Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [58]
When he opened the door to Chuck’s office, he was surprised to see Susan Morton sitting in the chair behind the desk.
“Hello, Lee,” she said, smiling. “Long time, no see.” She raised a finger to her mouth and smoothed away an imaginary smudge from her perfectly applied lipstick, then rose from the chair and swayed toward him, insinuation in the swing of her perfect hips. She moved with the sinuous grace of a large and dangerous jungle animal—a panther, perhaps. She was wearing a peach-colored Chanel suit, charcoal stockings, and black high heels. She looked like she was dressed for a board meeting.
“Where have you been keeping yourself?” she said, moving inappropriately close, looking up at him. Her eyes were oddly round—big and green and almost perfectly circular. Instead of finding this attractive, Lee now found it off-putting. He was reminded of the sad, big-eyed children in velvet paintings you might see in a tacky motel room.
“I’m working on a case with Chuck,” he replied, careful to avoid eye contact with her.
“Yes, I heard about that,” she purred. “What a terrible thing.” From her tone of voice, she might have been talking about a bottle of overpriced wine or a stain on an expensive dress. “And you hurt yourself,” she said, looking at his bandaged forearm.
“Yes,” Lee said, moving carefully to the other side of the desk, putting it between the two of them. “I had an accident.”
“Poor thing,” she said. “Someone needs to kiss it and make it better.”
“I was supposed to meet Chuck here—any idea where he is?”
She ran a finger slowly over the wooden desktop. It was suggestive, sexual, and Lee avoided the impression that he was watching her, though he couldn’t entirely avoid it. She perched on the desk, her slim legs dangling back and forth. She was very lean—maybe even thinner than in college. Back then she had struggled with bulimia, and he imagined her weighing herself daily, measuring each gram of fat she ingested.
“I don’t know where he is—they told me to wait in here,” she said.
Lee glanced at his watch without registering what he saw. It was just something to do other than look at her. “It’s good to see you,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered, pretending to search for something in his pockets.
“Do you ever think about the old times we had together?” she asked, sounding wistful. “I guess.”
She twirled a strand of fat black pearls around her finger. He had no doubt they were real.
“Me too. Sometimes I think about them a lot.”
Lee’s hand closed around his cell phone in his pocket, and his heart gave a little leap—he saw his escape route.
“Excuse me,” he said, heading for the door, “I have to make a phone call.”
Sliding off the side of the desk, she blocked his way. “Why can’t you make it in here?”
“I don’t get good reception in here.”
“Use Chuck’s phone—I’m sure he won’t mind.”
He held his ground and looked down at her. “It’s private.”
Her face hardened. “Fine—have it your way,” she snapped, stepping aside.
But as he reached for the doorknob, the door opened to reveal Chuck standing there.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” he said, brushing past Lee and into the room. “Oh—hello there,” he said, seeing Susan.
“Hello yourself,” she said, in her best Lauren Bacall voice.
“What brings you to the belly of the beast?” Chuck said, rifling through the papers on his desk, looking for something.
“Oh, does it have to be something in particular? Maybe I just miss my adorable, handsome husband,” she replied, with a sidelong glance at Lee.
But Chuck continued his search, clearly preoccupied.
She watched him for a few moments, her face darkening, and then she said, “I can see