Seven ways to die

37

“Maybe this Androg practiced before he killed,” Amelie told Cody. They were en route back to her apartment after stopping for a bite. “That could be why the murders are so perfect. Maybe that’s why he skipped a number? To point you backward to find it.”

“I’m not sure. Somehow I don’t think the practice murder was Number One. I can’t fit the two-year gap into the puzzle. Handley was Number One, Uncle Tony Number Two, and if Dr. Wiley was Number Four, we haven’t figured out Number Three yet.”

Amelie shivered. “Great job you have,” she said.

“Somebody has to do it,” Cody responded.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, both lost in thought. Once they reached her place, Cody parked the SUV in a no-parking zone, relying on his police plate to protect it from bounty towers.

He knew she’d feel better if he escorted her to her door and had to admit he was pleased when she invited him in.

At the look on his face as he considered the offer, she said, “Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to tuck me in or anything.”

He chose the brightly striped Scandinavian chair in her living room rather than the couch, and she pretended she thought nothing of it as she headed for the kitchen and returned with a small glass filled with golden amber liquid.

“You sip this,” she handed it to him. “It’s my favorite after-dinner wine. It’s called ‘ice wine’ because it’s made from the grapes bitten by the first frost. You’ll love it.”

“What about you?” he asked her, accepting the glass.

“I did you a favor, now I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”

“What do you need?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Take the time to enjoy your first drink.” With that, she headed into what he guessed was her bedroom.

Surprised at how piercingly sweet and pleasant the wine was, Cody surveyed the apartment, his mind for the moment miles away from the Loft and its homicidal horrors. He remembered how cozy Amelie’s place had felt when he first entered what already seemed like ages ago.

Before he could analyze his thoughts, she reappeared before him. She’d slipped into something more comfortable-but not at all the usual. She was wearing what looked like surgical scrubs. Then he realized it was her masseuse uniform.

She took his hand, and led him across the room. “Come into my parlor,” she said. “I can’t stand seeing so much tension in your neck. It’s time for that massage I promised you.”

The wine had its admittedly pleasing effect on him, and he didn’t even feel like protesting. She modestly retreated while he slipped out of his clothes and climbed on the table, beneath the waiting towel.

Cody couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a massage. Somehow it didn’t fit with the routine of a NYPD homicide detective, though a few minutes into it he realized he should order every member of TAZ to have one once a week, whether they wanted to or not. He could imagine the kind of ribbing he’d get for that.

Amelie’s hands were soft and gentle and very, very strong. They were demanding hands, hands that knew their way around a man’s body and how and where to find the knots. She was very thorough, and very sensual. But she stopped short of crossing the line. When she told him to turn over, Cody found himself embarrassed by the incipient erection she’d caused. “That’s okay,” he said. “Let’s skip the rest. This is more pleasure than I should be allowing myself right now. Rain check?”

“Yes, sir,” she teased, pretending she hadn’t spotted the culprit that was causing his shy response. “Off to the sauna with you.”

She waited for him to wrap himself with the towel, then led him to the door to the sauna, which she’d turned on while he was sipping his wine. “It’s good for you to-“

“-sweat out the stink,” he interrupted her, remembering his childhood on the reservation.

To his disappointment, she closed the sauna door after him, leaving him in the dark room wishing she had joined him there.

When he was dressed again and at the front door, Amelie stood on her tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss good-night. “Good body,” she said. “Take care of it for me.”