Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(59)

“Dear sweet God in heaven.” Her voice was shocked, breathless. “I think I know what’s been going on and who’s after me.” She drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I think I witnessed a murder.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The trembling wouldn’t stop. Suzanne put a hand to her mouth, and then wrapped her arms around herself. She was cold down to her core. She looked helplessly at John. He was standing against the open doorway, his big naked body outlined by the light. She could see the gleam of his erect penis, still wet from her.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, she’d been tensing against his penis, feeling the waves of an orgasm building and the next, she’d been pushing at John’s shoulders, eager to get him off her. Just like that, a switch had been thrown.

She could still hear the smooth baritone of the announcer’s voice. She wouldn’t have paid any attention, normally, but it had been so lovely to feel John’s body moving in hers, while the graceful notes of “Amazing Grace” moved in her head. When the music stopped, she was still listening.

“This is Loren Bannister with some breaking news. The brutally beaten body of a Portland woman, Marissa Carson, was found today. The authorities say she was murdered sometime in the afternoon of the twenty-second of December. The woman lay unnoticed in her apartment until a neighbor, returning from a business trip, noticed her dog barking constantly. The neighbor called the police.

“Marissa Carson’s husband, businessman Peter Carson, who has just returned from a two-week vacation in Aruba, is cooperating with the authorities.”

John had pulled on his jeans, leaving them unzipped. He walked barefoot toward her, clutching her arms in a grip that almost, but not quite, hurt. He shook her. “What’s going on, Suzanne? What the hell do you mean—you saw a murder?”

Suzanne opened her mouth, but felt a sob about to come out. She snapped her mouth closed and shook her head. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. It was a mantra in her head. She swallowed heavily, bile rising in her throat. “I haven’t seen a TV here. Do you have one?”

His jaws clenched, but he didn’t blink at the change of subject. “No.”

“Oh.” Suzanne thought furiously. She needed to know—“Do you have a computer with internet access?”

He studied her for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod of his head. “Follow me.”

Follow me sounded odd when applied to a tiny shack. Still, she followed his broad back into the living room then watched, astounded, as he moved a throw rug aside, put his thumb to a screen and a piece of the floor simply rose up on silent hydraulics. It was connected to a steel ladder angling downwards.

He had another room downstairs, and she hadn’t even suspected. He took the lead and she followed him down the rungs of the ladder to stand under a harsh neon light, blinking. The room’s perimeters were the perimeters of the whole shack, so it was fairly large. It was bristling with electronics, blue steel, brushed aluminum. Suzanne didn’t know much about computer technology but she knew enough to realize that she was looking at tens of thousands of dollars of top-of-the-line equipment. No wonder upstairs had felt so bleak and abandoned. The heart of the house was here, gleaming metal, blinking lights, the hum of technology.

John was unfolding a sleek ultra thin laptop. He punched a few keys and with a beep, the screen was filled with the logo of a famous search engine. He looked at her, waiting. His expression was still.

“Can you find a news site, something local?” Suzanne doubted whether the murder would have made any of the major news sites, like CNN. It had to be local.

John nodded and logged onto an unfamiliar site. It had what she wanted, though.

“Click here.” She pointed at the screen and John obeyed. She was glad he wasn’t plying her with questions, because she wasn’t sure how cogent she could be. A new page blinked on and there it was—Portland Woman Bludgeoned to Death. Suzanne pointed at the screen again. He clicked and up came a studio portrait of Marissa, which she recognized from having seen it in Marissa’s living room.

“I was in that woman’s apartment the afternoon she was murdered. She was a client. I might be the last person to see her alive.” She reached past John to scroll down to the photograph of the husband, Peter Carson, being interviewed at the airport on his arrival from Aruba. “Except for him. He wasn’t in Aruba, John. He was in Portland, and I saw him going into Marissa’s house the afternoon she was killed.” She laid a hand on his massive shoulder and squeezed. “He killed her.”





Fuck.

John stared at the computer screen. He was used to tactical and strategic thinking and he saw it all, plain as the chart of a Civil War battlefield. He saw every move and what every move entailed. He saw the steps that had to be taken and the consequences.

He also saw that this was the end of her life, as she knew it. And his. He leaned back, feeling old and tired, knowing what was ahead.

“Peter Carson.” He looked up at Suzanne. She was pale, a few lines of stress etched on her forehead. There’d be more—lots more—before this was over. “What do you know about him? And about his wife?”

Suzanne took one of his camp chairs, unfolded it, and sat down. “I don’t know Peter Carson at all. I never met him, except for when I saw him on the twenty-second, as I told you. His wife is—was—a client of mine. I was called in to redecorate her home and we spent some time together going over the design. She was difficult, always changing her mind, so I probably saw her a few times more than I would have a normal client. She wasn’t a particularly nice woman. I never saw her husband. I just saw photographs of him everywhere in Marissa’s apartment. Or rather…his pictures were everywhere until the last time I was there. On the twenty-second. The day she died.”