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Liz saw the crowd outside her apartment building as soon as she turned the corner from the bus stop. Her mouth went dry and her stomach lurched in horrified recognition. Her hands cradled her waist.
"Oh no! Please, no!"
She wasn't sure if she spoke aloud. Blood drummed in her ears, cutting off sound. Inside her silent world, the lights of the squad cars flashed with hypnotic brilliance, glazing the falling snow with orange glitter. One, two, three. Three whirling lights. Three blue-and-white Denver police cars.
Last time, in Seattle, they'd only sent two.
Liz read the neat copperplate inscription on the door of the car nearest her: To Serve and Protect. A great motto, much favored by police departments. It looked so much better than To Harass and Intimidate.
Her gaze raced feverishly over the neon-lit scene. Two dozen spectators, three squad cars, a half-dozen cops - but no ambulance.
No ambulance, and no paramedics. Hope flared briefly. Maybe this time there never had been an ambulance. Maybe the police were here to investigate a burglary. Liz started running.
She saw the chalk outline on the pavement as soon as she'd elbowed her way through the crowd. The spring snow wasn't settling, and the chalk shone white and clean in the evening darkness, a wet gingerbread figure sketched on asphalt. A child's drawing, except for the blood.
Fear clawed at her throat. Liz swayed, grasping the police barricade for support. Dear God, it had happened again.
"You sure missed a horrible sight," commented the woman next to her. "They only moved the body ten minutes ago. The side of her face was smashed right in from where she fell. Terrible tragedy." The conventional words of grief didn't succeed in masking the relish in the woman's voice.
Liz fought to control the sickness welling up inside her. "Was it a young wo - ? Do they know who it was?"
"A girl from one of the apartments. Look, you can see the open window up there on the top floor. That's where she fell from. Or jumped."
Liz didn't look up; she didn't need to. Her stomach gave another warning heave, and she pushed through the barricade, barely making it to the corner of her apartment building before she vomited.
When she finally stopped retching, she straightened to discover herself surrounded by three uniformed police officers. One of them - a sergeant - held out a wad of tissues. She wiped her mouth. The policemen watched, their eyes hard.
"The victim a friend of yours, Miss?" The inquiry was polite but cold.
"Maybe.... I think so.... I don't know.... I live here."
"Terrible for you to come home to all this." The sergeant's voice had warmed, now that he knew she wasn't just an overcurious bystander with a weak stomach. "Which apartment is yours? I'll see that the officer guarding the entrance lets you in."
She glanced up, finally allowing herself to look at the open window, a big bay in the center of the sixth floor. It was hers, of course. Hers and Karen Zeit's. She had known all along that it would be.
"I live in 6B," she said flatly, returning her gaze to the ball of soiled tissues.
She felt the policemen exchange glances. She closed her eyes, shoving the tissues into the pocket of her jacket and wrapping her arms more tightly around her body. She was shivering, she realized, and the little clicking noise resonating inside her head had to be the chattering of her teeth.
"You'd better come along inside and get warm."
She forced herself to look at the sergeant.
"What's happened to Karen?"
"There's been an accident," he replied, his voice gruff. His two younger colleagues shuffled their feet and stared over her shoulder. They were worried, poor things. Worried about how a law-abiding citizen was going to take this shocking intrusion of violence into her life. It wasn't true that cops had no emotions. Liz had found that out in Seattle. The first time, when Brian died, they'd all been very sympathetic.
This time, once they knew the truth, they weren't likely to waste much time on sympathy. Some bright-eyed cop, eager for promotion, would check with the authorities in Seattle, and Liz would instantaneously be transformed from victim into suspect. Being a suspect was no fun at all. She'd found that out when Jill killed herself, only four short weeks after Brian.
She needed to know the worst about Karen, to have the horror confirmed. "Is my roommate dead?" she asked brusquely.
The sergeant made soothing noises, avoiding her eyes. He put a hand beneath her elbow, guiding her toward the rear entrance of the apartment building. "I think we should talk about this inside, where it's a bit warmer. Lousy weather for May, isn't it? But that's Denver for you. Swimsuit temperatures one day and a blizzard the next. If you'll follow me, I'll ask the apartment manager to make you a cup of coffee."
Liz allowed herself to be led in through the service lobby and down to the basement where the superintendent had his apartment. She sat meekly at the appointed table and waited in silence while one of the policemen brought her a cup of coffee.
Dear God, Karen is dead. Dead . The awful word echoed in a bleak rhythm with her chattering teeth.
The policemen didn't ask how she wanted her coffee served, and presented it already laced with milk and sugar. The oily liquid tasted revolting enough to jerk her into renewed awareness of her surroundings. The sergeant had disappeared, to be replaced by a tall man, wearing a raincoat that was a fraction too tight. A homicide detective: she'd learned to recognize the breed. She wondered how long he'd been standing on the other side of the Formica-topped table, staring at her.
"I'm Lieutenant Rodriguez," he said, flashing a badge and a small smile. Three months ago, she would have found the smile reassuring. Now she knew better. She blinked her eyelids, the only part of her that seemed capable of movement.
"I'm sorry you had to find out about your roommate this way."
"She's dead," Liz said flatly. "Isn't she?"
"I'm afraid so. If it's any consolation, Miss Meacham, I'm sure your roommate died instantly."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Veils of Deceit by Jasmine Cresswell B.J. Daniels Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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