Authors: Lane Tracey
“They got ‘analyzed,’ as you put it, but I wouldn’t have done that with you.” His dark eyes
ask me to believe him.
“Why not?” I try to look away and for the second time tonight, I can’t. It isn’t just the deep, rich brown of his eyes and long
lashes that keep me riveted. He looks at me as if there’s no one else on earth.
“From the first time I saw you at rehearsal, I felt differently about you.” Now it’s clear why everyone swoons over this guy. The combination of words, eyes
, and accent will make you believe anything he says, do anything he wants. I shake my head like a wet dog, trying to clear the hormones and alcohol. It’s no use. His eyes pull me in deeper. “You kept making mistakes and would get really mad at yourself. It made me laugh. Then you would go off by yourself and work hard until you got it right. And you gracefully ignored all the dirty looks you got from Jennifer. I like you a lot for all that.” My God, he was watching all this?
“There’s one more thing.” His eyes are sparkling now.
“What’s that?”
“I love your long legs.”
I laugh, feeling self-conscious. “And
your
legs are probably killing you, being in that position for so long,” I say, deflecting the attention. “Why don’t you grab a chair?” Just as we both stand, the door to the study opens and Ian walks in.
“Here you are, Savannah! You’re a hard woman to find.” Ian strides toward us with a cheerful expression. Victor looks annoyed. Ian nods at him absently and smiles at me broadly.
“I’m just taking a little break,” I say awkwardly.
“Yeah, I lost you at the pool area and it’s been crazy. I’ve never seen so many people at one of these parties. I’m surprised to find a room with just two people in it.” His smile fades when he realizes what he’s saying.
“Precisely,” Victor says, crossing his arms.
“Well, are you having a good time, Ian?”
Pathetic
. But that’s the best my alcohol-soaked brain can come up with to soften the awkwardness.
“I’d have a better time if we could hang out.” Ian and Victor are glaring at one another now.
“Tell you what,
Niño
. If you go get Savannah a drink and let me talk to her for another five minutes, I’ll leave you two alone when you get back.”
“Really?” Ian asks warily.
“Of course,” Victor answers, his gaze steady, unblinking.
“Be right back.” We watch Ian’s hurried exit and I look up at Victor.
“Really?”
“No.” Victor grabs my hand, heads for the back of the study and leads me out French doors to a courtyard. There’s an ornate fountain with a cherub in the center spouting water. My heels click erratically on the Spanish tiles paving the courtyard as I try to keep up with his fast pace. With one sweeping motion, he lifts me up and sets me on the edge of the fountain. Then he gently removes both shoes, a kind of Cinderella’s slipper in reverse. He has me on my feet and nearly running toward a door at the far end of the courtyard before I can think.
“Victor, this isn’t right.” I feel really bad for leaving Ian. I can imagine his face as he walks back into the study and finds it empty.
“I take full responsibility. I’m kidnapping you.” His grip on my hand is tight; the look on his face amused, but intense, too. We’re at the door. I could resist and turn back. I look at long fingers holding mine and then up at those dark eyes that seem to have shut the entire world out except for my face. I nod and follow him through the door.
We walk for over an hour. The pace is slow in the warm air. Victor carries my shoes in one hand and holds my hand in the other. We talk about everything—our jobs, Las Vegas, the people we’ve met—everything except our pasts. I’m aware of this, but push it to the back of my mind. The alcohol clears from my system, but he still insists on driving me home. He says he will take care of my car and will see to it that Tink gets home safely. We hesitate at the door to my apartment. I don’t want the evening to end, but I can’t remember ever feeling so tired.
“I’m going to have to try to make it right with Ian, you know.” I’ve been thinking I’ll just have to throw myself at his mercy.
“He’s a big boy. He’ll be just fine.” He lifts my chin up and looks into my eyes with concern on his face. “You look exhausted. I would tuck you in, but that would be pushing it.” He kisses my nose, my forehead, and finally my lips. The kiss is light at first and then it isn’t. When we’re finished, I try to breathe normally. It takes time. I rest my forehead against his shoulder and feel him breathe in the scent of my hair. He finally sighs, steps back and holds out his hand.
“Purse, please.” Victor digs through the bag that has been obediently handed over until he finds my keys. He unlocks the door, but before he lets me go, he runs his hand down the back of my head in a sweet caress and kisses me softly.
