Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

skin smells sweet,” he said at her door, his breath on the soft nape of her neck.
    “You feel good,” she said, her arms embracing his familiar and comforting form. He took that as an invitation and dug his fingers into her shoulders. She dodged his next maneuver, a nuzzle under the ear. He hadn’t changed his repertoire in her absence.
    He would follow his instructional manual by rote until Tab A was inserted into Slot B. Part of her wanted to surrender, through the genetic instinct that needed a mate and provider, but her head was swirling so much she wouldn’t have been able to derive any pleasure. And though Mitchell was certainly not afraid to indulge himself irrespective of her response, she wasn’t up for a game of false enthusiasm.
    She kissed his cheek and danced away from his grasp. “Not tonight, honey. But soon.”
    His face darkened. “As soon as you’re better?”
    “You’ve always said you don’t want half a woman.”
    “I don’t want half, but I could at least get a piece.”
    “Mitchell.”
    “If I didn’t have so much invested in you . . . ”
    “If you really love me, it’s worth the wait.”
    “I can’t wait forever,” he said, anger flushing his cheeks red, portraying emotion he would never let loose in a court of law. “I’m under a lot of pressure. I’m out on the gangplank with some creditors, and these people play for keeps. Once we’re legal, I can get your money for you. For us .”
    “My inheritance wouldn’t even cover the down payment on a house, much less bail you out of big trouble. And I’d give that to you right now if you ask.”
    “Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got people to see.”
    He gave her a kiss and pressed a slip of paper in her hand. He hurried down the hall, giving her a terse wave as the elevator swallowed him. She put her fingers to her lips, about to blow him a kiss, but he was gone before she could float the gesture his way.
    She looked down at the paper. It was James Whitmore’s phone number. Beneath it, in Mitchell’s neat, obsessive-compulsive writing, was written: “Sweet dreams, Jooolia.”

 
     
    CHAPTER TEN
     
    Julia met James Whitmore at the hotel bar. She picked him out immediately. He'd told her to look for the man who didn't belong, and that would be him. Whitmore sat on a stool, three hundred pounds, his bald head reflecting the neon beer signs. His face was wrinkled with great folds of ebony skin, but his eyes were clear. He was drinking milk, and a milk mustache contrasted with his broad lips. He nodded at her in the bar mirror as she sat beside him.
    "Mr. Whitmore?"
    "My, haven't you grown up," he said.
    She realized he must be comparing her to the four-year-old Julia, the one whose father disappeared one autumn night long ago.
    "Thank you for coming down. I know you don't owe me anything, and you probably had plans for the evening."
    "A drink with a pretty lady? Sounds like a plan to me."
    The bartender came, and she ordered a gin gimlet. The strong bite of the alcohol kicked away some of the day's accumulated weariness. "I know Mitchell Austin talked to you about my father's case, but I was hoping you might remember something he overlooked."
    "Doubtful," Whitmore said. "Lots of people owe him favors. If he asks for something, he usually gets it. You with him?"
    "Excuse me?"
    "You his girlfriend? Wife? Or, what do they call it now, significant other?"
    "We're engaged," she said, taking a second, larger swallow of the gimlet. "Could you please go over the case for me? Just one more time, and I promise I'll leave you alone."
    "Not much to add. I wasn't the lead, that was Lieutenant Snead. I was just part of the investigating team. You've seen the case files and the incident report. We put out an APB, sent photos to the FBI and the state agencies, dug into his background to see if anybody had a grudge."
    He looked down at her. "We talked to you, too, of course. But you were so confused, you didn't know what happened. My, you were cute. We felt so sorry for you, losing your Dad like that. And the deep cuts on your belly, from the broken window in your room. You must have tried to crawl out."
    "The reports said that, besides the broken window, there was no evidence of forced entry and nothing was taken."
    "As far as we can tell. Of course, he might have had a million dollars in a paper sack, for all we know."
    "He was a high school teacher."
    Whitmore looked at her over his glass of milk. "Some people don't like to