Authors: Cindy Davis
Without looking back, she steered the freshly waxed Mercedes between the marble columns, down the driveway, and north on Route 101. She had to be quick, but rational, without drawing attention to herself. Paige stopped only once, at the post office to mail the letter and ponderous package containing $650,000, taken at 4:15 a.m., from Stefano's office safe. The act brought tears to her eyes. She dabbed at them with her fingertips.
Normally Paige loved traveling this highway through Santa Maria and Mission San Luis Obispo. Many evenings while Stefano was busy with another of his perpetual meetings, Paige would go for a drive, stop, and sit on the steep cliffs to watch the kaleidoscope sunset drop into the roiling black Pacific.
She steered with a white-knuckled left hand while the right drummed nervously on the console. Bronze eyes darted often to the mirrors, memorizing the vehicles both ahead and behind, not knowing what she'd do if she spotted one that appeared to be tailing her, but needing to know all the same.
She stayed to the left at San Luis Obispo letting the tourists with their recreational vehicles, surfboards, and jet skis, exit for the Pacific Coast Highway. Sweat trickled from her underarms and soaked her bra.
The ocean breeze teased her billowy blue-black tresses, occasionally sending a stray strand across her nose. She turned the radio to a soft rock station, frowned, and searched for something with a beat, stopping when she came to an Oldies station. Paige smiled and her drumming became more rhythmic. She even broke into tune, singing in a strong contralto voice, suddenly stopping mid-word and pulling to the side of the thoroughfare. The tires skidded on the loose-graveled shoulder.
She laid her forehead on the steering wheel. What had she been thinking? When he realized she was gone, he'd check his safe and see what was missing. Then he wouldn't stop until he found her—and did the same thing he'd done to Luther. Her body trembled while cars whizzed past, oblivious to the angst in the silver Mercedes on the side of the road. There was still time to go back. She could put the remaining hundred thousand back in the safe, go to the spa, act like nothing ever happened; ride this thing out. Maybe he really wouldn't care that she knew about Luther. Maybe this morning he was just feeling her out, seeing how she'd react.
A light pressure on her left shoulder startled her so that she almost hit her head on the ceiling as she instinctively threw off the hand reaching for her. A sharp shriek escaped ruby lips, one hand groped for the button to shut the window; the other attempted to shift the car into gear.
"Stop!” commanded a voice as fingers clamped like claws into her flesh.
Her car shot forward several feet. The hand didn't let go, its owner ran alongside the vehicle. The firm, deep voice said, “Ma'am. Stop."
In the left side mirror Paige caught a glimpse of the crisp tan uniform of a California Highway Patrolman. She blew out the breath she'd been holding and braked, dropping her forehead down on the steering wheel. Stefano couldn't have discovered her disappearance yet; he had a meeting at nine. She'd timed everything so carefully. The only one who saw her leave was Carlotta, and Paige had told her she was flying to Oakland to go shopping. Stefano wanted her to buy a blue dress. No one ever batted and eyelash when she went shopping.
Paige lifted her head and leaned part way out the window, memorizing the officer's name and badge number. Why, she didn't know; if he worked for Stefano, what difference would knowing his name make? She'd be dead before she could report it. She blotted her hands on her slacks. “What is it?"
His lips remained in a tight line. “License and registration, please."
"What did I do?” Paige leaned across the seat and yanked a leather case from her purse, then slashed it toward him.
"Take them out of the case, please."
Paige sighed and slipped the items from the plastic holder and pushed them out the window. She watched in the rearview mirror as he got back in his cruiser. Officer Shea's mouth was partially hidden behind his microphone, but she could tell he was talking to someone. She sighed. An image of her Mercedes’ tires squealing and a high-speed chase flashed through her head. Paige shook the vision away and drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.
Many minutes later, he returned, bending to hand her belongings through the window. “Would you get out of the car, please?"
"What?"
"Get
out
of the car, ma'am. Now."
Paige's next thought caused her fair skin to blanch and her hands to cling tightly to the steering wheel. He wasn't a cop at all. Another vision popped into her brain: being herded into the back seat of the patrol car, driven into the desert, and disposed of.
