Free Designed for Death by Jean Harrington Page A

tighter, clamping it to my ear.
    “The blood on the carpet didn’t come from the victim.”
    “Whose could it be, then? The killer’s?”
    The deep intake of a weary breath floated through the wire. “I wish it was that simple.”
    “Rossi, what are you saying?”
    “That’s all I can tell you.”
    “Are you trying to pin a murder rap on me?”
    “The lab’s in the Collier Government Center. Corner of Airport and 41 East.”
    “I’m hanging up.”
    “If you do, I’ll issue a warrant.”
    “I have one thing to say to that, Rossi. Shove your warrant.”
    I hung up, my hands shaking so bad it took three tries before I got the receiver onto the cradle. Wrapping my legs around the stool so I wouldn’t fall off, I told myself I had nothing to worry about, the blood wasn’t mine. But the message didn’t get to my hands. They hovered in the air, trembling like a pair of hummingbirds.
    I’m scared, Jack. Suppose they take a blood sample and mess up? Peg me for the killer?
    Then common sense kicked in. Mistakes like that only happened in thriller movies. Besides, I had no intention of having the test. I eased off the stool and went in the bedroom to strip off my swimsuit.
    Tossing the Speedo on the bed, I padded into the bathroom and stared at my worried-looking face in the mirror. What if Marilyn’s mystery woman had been meeting Dick in Treasure’s empty condo? As property manager, he kept a lockbox with a key to every unit. Marilyn said this time he’d gone too far. Maybe she meant the opposite—too close. Right in his own backyard, right in Surfside. And what if the blood drops had been left by that woman? Or by Dick?

    Feeling a tad like Lady Macbeth, I showered yet again, toweled dry and opted for a pair of moss-green slacks, a matching silk shirt and high-heeled slides. A little gel settled my hair, and a little lip gloss and blush brightened my pale face. I topped things off with a spritz of Chanel.
    Da da da DA.
    I peeked through the shutter slats. Rossi stood outside, smoldering in the sun. I could pretend I wasn’t home, but why bother? I opened the door and stood blocking the entrance. No way was I letting him barge in like he had every right to.
    “What a surprise, Lieutenant.”
    “Mrs. Dunne, you shouldn’t have done that.”
    “Done what?”
    He owl-eyed me without answering. “I’ll drive you there.”
    “Where?”
    “Look, I don’t want to play this game. We’re trying to eliminate you as a suspect, not incriminate you.”
    “How do I know that?”
    “Because I’m telling you. So either you go quietly or we turn this into World War Three.”
    “You mean you don’t have a warrant.”
    “I’m counting on your cooperation.”
    “Ha! We’ll see what my lawyer says about that.”
    He stared at me for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind, then said, “The blood on the carpet came from a woman.” Before I could blurt out a question, he added, “Someone other than the victim.”
    “Oh. My. God. A woman killed Treasure?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    My voice collapsed into a whisper. “Do you think I killed her?”
    “If the blood’s not yours, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
    “Of course it’s not mine.”
    “The lab’s open till four.”
    I could feel the heat drain from my face. That always makes my freckles stand out like polka dots. They must have told him I was scared stiff.
    “Get your bag,” he ordered. “I’ll drive you there.”
    Scared or not, I found his cocksure attitude tough to take. “Am I under arrest?”
    He shook his head. “No. The test is routine procedure.”
    “Then I’ll drive myself.” I sounded defiant, but at the sight of Rossi’s smile, I knew he had won this round.
    As he turned on his heel and stalked off, one of his signature Hawaiian shirts—yellow palm fronds today—flapping over his pants, the living room phone came alive. I snatched it up.
    “Do I get a second chance?”
    No preamble, no name, as if Simon