Lethal(75)

“Tori, did I wake you up?”

Not Honor and not Bonnell, who were the only people on earth whom she might forgive for calling her at dawn. “Who’s this?”

“Amber.”

Tori scowled and flopped back down onto her pillow. “What? And it had better be good.”

“Well, just like you instructed me, the first thing I do each morning after turning off the alarm is to turn on the sauna and whirlpool in both locker rooms so they can be getting hot. Then when all the lights in the studio have been turned on, I unlock the front door, because sometimes there are people waiting—”

“For godsake, Amber, get to it.”

“That’s when I check the main number’s voice mail. This morning, somebody left a weird message at 5:58, just a few minutes before I opened up.”

“Well, what was it?”

“ ‘What does Barbie see in Ken?’ ”

Tori sat bolt upright in bed. “That’s all she said?”

“Actually it was a man.”

Tori thought on that for several moments, then said, “Well, isn’t it obvious to you that it was a crank call? Don’t bother me with crap like this again.”

“Are you coming in today?”

“Don’t count on it. Cover for me.”

Tori ended the call and bounded out of bed. She skipped doing her hair and makeup, which she never skipped, and dressed rapidly in the first clothes her hands touched when she reached into her closet. Then, grabbing her keys and handbag, she left through the front door.

But halfway to her car in the driveway, she noticed a beat-up panel truck parked at the curb across the street, about a third of the distance to the corner. Anyone inside it would have an unobstructed view of her house. She couldn’t tell whether or not anyone was behind the wheel, but Doral’s words came back to her. I’ll be on you like white on rice.

Maybe she’d been watching too many crime shows on TV, maybe she was being super-paranoid, but she’d never seen the truck on her street before, her best friend had been kidnapped yesterday, and she’d been threatened and manhandled by a local hoodlum.

She’d rather be paranoid than stupid.

Rather than continuing on to her car, she bent down and picked up the morning issue of the newspaper that was lying in the wet grass. Pretending to read the front page, assuming a casual saunter, she retraced her steps back into the house and soundly closed the door behind her.

Then she quickly went through her house, slipped out her back door, and, cutting a path that couldn’t be seen from the street, walked across her lawn, which melded into that belonging to the house directly behind hers. There was a light on in the kitchen. She knocked on the door.

It was answered by a handsome, buff young man. He was cradling a smug-looking cat in his arms. Tori despised the cat, and the feeling was mutual. But she adored the man, because he’d once told her that in his next life he wanted to be an unapologetic diva bitch just like her.

He was a client who never missed a workout. Well-defined biceps bulged when he pushed open the screen door and motioned her in. “This is a surprise! Hon, look who’s come to call. Tori.”

His partner in this, the only gay marriage in Tambour, whose body was equally buff, entered the kitchen as he speared a cuff link into his sleeve. “Hell must have frozen over. I didn’t know you ever got up this early. Sit down. Coffee?”

“Thanks, no. Listen, guys, can I borrow a car? I gotta go… somewhere… in sort of a hurry.”

“Something wrong with your Vette?”

“It’s making a funny noise. I’m afraid it’ll quit on me, and I’ll be stranded.”

She hated telling them such a transparent lie. They’d been excellent neighbors, and over the years had become loyal friends, dispensing expensive wine and commiseration each time she got divorced. Or married, for that matter.

They looked at her, then at each other, then back at her. She knew that they knew she was lying, but if she tried to explain, they would drive her to the nearest loony bin.

Finally the one with the cat asked, “The Lexus or the Mini Cooper?”


Upon seeing Stan, Crawford exclaimed, “What the hell?”

Under other circumstances, Stan might have enjoyed the deputy’s humiliation and bafflement, but he could feel the egg on his own face. Unused to being made a fool of, he was trying very hard to keep his dignity intact and his fury under control. It wasn’t Crawford he wanted to lash out at, however. It was the man who, twenty-four hours ago, had robbed him of Honor and Emily.

“My daughter-in-law’s cell phone,” he said, extending it to Crawford.

He snatched it from Stan. “I know what it is and who it belongs to. How the hell did you get it, and what are you doing here with it?”

“Well, one thing I’m not doing with it is playing Thomas the Tank Engine games,” Stan retorted.

Crawford activated the phone. From the screen, the cartoon steam engine smiled up at him.

“It’s Emily’s favorite game,” Stan told him.

“So they have been here.”

“Those are my late son’s clothes,” he said, motioning to the damp heap on the boat console. “There’s food and water below. Empty cans and wrappers. Yes, they were definitely here, but they’re gone.”