Heart racing, she unhooked the seat belt and fumbled with the door latch, eyes scanning for a possible escape route. Down the highway? Surely he wouldn't shoot her with so many witnesses. Over the railing? Maybe she could disappear in the thicket below.
"What's going on, officer?"
Officer Shea backed several feet as she climbed from the car, the heels of her black Corredo Marettas sinking into the stony gravel. An insistent pinging reminded them both that her door was still open.
He reached out and slammed it shut. “Have you been drinking, ma'am?"
Paige inched up her sleeve and gave an exaggerated glance at her watch. “At ten in the morning?"
The officer located just the right spot between the two vehicles and drew a long line with the heel of his boot. “Stand here, please.” He tapped a toe where he wanted her to go. The whizzing traffic drove away his words, but the toe tapping replaced them perfectly. “Heel here. Walk heel to toe, to the end, arms out straight, like this.” Again he demonstrated, this time raising his voice so she could hear.
She planted a toe on the line and deliberately placed the other in front of it, eyes concentrating on her shoes. She didn't look up to ask, “Have you any idea how grievously humiliating this is?"
"Yes, ma'am.” He let her take another four or five steps before saying, “You can stop now."
She slammed her arms down to her sides making her gold bracelets rattle. “He instructed you to delay me, didn't he? To hold me here until he could send someone."
A frown creased the officer's forehead and a dimple formed in his chin, a dimple Paige, under normal circumstances, would have found cute. “Get back in the car, ma'am."
"Or are you just supposed to kill me outright?"
His eyes narrowed and he took a step backward. “You're free to go."
Paige's knees trembled as she climbed into the car. She threw the vehicle into gear, but Officer Shea was still speaking. “Don't you want to know why I stopped you?"
While Paige's fingers thumped the console, he stared back into the northbound traffic, as though he'd forgotten all about her. Finally, he spoke. “You were slumped over the wheel. I stopped to see if you were okay. Then you freaked and nearly ran over my feet."
"You startled me.” And he was deliberately keeping her there. Making time for Stefano to arrive.
He threw her a sheepish grin and turned his attention to the highway once again asking, as though he were an old friend she'd met on the street, “Hot party last night?"
"What I did last night is...” Paige put her hands to either side of her head. “Look, I had an appalling migraine and needed to rest my eyes for a moment, that's all. It's much better now, so I'll be on my way."
She eased her foot off the brake and let the car roll forward a few inches, then threw him her most disarming smile. “If it'll make you feel better, I'll go off the next exit so I can take something."
He cracked several knuckles, and she grimaced.
"I'll follow to make sure you're okay,” he offered.
"That's quite all right. I'm fine now. Headache all gone. Thanks again.” Why was she thanking him for being an accessory in her murder? The fingers of both hands thumped the top of the steering wheel.
"All part of my job."
"That's very kind of you. Very kind, I'm sure.” Paige watched for an opening and then moved the car onto the highway.
A sign suspended over the driving lane stated the next exit was a quarter mile ahead. Mr. Helpful remained several cars back, in her lane. She slammed a fist on the console when he followed her off the ramp.
Along the endless stretch of road, hordes of automobiles in four lanes, rushed east and west. Endless strings of mini malls and chain stores with easily identifiable signage dotted the length of the highway. Paige crept along, searching for a restaurant, eager to be rid of Officer Shea. A honk from behind and she glanced in the mirror. The driver of the SUV on her bumper waved for her to get out of his way. Stifling a wave of her own, she turned into the first available place that served food. She pulled into the parking lot, ignoring the officer, who wiggled two fingers over the top of his steering wheel. The high-powered engine roared as he sped past.
Unobtrusively, she watched his departure. Damn. Now she really did have a headache. “I wonder if this dive serves tea.” Paige searched for the tiny microphone in the colorful drive-thru board.
"Good morning. Could I interest you in a breakfast combo this morning?"
"I don't think so,” Paige replied indignantly. “Do you have herbal tea?"
"I don't think so,” mimicked the voice in the board. “We just have tea. Regular tea. From a bag. In a cup. With boiling water. Want some?"
"Fine."
"That'll be one seventy four at the second window. Please pull forward."
