Mr. Perfect Read online

  Jaine sat upright, a chill roughening her bare skin. “She isn’t answering? How long have you been trying to call?”

  “Since eight, I guess. About three hours.” Cheryl suddenly got it, and said, “Oh, God.”

  Sam was out of bed, pulling on his pants. “Who?” he asked sharply, and turned on his cell phone.

  “Luna,” Jaine answered, her throat tight. “Listen, Cheryl, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe she went to church, or out to breakfast with Shamal. Maybe she’s with him. I’ll check and have her call you when I find her. Okay?”

  Sam punched out numbers on the cell phone as he pulled a clean shirt out of the closet and shrugged into it. Carrying his socks and shoes, he left the bedroom, talking so quietly into the little phone she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  To Cheryl she said, “Sam’s calling some people. He’ll find her.” She hung up without saying goodbye, then vaulted out of bed and began fumbling for her own clothes. She was shaking, the tremors growing worse by the second. Just a few minutes ago she had been so blissed out, and now this awful terror was making her sick; the contrast was almost paralyzing.

  She stumbled into the living room, fastening her jeans, as Sam was going out the door. He was wearing his pistol and his badge. “Wait!” she cried, panicked.

  “No.” He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “You can’t go.”

  “Yes I can.” Wildly she looked around for her shoes. They were in the bedroom, damn it. “Wait for me!”

  “Jaine.” It was his cop voice. “No. If anything has happened, you’ll only be in the way. You wouldn’t be allowed inside, and it’s too damn hot to sit out in the truck. Go over to T.J.’s and wait there. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  She was still shaking, and now she was crying, too. No wonder he didn’t want her along. She swiped her hand over her face. “P-promise?”

  “I promise.” His expression softened. “Be careful on the way to T.J.’s. And, babe—don’t let anyone in the door, okay?”

  She nodded, feeling worse than useless. “Okay.”

  “I’ll call,” he said again, and was gone.

  Jaine slumped down on the sofa and cried in raw, ragged gulps. She couldn’t do this again; she just couldn’t. Not Luna. She was so young and beautiful, that bastard couldn’t have hurt her. Luna had to be with Shamal; she had been so luminously happy at his sudden turnaround that they were probably spending every spare moment together. Sam would find her. Shamal’s number was unlisted, but cops had ways of getting unlisted numbers. Luna would be with Shamal, and then Jaine would feel silly for panicking this way.

  Finally she stopped crying and mopped her face. She had to get to T.J.’s, to wait for Sam’s call. She started to the bedroom, then abruptly turned back and locked the front door.

  She arrived at T.J.’s twenty minutes later, having done nothing more than brush her teeth and hair and finish dressing. She leaned on the doorbell. “T.J., it’s Jaine! Hurry!”

  She heard running footsteps, the cocker spaniel barking; then the door was wrenched open and T.J.’s worried face swam before her. “What’s wrong?” T.J. asked, jerking her inside the door, but Jaine couldn’t tell her; she couldn’t get the words out. Still barking hysterically, the cocker spaniel, Trilby, jumped up on their legs.

  “Trilby, hush!” T.J. said. Her chin trembled, and she swallowed. “Luna?”

  Jaine nodded, still unable to talk. T.J. put her hand over her mouth as awful, gut-wrenching cries tore from her throat, and she fell back against the wall.

  “No, no!” Jaine managed to say, putting her arms around T.J. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” She took a deep breath. “We don’t know yet. Sam’s on his way over there, and he’s going to call here when he knows—”

  “What’s going on?” Galan asked in alarm, stepping into the foyer. A section of the Sunday paper was in his hand. Trilby ran over to him, her little stump of a tail wagging ferociously.

  That damn shaking had started again. Jaine tried to control it. “Luna’s missing. Cheryl hasn’t been able to get her on the phone.”

  “So she’s gone grocery shopping,” Galan said, shrugging.

  T.J. gave him a look of such fury it should have scorched his skin. “He thinks we’re hysterical and Marci was killed by some doper.”

  “That makes a lot more sense than the bunch of you being stalked by a maniac,” he shot back. “Stop dramatizing everything.”

  “If we’re dramatizing it,” Jaine said, “so are the police.” Then she bit her lip. She didn’t want to get in the middle of a domestic dispute. T.J. and Galan had enough trouble without her adding to it.

  Galan shrugged again. “T.J. said you’re marrying a cop, so he’s probably humoring you. Come on, pooch.” He turned and walked back to his den and his newspaper, Trilby scampering around his feet.

  “Forget him,” T.J. said. “Tell me what happened.”

  Jaine related what Cheryl had said and the time frame. T.J. glanced at the clock; it was now just afternoon . “Four hours, at least. She isn’t grocery shopping. Has anyone called Shamal?”

  “His number’s unlisted, but Sam will take care of it.”

  They went into the kitchen, where T.J. had been reading. Her open book lay in the alcove. T.J. put on a pot of coffee. They were each on their second cup, the cordless phone at T.J.’s elbow, when it finally rang. She snatched it up. “Sam?”

  She listened for a moment, and watching her face, Jaine felt the hope die out of her. T.J. looked stunned, all color draining from her. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.

  Jaine grabbed the phone. “Sam? Tell me.”

  His voice was heavy. “Baby, I’m sorry It looks like it happened last night, maybe as soon as she got home from the funeral.”

  T.J. laid her head on the table, weeping. Jaine reached to touch her shoulder, trying to offer comfort, but she could feel herself folding in, giving in to the grief, and she didn’t know if she had any comfort to offer.

  “Stay there,” Sam said. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there when I can get free. This isn’t my jurisdiction, but we’re all putting our heads together. It may be several hours, but don’t go anywhere,” he repeated.

  “Okay,” Jaine whispered, and hung up.

  Galan came to the door and stood hovering, staring at T.J. as if he hoped she was still overreacting, but something in his face said that this time he knew better. He was pale. “What?” he croaked.

  “That was Sam,” Jaine said. “Luna’s dead.” Then her fragile control broke, and it was a long time before she could do anything except weep and hold on to T.J.

  It was sunset before Sam arrived. He looked tired and angry He introduced himself to Galan, because neither Jaine nor T.J. thought to.

  “You were at the funeral,” Galan said suddenly, his gaze sharpening.

  Sam nodded. “A Sterling Heights detective was, too. We hoped we could spot him, but he’s either too slick or he wasn’t there.”

  Galan glanced at his wife. T.J. was sitting quietly, absently stroking the black-and-white cocker spaniel. Yesterday Galan’s gaze had been remote, but there was nothing remote about the way he was watching her now. “Someone’s really after them. It’s so damn hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” Sam said briefly, his guts twisting with fury as he remembered what had been done to Luna. She had suffered the same vicious, personal attack, her face battered beyond recognition, the multiple stab wounds, the sexual abuse. Unlike Marci, she had still been alive when he stabbed her; the apartment floor was awash in blood. Her clothes had also been shredded, just like Jaine’s. When he thought how close Jaine had come to dying, what she would have suffered if she had been at home on Wednesday night, he could barely contain his rage.

  “Did you get in touch with her parents?” Jaine asked hoarsely. They lived in Toledo, so they weren’t far away.

  “Yes, they’re already here,” Sam said. He sat down and put his arms around her, cradlin