Chapter Two

Maddie slumped down on the stairs, the mask still in her hands. What a night! She remembered arguing with David in her office, how she felt unexpectedly let down when he turned on her and yelled, "I don't want to hear this!"—and then furious when he intimated that she couldn't take care of herself. She might've relented, though, might've even felt grateful for his concern, if he hadn't taunted her: "You're going right home, aren't you?"

Anger carried her all the way down to the car. As she drove out of the garage, though, her fury dissipated. She suddenly felt tired, very tired…tired of solitary glasses of wine and feeding her fish, tired of using music to fill up an empty house, tired of being 36 years old and sleeping alone.

And she didn't have a thing to eat in the house, either. No reason to keep stocks of food on hand, she thought, as she pulled into a store parking lot. She went in, listlessly choosing a frozen dinner, a cantaloupe, and a pint of milk.

As she left, the insubstantial weight of the bag mocked her—she heard David's jeering tone again—and, with renewed resolution, she dumped her paltry groceries in another woman's cart and took off for the best-known meat market in town.

It had been a complete waste of time. She was there twenty minutes, long enough to get hit on by a married man and an overconfident clod. As a capper to this marvelous evening, her hat and coat had been stolen in the ladies' room. Clearly, the gods did not favor Maddie Hayes' foray into reckless spontaneity.

Defeated, she had climbed in her car and driven home, to find a message from Sam awaiting her. Sam. She hadn't seen him in years, not since a Christmas party at her parents' house, right after she had retired from modeling. It had been a little awkward; they hadn't really spoken much. What did you say to someone, someone you had known forever…someone you cared about, loved even…someone (the first one) you ever really gave yourself to…and someone you left because something (the timing? the passion? the future?) just didn't feel right?

At the time, Sam's star was on the rise. He had just interviewed with NASA; she knew how excited he was at the prospect of going into space. Would he feel differently now—more blasé, like it was just another job, she wondered? She knew she would've heard if he was married, but had he found another "someone"? She felt curious, and at the same time, nostalgic. Her life had been bound up with Sam's, one way or another, for a long time. She wished they hadn't been so out of touch.

He called again, just as she was running a bath; he was in town, and wanted to know if she would meet him in the bar at his hotel. "Bars—ugh!" she had replied. "Sam, I'd love to see you, but I can't face going out again tonight. Why don't you just come here?"

They had spent an hour drinking wine and catching up in front of the fire. When the combination of the warmth and the wine made her visibly sleepy, Sam stood up to go.

"It seems silly for you to put up at some expensive hotel," she said, stretching languidly, "when I have a perfectly good guestroom here."

Sam smiled, a twinkle in his eye. She had always loved his smile. "Is breakfast included?"

"If you make it, it is."

And that had been that—Sam got his bag, she showed him where the towels were and then collapsed into bed, sleeping dreamlessly until she heard the pounding on the door.

"Can I come out now?" Sam's voice pierced her thoughts. Maddie looked up the stairs. He stood in the guestroom doorway, one hand holding the jamb. "Sure," she replied, with a "why not?" gesture.

He stepped down and sat on the stair above her. "I'm sorry," he offered.

She shook her head. "It's not really your fault, I guess," she said unconvincingly.

"It's just—it looked like—when I saw him, I just—I thought maybe he was a burglar or something," he finished lamely, his usual smoothness having deserted him. His eyes shifted away from her; he looked uncomfortable. "You didn't mention you were seeing anyone."

"I'm not. It wasn't—he isn't—that was my partner. My business partner." Maddie felt a flush creep up her cheeks.

"Wow. Must be some business." Too late, Sam realized his joke wasn't funny. "Sorry." He looked at her expectantly; clearly, he wanted to know more, but Maddie didn't know what to tell him.

"Look, Sam, I've had a really long day…I think I'm just going to turn in." She got up to go to her room, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"Hey," he said softly. "I hope I didn't mess things up for you. I just want you to be happy." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then stood aside and watched her climb the stairs.

Maddie closed the door behind her. Sitting down on her bed, she stared at the phone for a long moment before picking up the handset and dialing. She wasn't surprised when it rang and rang and rang…and when she heard the familiar jaunty message, she hung up quickly.

* * *

David didn't go back to his apartment. He felt a burning desire to put his fist through something—or someone—but underneath his anger was another, unprecedented feeling: he just couldn't face his empty rooms, all the reminders of his free-and-easy lifestyle. He contemplated hitting one of his rougher hangouts, downing several shots of tequila, and picking an inane fight over pool or darts…but the truth was, his jaw still ached and he was suddenly exhausted.

He couldn't believe that Maddie had done what she'd done—and yet he did believe it. In David's experience with women, if it looked bad, it was bad…and often, it was much worse than bad. David didn't know where she had picked up the Adonis with Attitude—please God, not from the Yellow Pages—but he had been there, in the middle of the night, barely dressed. You didn't have to connect too many damn dots to figure it out.

But then why the kiss? David thought. If she had just slapped him and sent him on his way, he was sure he wouldn't feel so awful. After all, that was the natural order of things between them: he got suggestive, and she turned him down. But to respond the way she had…to grab him and ask for more...when all the time she had someone warming her bed—a wave of nausea hit him. This was taking "reckless" way too far.

He found himself outside Blue Moon's front door and went in, heading straight for the liquor cabinet in his office. Chocolate milk, or even beer, was not gonna do it—no, this time, he needed the big guns to dull his anger and humiliation.