At the back of the parking lot, she tucked the car beside a yellow bakery van. She dunked her tea bag absently in the cardboard cup, waiting for it to become both strong and cool enough to drink. How long would it take Stefano's men to arrive? Was it worth making a run for it? No, there was no outrunning those animals. The real question was whether they'd kill her here and make it look like a robbery, or haul her back to Santa Barbara and make it look like an accident. Or maybe Stefano would lock her in some hidden room in the cellar and let her wither away the rest of her miserable life alone.
She located the headache pills in her purse and tapped out a pair of tablets. Then, as an afterthought, added another for good measure. She swallowed them dry, all the while scanning for Officer Shea's car. Good God, what had she gotten herself into?
A sip of scalding tea helped dislodge the lumps of aspirin stuck halfway down Paige's throat. An elderly Ford Taurus with rust in the wheel wells and a dent in the passenger door parked a few spaces away. A man of medium build and nondescript clothes hopped out. One hand ran two index fingers across a pencil-thin mustache. The other swung at his side as he trotted toward the building.
Keys. He carried no keys, didn't put any in his pocket. Paige pushed the trunk button beside her left knee. Not bothering to take keys or purse, she seized the suitcase from the trunk and slammed the lid. As nonchalantly as possible she strode to the Taurus, opened the door, tossed the case across the seat and climbed inside. The bag thumped onto the passenger side floor, crunching a litter of fast food wrappers, and blasting the aroma of ketchup and mildew throughout the car.
As hoped, the key was in the ignition. The engine groaned. “Come on you piece of shit. Turn over.” She held the key in position then added. “Pleee-ease.” After an eternity of grinding, the engine sputtered to life.
Paige controlled the urge to squeal the tires and grinned wondering if a Ford Taurus’ tires
could
be squealed. She eased the car out of the parking spot and waited behind a minivan attempting to make its way between the busy morning commuters. She gunned the car through a tiny gap in the traffic, something she'd never dare with the Mercedes, and grinned in satisfaction, turning up the ramp and onto the highway, seeing no reason to alter her original plan.
Paige often took Stefano's Lear jet for her shopping trips to Oakland or Frisco, or even Boulder. She loved to browse the shops in Oakland's Rockridge Market Hall, rarely purchasing anything, content to be on her own, free.
She was sure one of Carlotta's duties was reporting her whereabouts. Someone would be dispatched to check her ‘shopping’ story, but Paige's itinerary took her nowhere near Rockridge Market, nowhere near Oakland, and nowhere in California as a matter of fact.
She settled back in the Taurus, adjusted the seat and mirrors, checked to see if she was being followed, then pushed the speedometer to ten miles per hour above the limit. The aroma, tattered seats, and kid-fingerprinted glass sent quivers to her toes. She urged the car faster, wondering if the owner had auto-theft coverage. At the higher speed, a vibration from beneath her feet rattled the windows and bounced the keys against the steering column. The car held together, but Paige's headache pounded.
She took the turnoff for Route 152 toward Fresno, a place without much to offer as far as she was concerned, which made it a perfect place to get lost. Getting lost wasn't exactly what she'd put in the letter at dawn that morning; a letter sent to her ailing mother in Miami. Mom had warned her about Stefano. Not because of what he did for a living—she didn't know—but because his aura was bad. Paige should've listened to her mom. The letter simply said, ‘going away for a while, will call as soon as I can.'
This time, the tears flowed unchecked.
Fresno's narrow streets were heavy with workday traffic. Although the once thriving raisin producing community was history, Fresno maintained its aura of hard working, dedicated people. A history of old, established businesses, a town reluctant to let go of the past. The past, whose original Spanish architecture was nearly hidden beneath an amalgamation of German, Italian, and Armenian influences. All were a reflection of the heritage and stylistic passions of their creators, but somehow similar in so many ways, from the oft-used brick to the steeply arched windows.
Paige maneuvered through the city with the sun in her eyes, air conditioner blasting lukewarm air, fingers thumping on the steering wheel, eyes roving often to the mirrors. It took nearly an hour to find a parking garage with an available space, but she was unwilling to leave the stolen vehicle where police might be likely to spot it.