Closer Encounters

“If there was a soda fountain here, it probably went out with the Edsel.”

“Edsel Who?” she asked distractedly.

“The Edsel was a car.” Drew wondered how many times he’d had to give the same explanation to folks outside the tight circle of classic car buffs. “A real bomb when it came out in the late ’50s, but a collector’s dream right now.”

“Mmm.”

Obviously disinterested in Ford’s most famous flop, she meandered down the center aisle. Her gaze roamed the shelves, lingering on different objects. Searching, Drew assumed, for the illusive bobby pins. Halfway down the aisle she stopped in front of a carousel of lipsticks.

“Look at all these colors!”

She plucked out a tube for a closer look just as a teenaged clerk rounded the end of the aisle.

“That’s the new Caribbean Calypso line,” the clerk announced. “Just came in yesterday. Here, try the Juicy Jamaica Red,” she suggested. “It’s totally awesome. Tastes good, too. Like papaya or melon or something.”

Drew stood to one side while the teen painted a slash of crimson on the back of Tracy’s hand.

“Ooh, I love it. I’ll take it. And a package of bobby pins.”

“They’re right here. We’ve had a real run on them since that episode of Sex and the City, when Carrie Bradshaw stuck dozens of black pins in her blond hair.”

Drew must have missed that episode—along with every other. Feeling totally out it, he waited while Tracy rummaged through a dizzying array of brushes, combs and hairclips. He got through the tough business of choosing between crinkle style and straight-backed pins okay, but was forced to retreat to the magazine rack while she debated the tough choices of face powder, mascara, eye shadow and lip liner.

After that, she hit the perfume counter. Forehead scrunched in concentration, she sniffed one tester after another while Drew studied her from behind the pages of Motor Trends magazine.

Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged her as a woman who took perfume and war paint so seriously. Granted, their initial meeting had been dramatic and brief. He still had a lot to learn about Ms. Tracy Brandt…including her interest in the USS Kallister, he reminded himself grimly.

Forcing himself to be patient, he waited until she’d spritzed on a sample of something called Midnight Gardenia and added a small vial to her other purchases. With the delight of a chocoholic who’d been turned loose in a candy store, she carted her selections to the register. Her delight turned to shock after the clerk rang them up.

“That’ll be twenty-nine eighteen.”

Her jaw dropping, Tracy gaped at the girl. “Twenty-nine dollars?”

“And eighteen cents,” the teen confirmed, twisting the register’s digital screen around to display the total.

“That can’t be right.”

“Maybe I scanned something twice.”

While the clerk peered at the summary on the computerized screen, Tracy dug into the plastic bag and extracted several items. She turned them over and over, searching for the price.

“No wonder you got it wrong. These don’t have price tags on them.”

“The prices are all bar-coded. Look, this Juicy Jamaica Red scans up at six ninety-nine.”

“Seven dollars for lipstick?”

The teen shrugged. “We have some products left over from the winter line on sale. Want to see those?”

The prospect of another protracted round of searching and sniffing had Drew reaching for his wallet. “That’s okay. We’ll take what we have here.”

“Not at those prices,” Tracy protested.

Suspecting her out-of-work status had a lot to do with the indignant protest, he tossed a ten and a twenty on the counter.

“Price is no object when it comes to making a pretty woman prettier.”

The gallantry was clumsy and heavy-handed but got them out of the drugstore. His companion was still muttering over the cost of the lipstick when they walked out into the night.

The streets had been empty of all but a few tourists before. They were deserted now. As Drew steered Tracy toward the corner, the shop windows behind them went dark. A few seconds later, the souvenir shop across the street dimmed its lights.

“Are we under a blackout?” Tracy asked, clutching her purchases as she glanced around.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Guess they’re just rolling up the streets for the night.”

“It’s only a little after nine!”

“We’re a few weeks ahead of the main tourist season. Avalon probably gets livelier then.”

“How strange,” she murmured. “And sad. Lights used to blaze here all night long.”

“Yeah, that’s what the tour guide said.”

According to the guide who’d escorted them through the casino this afternoon, Avalon had once rocked. When chewing gum magnate William Wrigley bought Catalina Island in 1919, he made it a training camp for his Chicago Cubs and built a field to match the dimensions of Wrigley Field in Chicago. The Cubs spring training attracted hosts of eager spectators and sportscasters. Among them was a young Ronald “Dutch” Reagan, who zipped back across the channel in 1931 to take the screen test that changed his profession and his life.

