KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET Page 3

  "Where'd you take the flowers?"

  "The nursing home, as usual."

  "Excellent. That it?"

  "No. You also had a message on the main voice mail this morning from a Stacey Quinn—a woman's name but a man's voice. Do you know him?"

  Did Audie know Stacey Quinn? She stopped in the doorway to her office and closed her eyes.

  She knew that his lips were soft but demanding. She knew how good it felt to wrap her legs around his waist and have him pull her hair. She knew approximately how long and thick he became when sexually aroused, because it was difficult to miss something that big jammed up against the inside of your thigh!

  But she didn't know him at all.

  "He's the detective working on my case," Audie said hoarsely, taking another sip of coffee so she'd have something to do for three seconds. She felt dizzy again.

  "I see." Marjorie offered her the slip of paper. "He said for you to call first thing. He inquired about your headache."

  Audie chuckled to herself and caught the flash of humor in Marjorie's eye. So much for clairvoyance. She grabbed the message. "I'll call him right now."

  "And you'll tell him about the latest note?" Griffin's voice was edgy as he called after her. He seemed more shaken up by this than she did—how bad was it this time? she wondered.

  Audie turned to him and smiled. "I will, Griff." She let her eyes take in the full effect of his wardrobe, and she giggled—the bald truth of it was, Griffin Nash looked gorgeous.

  With his thick shoulder-length dreadlocks and that innocently sexy face, he drew women to him without effort. The man could wear a lawn and garden bag through the streets of Chicago and women of all shapes, sizes, colors, and professions would still be sucked into the gravitational pull of his charms.

  "It's actually very Jimi Hendrix," Audie admitted.

  "I realize that, mon," he said with a grin.

  * * *

  "Care for a mint?"

  Detective Stanley Oleskiewicz shoved the box of Frango Mints under his partner's nose, but Quinn batted it away with the back of his hand and snarled low and deep until he backed off.

  Not once in their four years together had Stanny-O altered his routine. He came in the doors to the District 18 police station, got buzzed through, and immediately reached into his top right desk drawer and pulled out a bright green box of Marshall Field's Frango Mints.

  And every morning he shoved the box under Quinn's nose and offered him one, apparently oblivious to the fact that Quinn had never once taken him up on his offer.

  Stanny-O shrugged and put the box away, but not after grabbing a few to savor with his coffee. "What's happenin', buddy?" He leaned back in his chair comfortably.

  "Not much."

  "How'd it go with the Homey Helen babe?"

  Quinn shook his head and started to laugh.

  "That good or that bad?"

  Quinn looked up at his perpetually cheerful partner and wondered how much he dared tell him. Stan was not exactly famous for his tact. Plus, they had a long history of giving each other massive amounts of grief just for the sport of it.

  "She's a real piece of work," Quinn said. "I thought at first she was writing the notes to herself. You know, to get out of having to do the column."

  "Why would she want to do that?" Stanny-O narrowed his already beady eyes. "She's got quite the scam goin', don't she?"

  "Yeah, but she's…" Quinn shrugged. "She's not what you'd think."

  Stanny-O popped the last of the chocolate-covered mints into his mouth and swirled it around, thinking. "I've seen her on TV. She's a total biscuit. She never really struck me as the happy homemaker type, either. Is that what you're getting at?"

  Quinn looked at him blankly for a moment. "Her heart's not in it. She hates it, really."

  Stanny-O watched his partner carefully and straightened up in his chair. Something wasn't quite right about this exchange. "She told you all this, or this is just your take on the situation?"

  "A little of both."

  Stanny-O leaned his elbows on the desktop and rubbed a hand over his neatly trimmed goatee. A smile oozed across his face.

  "So how hot is she in person, Stacey? On the standard one-to-ten scale."

  Quinn shrugged. "I don't know. Five."

  "You, my man, are lying." Stanny-O got up from his chair and came over to sit on the edge of his partner's desktop, his polyester dress slacks straining at the seams.

  "Get your kielbasa off my work space." Quinn shoved him in the hip, but he didn't budge.