Pouring himself a scotch, neat, he sat down heavily in one corner of the couch and leaned his head back. A groan erupted from the other end, and David bolted upright, spilling most of his drink on the carpet. "Damn!"

"Mr. Addison?" said a familiar voice.

"Jesus, Bert, trying to give me a coronary?" There wasn't much moonlight coming through the blinds, but as Bert sat up, David could tell that he was groggy, disheveled, and—David sniffed tentatively—pungent.

"I'm sorry I startled you, sir. I just—"

"What the hell happened to you?"

"I'll be happy to tell you the whole story, sir…just, please…is my car OK?"

David flipped him the keys without comment.

"Thank you, sir. I—I never doubted—I'm sure you would look after it as if it was your own." David waved this praise away with one hand, then leaned back and covered his eyes with the other.

Reassured as to the fate of his beloved vehicle, Bert leaned forward, trying—and failing—to restrain his eagerness to impart the details of his evening. "Well, Mr. Addison, I did just what you said. I went out front and waited for you to come around. But as I was waiting, I saw Miss Hayes come out of the bar. She didn't go to her car, though—she turned and walked up the street. I thought I'd better follow her—at a safe distance, of course—so we didn't lose her. When I got down the block, I looked back and saw you pulling out of the parking lot. I waved, but it looked like you were following someone. I figured you'd found the suspect and were trailing him." Bert finally took a breath, waiting for David to confirm this theory. He didn't. Bert went on:

"So, anyway, I kept following her down the street. Boy, she sure is a fast walker—I guess she was in a hurry. She ducked through a doughnut shop, and then I just saw her as she disappeared into this building. I tried to get in, but there was a locked security door. So I thought I'd better wait her out."

David opened one eye, interested in spite of himself. His instincts woke up: he thought he smelled a case. He waited for Bert to continue, but the diminutive detective-in-training was uncharacteristically silent…was, in fact, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"So what happened?" David finally asked.

"Well, I waited what seemed like hours—oh, not that Miss Hayes isn't worth waiting for," Bert interrupted himself hurriedly. "It started pouring, so I ducked into an alley. It was slippery and I—um—slipped."

"Hit a Dumpster, did you?"

"How did you know?" David wrinkled his nose, and Bert's face fell. "Oh. Yeah, I did. Anyway, when I looked back at the street, there were three police cars clustered outside the building. I don't mind telling you that I was nervous—I didn't know where Miss Hayes was." Bert was standing now, gesturing excitedly. "Well, the boys in blue went in, and about thirty seconds later, I saw Miss Hayes climbing down the fire escape." He chuckled and shook his head. "I didn't know she had it in her—" then, at David's look—"uh, with all due respect, sir."

David nodded curtly, making a "go on" gesture.

"Well…that's really all I know. She took off down the street, turned a corner, and I—lost her." Bert looked down at his hands, clearly disappointed in himself.

"How long ago was this?"

Bert checked his night-lit watch. "About three hours ago."

"So she could be anywhere! And you didn't call me?"

Bert looked stricken. "Oh, I tried, sir! I called you at home, but there was no answer. So I took a cab here, thinking you might come back after you caught your terrorist. You did catch him, didn't you?"

David sat up, the wheels turning, barely paying attention to Bert's question. "Not tonight, Bert…but we'll keep trying."

"Well, have you heard from Miss Hayes? Should we call her? Go by her house?"

"No!" David said sharply; Bert looked startled at his vehemence. "I mean, Bertie, I'm sorry to tell you this, but Miss Hayes has been home safe and sound since about 9:30 tonight. You had the wrong blonde."

"What?!" The smaller man seemed to inflate with rage. "You mean I did all this—" he gestured to himself—"for nothing?"

David clapped him on the shoulder. "Good detective work is never for nothing, Herbert. And in fact, you may have just found us our next case." Bert simmered down, mollified by David's praise.

"Next case, Mr. Addison?"

David sat down behind his desk and picked up the phone. As he dialed, he said, "I don't know who this other blonde is, but if the police want her, they may be willing to pay for her." He leaned back in his chair as the call went through. "Yeah…is Detective Barber there? David Addison calling. Thanks…Hey, Petie, what's shakin'? Listen, I heard through the grapevine that you're looking for a certain young lady…blonde, leggy, apparently involved in something that went down at—" He looked questioningly at Bert.

"The Sheraton Town-House," Bert whispered.

"—the Sheraton Town-House," David finished. Grabbing a pen, he began to take notes. "Joan Tenowich. Uh-huh…OK…really? Black widow, indeed…yeah, sounds like it. Well, my colleague had a line on her tonight, until she escaped from your boys. We thought we would do some digging…mm-hmmm." David looked up at Bert with a slightly amused smile. "Oh, I'm sure he'd be happy to accommodate you. I'll send him on down…oh, yeah, I will. And Petie? If I can find her?...well, of course—but you can stand me a round too…OK, sounds good. Thanks. Bye."

Bert ran a hand over his rumpled hair. "I suppose they'd like to see me down at the station?" David nodded. "Very well." He turned to go, and then looked back at David. "You're going after her?"

David stood, stretched, and nodded again.

"Any chance I could…?"

"'Fraid not, Bertie old boy. I'm gonna need you here at the control center. I'll need all the info you can dig up about Joan Tenowich: how she got here, where she came from…here's what the LAPD boys know." He handed Bert the yellow legal pad. Bert raised it to his forehead in salute.

"You can count on me, Mr. Addison. When I get back from the station, I'll start right in—"

David looked him over. "Do us all a favor, Mr. Viola. Go home and take a shower first."