Zane Gray set one of his novels on the island and built a home high on one of the hills above Avalon. Sportsmen like Theodore Roosevelt used to troll the deep blue waters for marlin and sailfish. Betty Grable, Cary Grant, John Wayne and friends regularly yachted over from L.A. to frolic at the great hotels and bars.

Along with the rich and famous came thousands of ordinary folks. Always a shrewd businessman, William Wrigley built the Avalon Casino to lure movie buffs and hepcats. They ferried over by the boatload to view first-run films in the casino’s magnificent theater or dance until dawn in the upstairs ballroom.

All that activity came to a screeching halt two days after Pearl Harbor. Declaring the island a military zone, the government shut down all commercial boat traffic. For four years Catalina served as a training site for the merchant marines. The only civilians allowed on the island were the residents who provided essential services to the base.

After the war, Catalina and the city of Avalon never quite regained their glitter and glamour. The big band era was over. The Cubs moved their spring training to Florida. Vastly expanded air travel allowed Hollywood’s elite to jet down to Acapulco or over to Hawaii to play. A few stars still sailed across the channel to party on their sleek yachts, but Natalie Wood’s tragic drowning seemed to signal the end of that era, too.

Now the town catered primarily to families who used it for a weekend escape and the cruise ship passengers who thronged to the shops during the day and sailed away at dusk.

“It’s nice like this,” Drew commented. “No crowds, no hassle.”

It was also very convenient. He and Tracy were two strangers thrown together in relative isolation. Playing to that theme, he made a casual suggestion.

“Since it looks like our dirty miller is out…”

“Dusty miller,” she corrected glumly.

“Since our dusty miller is apparently out, how about a drink?”

That brightened her up. “A drink sounds good.”

“Shall we find a bar or go back to the inn and enjoy the view?”

“Let’s go back to the inn.” With a last look around the darkened streets, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “We’ll have a private party.”

Drew formulated his game plan on the walk back to the Bella Vista. First a drink. Then some idle conversation. Another drink. A casual mention of the ships that sailed from the busy ports across the channel. A not-so-casual reference to the USS Kallister.

At the reminder of his mission, his muscles tightened. The involuntary movement pressed Tracy’s arm into his side. She slanted him a quick glance, then snuggled closer. The feel of her high, firm breast against his arm did a serious number on his concentration. The scent that tickled his senses didn’t help, either.

Midnight gardenia. It fit her, he decided. Her skin was as smooth and creamy as the waxy petals. And like some exotic, night-blooming plant, she’d opened to reveal a showy flower.

So showy, she couldn’t wait to experiment with her purchases. Once back at her room, she waggled a hand toward the minibar.

“Do the honors, will you? I just want to powder my nose and put on some lipstick.”

“What’ll you have?” Drew asked as she sailed for the bathroom.

“Scotch.”

“On the rocks?”

“Why water down good hooch?”

While she wrestled with plastic packaging in the bathroom, Drew moved fast. His first objective was the purse she’d deposited on the bed. The wallet held her driver’s license, a couple of credit cards and less than ten dollars in cash. No scribbled phone numbers, no cryptic notes and only one picture of Tracy and an older man grinning at the camera. Her father? Grandfather?

Making a mental note to have Denise run her family history, Drew flipped open her cell phone. The call log showed no calls received or transmitted since she’d arrived on Catalina yesterday.

He had time to give the small suitcase sitting on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed only a quick look. She obviously wasn’t intending a long stay. The weekender contained a neatly folded sweater, a cotton blouse, tan twill slacks and several pairs of cotton panties.

The thump of plastic cartons hitting the bathroom wastebasket announced Tracy’s imminent return. Diverting to the minibar, he poured two miniatures of scotch into plastic cups and carried them to the French doors. He doubted she would want to go out onto the balcony after her dizzy spell this afternoon, but the view from inside the room served his purpose just as well.

He could see the faint glow of lights from a cargo ship steaming up the San Pedro Channel. His opening conversational gambit was right there in front of him. Planning his segue from the cargo ship to the Kallister, he was ready when Tracy emerged from the bathroom.

“Now I feel more like the real me.”