  "Did you make it with her or something, Stacey? What's going on?" His face was wide with wonder now.

  "God. Of course not." Quinn got up from his chair to get coffee just as his phone began to ring. Stanny-O waved him on magnanimously and picked it up, still smiling.

  "District Eighteen, Detective Stacey Quinn's desk, may I help you?"

  "My head still hurts."

  Stanny-O pursed his lips and tried not to snicker. "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Is there something the Chicago Police Department can do for you? We're here to serve and protect."

  "I … uh…" The woman seemed confused. "This isn't Stacey Quinn, is it?"

  "No. It's his partner, Stanley Oleskiewicz, but here he comes right now." He handed Quinn the phone. "I think it's her."

  "Her who?"

  "Horny Helen." Stanny-O doubled over in a laughing attack as Quinn ripped the phone from his hand. Quinn succeeded in shoving his partner off the desk and quickly turned his back to him.

  "This is Quinn."

  "Hi. It's Audie. Was that really your partner?"

  "Unfortunately. How's the goose egg this morning?"

  "Sore. Uh, I got another letter."

  So this was a business call. Quinn had assumed it was going to be social.

  The whole thing had ended rather awkwardly last night—she had refused to get checked out at the emergency room and left him standing in the middle of her building's underground parking garage. Not that he expected her to invite him up, but still…

  "Did you read it?"

  "I just finished reading it. It's awful."

  "We'll be right over."

  "No!" Audie nearly shouted. "Look, I'm sorry, Quinn, but can I just fax it to you? I feel very strange about what happened yesterday and I think you're a very … uh … unusual man, but I'm really not sure we should take this any further because I'm really not interested in—"

  "Fingerprints, Miss Adams."

  "Huh?"

  "I need the original letter so we can look for fingerprints. That's why I wanted to come over."

  The line was silent for a moment.

  "Oh."

  "But we can hash out that other part later." Quinn looked over his shoulder to see Stanny-O finally recovering from his laughing jag. "Are you at your office, Audie?"

  "Yeah."

  "Are your coworkers there?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Great. Keep everybody around. We'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

  * * *

  Audie's outfit fell somewhere between the proper pink suit jacket and the soccer uniform, Quinn decided. She was wearing a short black skirt and a gray silk blouse. Simple, and simply stunning on her.

  Audie's hair was loose and wavy around her face, and she wore just a hint of a rich shade of lipstick. At the end of her long and shapely legs were pretty clear-polished toes in a pair of black leather sandals.

  She nervously greeted Quinn and his partner at the door.

  "Five my pimply Polish ass," Stanny-O whispered to Quinn as they entered the reception area.

  Quinn and Audie orchestrated the introductions and Marjorie politely offered the detectives coffee.

  Quinn caught Audie's eye and she looked away. He casually examined the place. Like all the other brownstones on Chestnut Street

  near Michigan Avenue

  , this onetime Victorian mansion had been converted into posh offices. It was decorated in subtle mauves and greens,
and the furniture was a cheery floral print. A crystal bowl of fresh pink roses sat on a low table. The sunshine poured through a cozy set of bay windows.

  Obviously, it had been the original Homey Helen's office—all over the walls of the reception area were photographs of Audie's mother posing with celebrities. There was Helen Adams with Mother Teresa. Helen Adams with Margaret Thatcher, Nancy Reagan, and Princess Diana.

  In each of the photos, Helen Adams wore pink and looked poised, polished, and perfect.

  Quinn checked out the rest of the place and spied through a set of wide paneled doors what seemed to be Audie's personal office. It was a freakin' mess.

  "Thank you, ma'am," Stanny-O said to Marjorie as she handed him a delicate bone china cup and saucer. "This is a beautiful setup."

  Quinn snickered at the sight of fine china in the grip of Stanley Oleskiewicz's sausagelike fingers.

  "Oh, thank you, Detective," Marjorie said graciously, motioning to the sitting area. "Shall we all get comfortable?"

