Mr. Perfect Read online

  The facts were as Mr. Geurin had stated them. From 11:34 P.M. Thursday night until 3:41 P.M. Sunday afternoon, Mr. Geurin had been in jail.

  As an alibi, it was tough to beat.

  Ms. Dean had last been seen alive when she and her three friends left Ernie’s on Friday night. Given the condition of the body and the progression of rigor mortis, factored in with the temperature in the climate-controlled house, Ms. Dean had been killed some time Friday night or Saturday morning.

  Mr. Geurin, however, was not the killer.

  That simple fact presented the detective with a more difficult puzzle than he had first assumed. If Mr. Geurin hadn’t done it, who had? So far they hadn’t turned up any other romantic relationships, no frustrated lover enraged by her refusal to leave Mr. Geurin. Since she and Mr. Geurin had, in effect, broken off their relationship on Thursday night, that theory didn’t fly anyway.

  But the attack had been a very personal one, characterized by rage, overkill, and the attempt to blot out the victim’s identity. The stab wounds were postmortem; the hammer blows had killed her, but the killer had still been in a rage and had resorted to the knife. The wounds had bled very little, indicating that her heart was no longer beating when she received them. The sexual attack had also been postmortem.

  Marci Dean had known her killer, had probably let him into the house, since there were no signs of forced entry. With Mr. Geurin out of the picture, the detective was back to square one.

  He would have to retrace her steps Friday night, he thought. Start at Ernie’s. Where had she gone from there? Had she hit a bar or two, maybe picked up some guy and taken him home with her?

  His brow creased in thought, he returned to Mr. Geurin, who was slumped in the chair with his eyes closed. He sat up when Detective Bernsen entered the room.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Detective Bernsen said politely. “I’ll arrange a ride for you if you need it.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you wanted to ask me? What’s this about?”

  Detective Bernsen hesitated. If there was one thing he hated doing, it was bearing the news of death. He could remember an army chaplain coming to the door in 1968 and advising the detective’s mother that her husband wouldn’t be returning alive from Vietnam. The memory of grief was seared on his brain.

  But Mr. Geurin had been put to some trouble in this matter and deserved an explanation. “Ms. Dean was attacked in her home—”

  “Marci?” Mr. Geurin sat upright, suddenly alert, his entire manner changed. “Is she hurt? Is she all right?”

  Detective Bernsen hesitated again, caught by one of those uncomfortable insights into human emotion. “I’m sorry,” he said as gently as possible, knowing the news would be more upsetting than he had previously supposed. “Ms. Dean didn’t survive the attack.”

  “Didn’t survive? You mean she … she’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry,” the detective said again.

  Brick Geurin sat stunned for a moment, then slowly began to collapse. He buried his unshaven face in his hands and sobbed.

  Her sister, Shelley, arrived on Jaine’s doorstep before seven the next morning. “I wanted to catch you before you went to work,” she said briskly when Jaine opened the kitchen door.

  “I’m not going to work today.” Jaine automatically took another cup from the cabinet and filled it with coffee, then passed it to Shelley. What now? She didn’t feel up to dealing with sisterly outrage.

  Shelley set the cup on the table and put her arms around Jaine, holding her close. “I didn’t hear about Marci until I caught the morning news, and I came right over. Are you okay?”

  Tears stung Jaine’s eyes again, when she had thought she couldn’t possibly cry any more. She should have been all cried out. “I’m okay,” she said. She hadn’t slept much, hadn’t eaten much, and felt as if only half her cylinders were firing, but she was dealing. As much as Marci’s death hurt now, she knew she’d get through this. The old saw about time marching on was an old saw precisely because it was so true.

  Shelley held her at arm’s length, studying her colorless face and raw, swollen eyes. “I brought a cucumber,” she said. “Sit down.”

  A cucumber? “Why?” Jaine asked warily. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Put slices on your eyes, silly,” Shelley said in exasperation. She often sounded exasperated when dealing with Jaine. “It’ll make the swelling go down.”

  “I have some eye pads for that.”

  “Cucumbers are better. Sit down.”

  Because she was so tired, Jaine sat. She watched as Shelley took an enormous cucumber out of her shoulder bag and washed it, then looked around. “Where are your knives?”

  “I don’t know. One of the drawers.”

  “You don’t know where your knives are?”

  “Please. I haven’t lived here even a month yet. How long did it take you to get unpacked when you and Al moved?”

  “Well, let’s see, we moved eight years ago, so … eight years.” Humor sparkled in Shelley’s eyes as she began methodically opening and closing cabinet drawers.

  There was one hard rap on the kitchen door; then it opened before she could get up. Sam stepped into the kitchen. “I saw a strange car and came over to make sure no reporters were bothering you,” he said to Jaine. Legions of reporters had called the night before, including representatives from all four major television networks.

  Shelley turned around with the huge cucumber in her hand. “Who are you?” she asked bluntly.

  “Her neighbor the cop,” Sam said. He eyed the cucumber. “Have I interrupted something?”

  Jaine wanted to hit him, but she didn’t have the energy. Still, something in her lightened at his presence. “She’s going to put it on my eyes.”

  He gave her a sideways, you-gotta-be-kidding look. “It’ll roll off.”

  She decided she would definitely hit him. Later. “Cucumber slices.”

  His expression changed to skeptical, I-wanna-see-this. He went to the cabinet and took down another cup and poured himself some coffee. Lounging against the cabinets with his long legs crossed, he waited.

  Shelley turned to Jaine, more than a little bemused. “Who is this?” she demanded.

  “My neighbor,” Jaine said. “Shelley, this is Sam Donovan. Sam, my sister, Shelley.”

  He held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Shelley shook hands, but she looked as if she didn’t want to. She resumed looking for a knife. “You live here three weeks, and you already have a neighbor who just walks in and knows where your coffee cups are?”

  “I’m a detective,” Sam told her, grinning. “It’s my job to find out stuff.”

  Shelley gave him her Queen Victoria look, the one that said she was not amused.

  Jaine thought about getting up and hugging him, just because he made her feel better. She didn’t know what she would have done without him yesterday. He had been a rock, standing like a wall between her and all the phone calls, and when Sam told someone to stop calling, there was a note in his voice that made people pay attention.

  But he wouldn’t be there today, she realized. He was dressed for work, in light tan slacks and a crisp white shirt. His pager was clipped to his belt, and his pistol rode on his right kidney Shelley kept eyeing him as if he were some exotic species, only half her attention on finding a knife.

  She finally opened the correct drawer, though, and pulled out a paring knife.

  “Oh,” Jaine said with mild interest. “So that’s where they are.”

  Shelley turned to face Sam, knife in one hand and cucumber in the other. “Are you sleeping together?” she asked in a hostile tone.

  “Shelley!” Jaine said sharply.

  “Not yet,” Sam said with utter confidence.

  Silence fell in the kitchen. Shelley began peeling the cucumber with short, vicious strokes of the knife.

  “You don’t look much like sisters,” Sam observed, as if he hadn’t just stoppe