Drew just about dropped the plastic cups. If this was the real Tracy Brandt, all it had taken was a little color to bring her out. The bright red lipstick drew his gaze instantly to full, ripe lips. Subtle shading deepened her eyes to a mysterious jungle-green. Pancake makeup eradicated the dark circles under them. He had no idea what she’d done to her skin to make it look so luminescent, but he had to battle the urge to stroke a knuckle down the smooth curve of her cheek.

Her hair was different, too. She’d taken off her headscarf and released the thick, silky mass from its tight roll. Still damp, it now fell in unruly waves to her shoulders.

The change went more than skin-deep, though. Drew was still trying to figure it out when she raised her plastic cup.

“Here’s to you and here’s to me. May we never disagree. But if we do…”

Drew hooked an eyebrow and waited for the punch line. He’d heard variations of this toast that would make his old buddies in the navy blush. Tracy kept it clean, ending with a merry laugh.

“Here’s to me.”

She tossed back a healthy swallow, closed her eyes and let the scotch slide down her throat. When her lids fluttered up, she stared at the remaining liquid in near awe.

“That’s prime hooch.”

Was retro slang the new thing? Tracy certainly seemed to be into it.

“That’s the second time you used the term hooch,” Drew remarked. “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

Shrugging, she took another sip. “Hooch, booze, giggle water. Whatever name you pin on this stuff, it sure goes down smooth. This Juicy Jamaica Red gives it a different flavor, though. Sort of smoky and fruity at the same time.”

She ran her tongue over her upper lip, testing, tasting, then moved to the lower. Drew followed her progress with a sudden tightening in his chest.

Damn! Did the woman have any idea how arousing that slow, deliberate swipe was? Probably, since she tipped him a smile that hovered between teasing and provocative.

“Want a taste?”

Drew’s ribs squeezed tighter. Telling himself this was all in the line of duty, he bent his head.

Chapter 4

The kiss was soft and warm and wonderful. Tracy floated on it, enjoying the sensations, savoring the pleasure that eddied through her in gentle waves.

It had been so long since she’d been kissed. Too long, she thought dreamily. Drifting on a cottony cloud of delight, she opened her mouth to the one that settled over hers.

The kiss deepened. A hard arm wrapped around her waist. Her body came into contact with another at several highly erotic pressure points. Delight erupted into pleasure so hot and intense it jolted through her like an electric charge.

Her eyes flew open. Her arms froze in the act of twining around a strong, corded neck.

Good Lord! This wasn’t a dream! This wasn’t anything close to a dream! She was wrapped in the arms of a man she’d met just a few hours ago. Worse—much worse!—she was damned if she could recall how she’d gotten there. Thoroughly flustered, she shoved out of his hold.

“What are you doing?”

Frowning, the handsome stranger shagged a hand through his short-cropped hair. His voice was tight, his apology gruff.

“Sorry. Guess I misread the signals.”

What signals? The last thing Tracy remembered with any clarity was suggesting Mr. Andrew McDowell take a flying leap off the Green Pier. Not quite in those words, of course, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how they’d progressed from that chilly parting to a kiss that darned near melted her bones.

Oh, God! Had the stress of the past few months pushed her over the edge? First her job. Then Jack. Now this. Was she losing it? Making a desperate attempt to hide her incipient panic, she angled her chin.

“I think you’d better leave.”

He studied her for several moments, his face unreadable.

“Now,” she added with as much authority as she could muster at the moment.

He accepted the dictum with a curt nod. “See you around.”

Not if she could help it!

Looking as disgruntled as Tracy now felt, he deposited his plastic cup on the coffee table. The minute the door closed behind him she rushed to flip the dead bolt and fumble the chain into place. Slumping against the door, she put a hand to her mouth.

Tracy could still taste him on her lips, still feel the imprint of his body against hers. The man delivered one heck of a kiss. She’d give him that.

Her fingers came away stained with a greasy red smear. Grimacing, she went in search of a tissue. The chaos in the bathroom made her eyes pop.

Good grief! Surely she hadn’t created this war zone!

Her mouth curling in distaste, she surveyed the wet towels, the discarded bathrobe, the soap scum ringing the tub. A messy litter of cosmetics drew her to the tiled counter. Confusion swirled through her as she eyed the unfamiliar bottles, brushes and tubes.