“I will see you tomorrow.” His eyes are unwavering, promising me.
“That would be gr
eat,” I whisper.
I slowly close the door
, trying to memorize his face before it’s gone. Then I lean against the frame, my eyes closed, going over every gesture, expression, all the words we’ve spoken this evening. Except for leaving Ian, this night has been perfect and I go to bed only half-aware of my surroundings, nearly floating. In bed, my fingers trace my smile, remembering how his mouth felt. I know my dreams tonight will have nothing to do with blue-eyed men and danger, but will be filled with a dark-eyed man whose kisses still linger on my lips.
Chapter 11
The Signature Room in Chicago has unparalleled views. I like to be this high,
ninety-five floors up, towering above the city and lake, seated right up against a window that reaches all the way to my feet. The restaurant is deserted at five p.m. except for a couple at the bar. I take a sip of my drink and run the cold liquid around the inner surfaces of my mouth before swallowing. The Glenlivet Scotch whisky is older than my daughter, and tastes wonderfully rich and smooth. My gluteus muscles relax into the chair and the tension flows out of my neck and back.
I need this time to prepare myself for the arrival of the tracker. After she soiled my sanctuary during our last meeting with her fetid presence, I vowed not to let her near my precious belongings again. So, I’m sitting at this lovely restaurant in the middle of downtown, admiring the spectacular view
of Lake Michigan, trying to get into a Zen state before she comes. I even have my squeezy ball for tension release handy. And then, if all else fails, there’s my Glock.
Oh, God, here she comes. My muscles tense as my relaxed state flees like a pursued criminal. Lord, have mercy, what does she have on her feet? There
seem to be cast-iron stoves at the end of each leg. She mistakes my look of horror and repulsion for admiration.
“Harley
-Davidson Ladies Dipstick Steel Toe Riding Boot. They’ve got a male version, too.”
“I can’t wait until we’re finished so I can run out and buy a pair.” I would sooner have a needle driven slowly through my left eyeball than be caught dead near a pair. “And is that a new dress?” I ask politely. She’s wearing a shapeless sack the color of dog snot that comes just to the top of the Dipstick Shit-toe shoes. I nod approvingly at the mess.
“Why, yes, Howard.” The corner of the tracker’s mouth actually twitches upward. Dear God in heaven. Could she think I like her? How incredibly revolting and amusing. “It was so nice of you to ask me to dinner.” Is that what she thinks? Oh, please, oh Lord, oh no; don’t force me to watch her eat.
“Of course,” I say, hopefully recovering quickly. “A much more pleasant way to do business. Speaking of which, what do you have to report?” If we get down to business, maybe the unpleasantness will all be over with before I lose control. But Rita has another agenda. She is ignoring me, humming to herself, arranging her silverware just so. She suddenly whips her napkin in the air, nearly giving me a heart attack and waves it vigorously over her head.
“What can I get for you?” A waiter has materialized and is graciously awaiting her command. The waiter is tall and thin with a face like a clown fish, eyes way far apart.
“Johnnie Walker Red, double, ice on the side. Please keep them coming.” She settles back in her chair, contented, light glinting off her coke-bottle lenses. The waiter nods and leaves. She looks out the window at the view and starts licking the mole under her lower lip at an even pace. There are distant sounds of a busy kitchen doing routine dinner prep. The couple at the bar breaks out in laughter. Oh, come on. How long can you lick a mole?
My blood pressure is rising along with the bile in my throat when she starts pumping her lips in and out. Ah, she’s thinking. The waiter returns and sets a glass with amber liquid in front of her and a tumbler full of ice to the side. Rita takes a generous sip of her drink and digs several ice cubes out of the other glass with her thick fingers. She then pops the cubes into her mouth and crunches them loudly with her back teeth. Ice chips fly all over the table. She looks like an old dog eating very hard to chew dry dog food. I look around the room, feeling desperate. If I shoot her, there are too many damn witnesses. My squeezy ball will have to do for now. My eyes are closed; I’m taking deep breaths and ball squeezing when her monotone voice startles me.
“Taxi hailer at O’Hare
Airport told me an interesting story. When I bribed him enough. Seems our girl was approaching cars in the arrivals zone. She’d say something to them, they would shake their heads and drive off. After this happened three times, he was going to call security, but she sat down on a bench and broke down, crying. He felt sorry for her and let it go.” Drink finished, Rita’s holding her empty glass over her head, waving it. I know better than to hope for more information until she has alcohol, so I wait. It takes amazing self-discipline because I can feel my heart race at the news the Van Clief girl has been spotted. The waiter arrives, breathless, fish mouth gaping, to replenish her drink and ice.