  The group chatted casually for several minutes and then Marjorie explained how the Homey Helen office worked. Regular mail was delivered about ten every morning and went directly to her desk, where she sorted it. As managing director of Homey Helen Enterprises, Marjorie ran the office, handled all the fan mail forwarded from the Banner, and conducted research, scheduled public appearances, and generally kept the column going.

  "She's been the backbone of the business since the beginning," Audie said, smiling at Marjorie. "She and my mom were college roommates. They came up with the idea for the column when I was about six."

  Marjorie nodded demurely. "I was the business major and Helen was the English major—I was the brawn and she was the beauty."

  Quinn grinned at Marjorie appreciatively. "I don't know about that," he said, noticing how the fine-boned older woman with pale blue eyes blushed under his compliment.

  "At any rate," Marjorie continued, "we've managed to stumble along quite well this last year, everything considered." She smiled sadly at Audie, and Quinn watched as Audie grabbed the older woman's hand. Marjorie took a breath before she went on.

  "I was quite pleased that Audie decided to keep it going, and I'm sure the sentiment is shared by her millions of readers."

  Audie grinned politely but avoided Quinn's eyes.

  "So you've been the first person to see all the letters, Miss Stoddard?" Stanny-O asked.

  "Yes, although Griffin helps me go through the mail if it's particularly busy. I think he might have found one or two of them, didn't you?"

  Griffin crossed a purple velvet leg over the opposite knee and jiggled his foot nervously.

  "I did," he said, frowning. "How long is it going to take you to find out who's sending these threats? Could it be the same guy that sent the dead flowers last year?"

  "Not long and it could be," Quinn answered. He gave Griffin Nash a careful once-over. The guy's outfit clashed so badly with the decor that Quinn's eyes were watering. The accent was from some Caribbean nation, he thought. The guy seemed agitated.

  "And how long have you been with Audie, Mr. Nash?"

  Griffin suddenly smiled. "I've known her for almost ten years. I've worked for her here since she took over the column, about fourteen months or so."

  "And you are…?"

  "Her friend," Griffin said with irritation. "And Web site manager. I update the page every day and put up the weekly features. I run her interactive chat site and her live on-line appearances. I answer all her E-mail inquiries and send out reminders and greetings to everyone who visits her site. I handle any technical problems."

  "Does that keep you busy?" Quinn was jotting down some notes in a palm-sized notebook.

  "Yes. The Homey Helen site gets thousands of visitors every day, from Milwaukee to Moscow."

  "Really?" Quinn kept scribbling.

  Unless she was imagining it, Audie detected some kind of subtle tension between Quinn and Griffin, and she sought out Griffin's eyes. He gave her a nervous smile.

  Audie stood up. "I'll go get the letter."

  "Here, allow me, if you don't mind." Stanny-O stood and walked with Audie to her private office, catching her elbow when she nearly tripped on the thick carpeting. He used a pair of long tweezers to pick up the envelope and carried it to Quinn on the sofa.

  Touching only the edges, Quinn unfolded the note. It was computer-generated, like all the others. He saw immediately that it was printed in a standard font on the kind of generic white paper stocked at any office supply store.

  Quinn scowled. The letter may have looked benign, but the words sure weren't. He read it as Stanny-O leaned over his shoulder:

  August 20

  Dear Homey Helen:

  I've found that human remains keep longer in the deep freeze if each section is first wrapped in waxed paper, then sealed inside a zip-closure freezer bag.

  Before seating, be sure to press out any air pockets. With indelible marker, indicate the exact body part and date the columnist was hacked to pieces—that way, you can always be sure of the freshness!

  Quinn looked up from the note at this point to share a wince with his partner. Then he continued.

  Let's plan on getting together on September 22. No need to RSVP.

  Fondly,

  Your most loyal reader

  PS: I simply loved your column on how to remove stubborn underarm perspiration stains!

  "Man, that's nasty," Stanny-O said, looking at Audie. "Human remains?"

  "And they're giving you a date," Quinn mumbled.

  Stanny-O rubbed his goatee. "He don't sound too happy with you, Miss Adams. Any idea why?"

  "No."