Her usual beauty regimen consisted of a swipe of blush, a little mascara and flavored lip gloss. She rarely wore eye shadow and shied away from bright, garish colors like the lipstick lying uncapped on the counter. And where the heck had those bobby pins come from?

The near panic returned, prickling Tracy’s skin with icy goose bumps. She was losing it!

Her first instinct was to run. Driven by the wild urge to throw her things in her bag and scurry home to the safety of her cozy apartment, she whirled. Reality intervened before she’d taken more than a step or two.

The ferries didn’t operate at night. She couldn’t get off the island until morning. More to the point, she had a grim task to perform before she could depart Catalina. She’d put it off too long already.

“Tomorrow,” she promised softly, her chest squeezing.

The whispered vow came through Drew’s earpiece with Dolby-like clarity.

Tomorrow.

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, waiting for more. All he heard were the muted but unmistakable sounds of Tracy undressing, followed by a swish of bedcovers. An erotic mental image erupted inside his head as she slid into bed. No surprise, with his blood still singed from that wild kiss.

Where the hell had that come from? Drew hadn’t intended anything other than a mere taste. Next thing he knew, he was practically devouring the woman whole. The fact that her mouth had opened so seductively under his was no excuse for losing control of the situation. Drew couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had aroused and baffled him as much as this one. Frowning, he waited while she struggled to fall asleep.

Minutes passed as he listened to her roll over. Thump the pillow. Roll over again. After a long, gusting sigh, her breathing evened. Sometime later, it deepened to a soft, regular snuffling.

Drew waited another five minutes before he punched his code into his cell phone and aimed the camera at his right eye. Denise appeared on the video screen a few moments later.

“I read you, Riever. You all tucked in for the night?”

“I’m about to be. Anything on the target’s medical history?”

“Her last doctor’s visit was eight months ago, to renew her prescription for the patch.”

“She quit smoking?”

“Not that kind of patch. This one’s for birth control. Very convenient for active women who don’t want to worry about taking a pill every day.”

Drew tucked that information away. “No consults with a mental health professional?”

“None that I could find. But she’s paid out big bucks to a home health-care company over the past six months. I found charges for oxygen, nebulizers, nurses’ visits and diabetes test strips. I also found charges at the local Wal-Mart for Ensure and Centrum Silver.”

“Sounds like she was taking care of a senior. I found a photo in her wallet of her with an older man. I’m guessing her grandfather. I was going to ask you to run her family history.”

“Already done. She has no living relatives. Parents were killed in a car accident when she was three. The aunt who raised her died while Brandt was in college.”

“Have the team up in Puget Sound ask around to see if they can ID this older man.”

“Roger that. I’ll also have them check out the home health-care company. It has a twenty-four-hour number for emergencies, but the person who answered my call was goosey about releasing information until she checked with her supervisor in the morning.”

“Good enough. Maybe we can…”

Drew broke off. Head cocked, he strained to hear the soft sounds in the other room. The low murmurs came in snatches interspersed with breathy sighs.

“Something wrong, Riever?”

“I just picked up sounds from next door. Evidently the target talks in her sleep. Correction, make that sings in her sleep.”

It took only a few moments for Drew to recognize the melody.

“She’s humming the same tune she played on the computer earlier. Did you find anything on the song or the singer?”

“The song was written in the late thirties and recorded by a dozen different crooners over the years. Trixie Halston, the singer Brandt was listening to tonight, recorded her version in 1940.”

The low, seductive humming was like a drug, seeping into Drew’s veins, reheating his blood. Distracted by it, he had to force his attention back to Denise.

“Did you find anything on Halston?”

“Yeah, I did. She got her start with a small group in Nebraska and sang with a couple of swing bands before joining the Kenny Jones Orchestra. She was his featured singer from 1939 to 1941…until she took a dive off a balcony, right there on Catalina.”

The skin on the back of Drew’s neck tightened. His gut told him he knew the answer, but he asked anyway.

“What balcony?”

“The same one our target almost jumped off this afternoon,” Denise confirmed. “It happened in November 1941. Kenny Jones and his band were playing to a packed house in the ballroom. The newspaper reports said Halston slipped out to get some air after the last set. They also said she’d been known to smoke a joint or hit the bottle between sets. Apparently both were as common among musicians then as they are now. In any case, the ME ruled her death an accident. There were no witnesses and no evidence to suggest otherwise.”

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