“Bring the entire bottle of Johnnie Walker and a bucket of ice. The lady will order when you return.”
“A bucket, sir?”
“You heard me.” I approve of the hint of fear in the waiter’s eyes as he hurries off to carry out my orders. Rita’s slurping lustily at her drink. Soon she’ll be doing the Purina Dog Chow thing with her ice, so I grit my teeth in preparation. Sure enough, she begins masticating ice with verve and picks up her menu, holding it a half-inch from her face. Apparently satisfied with her dinner choice, she drops the menu, drains her drink, smacks her lips and belches.
“As I was saying, the taxi hailer didn’t call security because he felt sorry for her. She approached a fourth car and met with the same refusal, but on the fifth try, she got a hit.” Rita looks around as if she’s so parched she can’t possibly continue, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wait for this bit of information.
“What do you mean ‘she got a hit’?”
“She approached two guys in their early twenties driving an older model crew cab. The taxi hailer couldn’t hear anything, but he could see her give the driver money. She drove away in the truck and the two guys got in line at the cab stand.”
“What the hell?”
“The cab hailer said she had chosen older vehicles, SUVs, or crossovers. This was her first truck. She must have a lot of money on her because, the way I figure it, she was trying to buy the cars right out from under the people. No go until the fifth try.”
I’ve been straining forward to catch every word, but this news
knocks me back in my seat as I struggle to make sense of it all.
“If you’re correct, aren’t we back where we started? She could have driven off anywhere!” I’m so frustrated at hearing about this girl getting away yet again that I could shoot everyone in this ridiculous restaurant. Where is that sluggish waiter anyway? And what on earth does that braying couple at the bar find so funny? Idiots, the lot of them. As if on cue, the waiter appears. He glances at me and away again quickly, his fish face turning the color of spoiled milk. When he sets the various bottles, glasses
, and buckets down, items clank because his hands shake.
“What can I get you
?” he asks in a squeaky voice, not bothering with reciting restaurant specials.
“Ribeye, bloody. Lobster
bisque before. Hot fudge sundae after.” Rita’s monotone is dismissive as she is filling her glass to the brim.
“And for you, sir?” he quavers, not meeting my eye.
“Nothing. Just another Glenlivet.”
Rita has no reaction to my lack of appetite. She’s well into her drink, smacking, licking her mole, pumping her lips. I’m squeezing my ball with my other hand for fear of the freakish lopsided musculature I probably already have from all this stress. Rita lets me stew. My drink arrives in record time. Her soup arrives shortly after. She eats as I predicted. Earplugs could not dampen the deafening roar of her slurping and gulping. She has tucked in her napkin at her neck. Of course. She doesn’t want to accidentally mar the mucous hue of her lovely green gown with
lobster bisque. I wait in tortured silence, ball pumping left-handed.
“Actually, let me modify slightly what I said before. Ms. Van Clief learned how hard it was to buy a car outright no matter how much she was offering. So, she sweetened the deal.” Rita belches so loudly several people at the bar look over at us. I’m startled to see how the bar has filled up without my noticing.
“Pardon me. Good soup.”
You could knock me over with a feather that she’s excused herself.
“Go on,” I urge her.
“She said she would leave the car for them at the airport of a certain city so they could collect the car back.”
“How do you know this? Why would she do that? It would make her easy to trace.”
“Regarding your first question, I immediately put an ad in the paper and on the
Internet with a healthy reward for information about the transaction at the airport. Sifted through the phonies. Got the true response yesterday. A Sam Brandt said he got paid $12,000 cash for ‘this crazy chick’ to borrow his truck to drive it to the Denver airport. She said the truck would be in long-term parking as close as she could get it to the exit in four days. The truck’s worth $9,000 at most, so he figured it was a good deal even if she trashed it. His buddy already drove him out there to pick it up and the truck is back in Chicago safe and sound without a scratch on it.” I’m nearly speechless with excitement. It’s difficult to calm my breathing. My fingers rake through my hair in an uncharacteristic betrayal of agitation.