  Quinn looked at Griffin and Marjorie, noting the worry in their faces. Marjorie was now gripping Audie's hand. Quinn moved his attention to Audie.

  She sat primly at the edge of the chair, her knees tight together and her eyes cast down. Quinn watched her thick dark lashes flutter against her cheek.

  Her face was a fascinating combination of curves and angles, he thought. The cheeks and chin were round, almost plump, and that fullness was echoed in her very kissable mouth.

  But the shape of her jawline was more precisely cut, and the very tip of her nose ended in the most adorable little tilt.

  Audie's lashes suddenly flickered and she looked right at him. Quinn inhaled audibly at the sight of the liquid, catlike eyes.

  Stanny-O cleared his throat.

  "Miss Adams, we'll need that list from you as soon as possible, the one Detective Quinn mentioned yesterday."

  She nodded.

  "And then either Detective Quinn or myself will sit down and have a long chat with you."

  She nodded again.

  "Then we're going to need to get everyone's fingerprints, so we can isolate any unknowns," Stanny-O continued, "and we'll need to take a hard look at your past columns for any connection between the threats and what you were writing at the time."

  Griffin chuckled lightly. "Yeah, mon. All that talk of how to clean bathtub grout can really send a guy over the edge."

  Stanny-O chortled in appreciation, but Marjorie shot Griffin a look of reprimand.

  The detectives stood and thanked them for their time. It was then that Audie realized she'd intentionally avoided looking at any part of Quinn except his face, and she looked there only briefly and only out of necessity.

  But she'd blown it now.

  She'd just noticed how his button-down shirt opened at the throat, exposing ruddy, smooth flesh. She'd seen how his jacket hung straight from his broad shoulders and how his crisply pressed chinos clung to the long muscles of his thighs. She'd noticed he wore a delicate gold ring on his left pinkie finger, which struck her as odd—he didn't seem like the pinkie ring type.

  Autumn released a soft whimper of appreciation and tried to hide it with a yawn.

  "Audie?" Quinn stood close to her now. Everyone else had moved toward the door. "Are you free for lunch?"

  "No." Her eyes flew aro
und the room and she shifted her weight nervously. She could smell his aftershave! She remembered how hot his lips had felt on hers!

  "I need that list from you and we need to go over it. We can do it at lunch."

  She nodded and tried not to look at him.

  "Here's my card. Call me later this morning and tell me where we can meet."

  She took it from him brusquely and saw him to the door. Without another word to her, Quinn walked out.

  Audie eventually looked down at the business card she held in her hand. Under his name, he'd drawn a big arrow and written: "See back."

  She flipped it over and read the words written in a tidy, modest hand: "Are you falling for me, Miss Adams?"

  Audie's mouth gaped open as she stared at the closed door in disbelief. Wow—and she had thought Tim Burke was the biggest egomaniac she'd ever known.

  "Dream on, you cocky bastard," she whispered.

  * * *

  "This is an impressive list." Quinn leaned back comfortably in his chair. "And the time line is handy, too."

  "Wonderful."

  This was pure humiliation. Audie was glad she'd at least had the presence of mind to suggest they meet at the police station instead of a restaurant. With all the noise and motion and phones and talking in this big open room, there was little chance for personal remarks, let alone personal contact. She felt safer this way, if not less embarrassed.

  As Quinn busied himself with her list of ex-lovers, she let her eyes wander over his orderly desk. A computer and keyboard sat on a small side table directly behind him. A five-tiered metal in-box held stacks of files, neatly labeled by category. A black plastic desk organizer held pens in one tube, precisely sharpened pencils—points up—in another, and little compartments of paper clips, pushpins, and rubber bands. A pair of scissors labeled at the handle with the words "Quinn—Paws Off" was tucked in with the pencils.

  An ornate silver picture frame sat to the back center of his desk, but Audie couldn't make out the image in the glare of the office lights. She turned a little in her seat and leaned forward, as if to stretch. She almost had it…

  "My family," Quinn said, grabbing the frame and handing it to her. He scooted his chair closer and reached over the top, pointing, so near her now.