon’s new play.

Logan had given a huge party afterward to celebrate both occasions. . . .

Chapter 2

* * *

Bravo! Bravo!” Six curtain calls and the applause was still at a deafening roar. The cast was lined up onstage, taking their bows one at a time, but when Leigh stepped forward, the cheers rose to a wild crescendo. The houselights were up, and Leigh could see Logan in the front row, on his feet, clapping and cheering with enthusiastic pride. She smiled at him, and he gave her a thumbs-up.

When the curtains closed, she walked to the wings where Jason was standing, his face beaming with triumph. “We’re a smash hit, Jason!” she said, giving him a hug.

“Let’s take another bow, just you and me this time,” he said.

Jason would have taken curtain calls all night until the last theatergoer left his seat. “Nope,” Leigh said with a grin. “We’ve both taken enough bows.”

He tugged on her hand, a happy thirty-five-year-old child—brilliant, insecure, sensitive, selfish, loyal, temperamental, kind. “C’mon, Leigh,” he cajoled. “Just one more little bow. We deserve it.” The crowd began chanting, “Author! Author!” and his grin widened. “They really want to see me again.”

He was in an ecstatic mood, and Leigh looked at him with a mixture of maternal understanding and awe. Jason Solomon could dazzle her at times with his intellect, hurt her with his insensitivity, and warm her with his gentleness. Those who didn’t know him thought of him as a glamorous eccentric. Those who knew him better generally regarded Jason as a brilliant, irritating egocentric. To Leigh, who knew him, and loved him, he was a complete dichotomy.

“Listen to that applause,” he said, tugging on her hand. “Let’s go out there . . .”

Helpless to resist him in this mood, Leigh relented, but stepped back. “Go for it,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”

Instead of releasing her hand, he tightened his grip and dragged her with him. She was off balance when they emerged from the wings, and her surprised resistance was plain to see. The moment of unplanned confusion struck the crowd as wonderful. It made the two biggest names on Broadway seem endearingly human, and the riotous applause was joined with shouts of laughter.

Jason would have tried to coax her into taking yet another bow after that one, but Leigh freed her hand this time and turned away, laughing. “Don’t forget the old adage—” she reminded him over her shoulder, “Always leave them wanting more.”

“That’s a cliché,” he retorted indignantly.

“But true, nonetheless.”

He hesitated a moment, then followed her backstage, down a hallway crowded with elated cast and busy crew members, who were all trying to congratulate and thank each other. Jason and Leigh stopped several times to participate in the congratulatory hugging.

“I told you the twenty-eighth was always my lucky day.”

“You were right,” Leigh agreed. Jason insisted on opening all his plays on the twenty-eighth including Blind Spot, even though as a general rule, Broadway plays did not open on Saturdays.

“I feel like champagne,” Jason announced as they finally neared Leigh’s dressing room.

“So do I, but I need to change clothes and get this makeup off right away. We have a party to attend, and I’d like to get there before midnight.”

A theater critic was congratulating the play’s director, and Jason watched him closely for a moment. “No one will mind if we’re late.”

“Jason,” Leigh reminded him with amused patience, “I’m the guest of honor. I should make an effort to get there before the party is over.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed, dragging his gaze from the critic. He followed her into her flower-filled dressing room, where the dresser was waiting to help Leigh out of the cheap cotton skirt and blouse she’d been wearing in the last act.

“Who are these from?” Jason asked, strolling over to a gigantic basket of huge white orchids. “They must have cost a fortune.”

Leigh glanced at the immense bouquet. “I don’t know.”

“There’s a card attached,” Jason said, already reaching for the florist’s envelope. “Shall I read it?”

“Could I stop you?” Leigh joked. Jason’s nosiness was legendary. Behind the folding screen, Leigh stepped out of her clothes and into a robe; then she hurried over to her dressing table and sat down in front of the big lighted mirror.

With the open envelope in his hand, Jason caught her gaze in the mirror and gave her a sly smile. “You’ve evidently acquired a serious suitor with big bucks. Come clean, darling, who is he? You know you can trust me with your sordid secrets.”