“Go on.” I’m proud that I sound so in control. But Rita is lapping at her Johnny Walker like a thirsty hound home from the hunt. This continues for quite some time. Oh, God, the eyelids are closing. I’m on my feet, waving for the waiter. He’s already on his way with a tray full of
ribeye. Perhaps some food will soak up enough alcohol so she’ll get the rest of the story out. The waiter fusses with setting up Rita’s dinner and asks me whether I want another Glenlivet. I wave him away impatiently.
“OK. She is or was in Denver. What else did you find out?” But I may as well have been talking to my fork. Rita is attacking her very rare
ribeye with unbridled enthusiasm. Her bites are enormous. Blood from the meat runs down her chin. She chews with her mouth open. I, who just murdered a man recently, find this a far gorier display. I must avert my eyes. Finally, able to take no more, my hands grip hers firmly across the table mid-bite.
“Rita, I must know this minute. What happened next?”
“Oh, of course,” she says, putting down her fork. “So, your second question—why would she let us know where she was going—well, it does narrow it down. She was getting a little desperate at the airport. She must have felt time was running out. We now know she went west, not east. I have people checking airlines, bus and train stations in Denver. She could be in Denver, but I doubt it. Still, we’ll check the runaway underground in Denver to be thorough. There are a lot of other big cities out west. My bet’s still on Los Angeles or Vegas, though.”
My pulse is finally slowing down to its normal rate. This is excellent news. I sit back in my seat with a jubilant sigh and Rita returns to her huge bites of
ribeye. I’m not as confident as the tracker that the Van Clief girl has left Colorado. A thousand miles is a long distance for a young girl to travel alone and she may—
My thoughts are interrupted by odd sounds coming from the tracker. They’re kind of barking, gagging, coughing sounds. Oh, I see. It
seems one of those gigantic pieces of ribeye was not properly chewed and is now stuck in her throat. Retribution for nasty manners. She’s turning red now and clutching at her throat. Starting toward a purple hue now. Interesting, I thought her eyes couldn’t bulge more than they already do naturally. They’re looking at me. Bugging out. Begging me to do something. Let me see. Do I need her anymore? Really, we’re zeroing in on the target. I can feel it. I don’t need her. She disgusts me. And it would be such a shame to intervene at this part of the dying process. She’s becoming quiet now. Her fingers are clawing at the table. Lovely. Damn! The waiter sees her.
And I’m up on my feet, pounding the tracker on her back, shouting for help. I haul her out of her seat and clumsily try the Heimlich maneuver on her. It doesn’t work because I don’t have the right point under her sternum. The waiter wrings his hands. I shove her sagging breasts aside, find the correct spot, settle my fist just so and shove in and up. A big clump of meat flies out of her mouth and lands five feet from us on the floor. Rita takes a deep, ragged breath as I plump her in her seat.
The waiter rushes water over to her. She keeps taking long, slow breaths and sips of water. When she’s able to speak, she says, “Thank you, Howard. Very heroic of you.” Her voice is the same monotone, but raspy now. Her eyes are the most open I’ve ever seen them. She’s looking straight at me. Is it my imagination or do I see a spark of malice in them? No, can’t be. She’s placid, maybe. Bovine, definitely. Certainly not malicious. Still, I feel unsettled.
“Least I could do,” I mumble.
“Yes,” she says ambiguously.
Silly woman. Why do I feel so uncomfortable all of a sudden? Well, it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s good she didn’t die. It would be difficult to bring someone else up to speed. What’s this buffoon of a waiter doing now?
“For your trouble, ma’am. Triple hot fudge sundae. On the house.” The waiter is grinning with tiny teeth, his expanse of gums like a deserted pink-sand beach. Rita’s eyes grow larger than they did when she was choking to death. The corner of her mouth twitches once in sheer delight. She digs in. I stand.
“It’s gotten so late. Forgive me my abrupt departure. Let me know the moment something else in the case breaks.” I drop more than enough money on the table to cover expenses and hurry toward the door. Just before leaving, something makes me turn around to look back at the tracker. She’s staring after me, her face absolutely blank. I give a little wave. She does nothing for a moment
and then waves back. As I approach the elevators, I’m trying to figure out what’s bothering me. It isn’t until I’ve traveled down all ninety-five floors that the answer comes to me. It’s her eyes. I couldn’t see the tracker’s eyes. Just restaurant light playing off her lenses.