Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(3)
She understood the importance of appearances. She was in the image business. Thanks to skin treatments and relentless workouts, the sixty-two-year-old salon owner didn’t look a day over fifty, and Brynn hoped to be as lucky someday.
If she didn’t work herself into an early grave first.
A text landed on Brynn’s phone from Ross, her law partner. She swiped the screen with her free pinkie.
Perez is missing.
“Damn it.” She looked up. “I have to make a call, sorry,” she said, tapping Ross’s number.
He picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“In a meeting. What do you mean, ‘missing’?”
“We were supposed to have a video conference at nine to practice his testimony, but he blew it off, and he’s not answering his phone.”
“Try his girlfriend.”
“I did. That’s what worries me. She hasn’t seen or heard from him since Tuesday, and she has no idea where he is.”
Brynn bit back a curse. “Did you tell Reggie?”
“I’m headed to the office.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she said. “We’ll figure out what to do.”
As soon as the phone was down, Chrissy took Brynn’s hand and swiftly finished the first coat. She examined her work and did a quick second coat before switching on the drying lamp.
“I have to run. I—”
“Five minutes.” Chrissy’s stern look shut down any objections. She borrowed another lamp from a neighboring table and arranged Brynn’s other hand beneath the heat before walking into the back room.
Brynn gazed longingly at her phone. She wanted to call Reggie. And check her e-mail. Shit. How could Perez be missing? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was sleeping off a hangover somewhere. But a tight ball of dread formed in Brynn’s stomach as she thought about all the implications. Her eighteen-year-old client was going on trial for his life, and their star witness was MIA.
She took a deep breath and tried to relax, letting the lingering eucalyptus scent calm her. That worked for about a minute, and then she cast a furtive look over her shoulder. Chrissy had disappeared, and Brynn made a break for the cash register. She pulled out the credit card she’d left on top of her purse so she wouldn’t have to rummage with wet nails. After leaving an extra-big tip and signing the bill, she stepped from the cool salon into the sweltering summer heat.
Brynn slid into her black SUV and headed across town, which wasn’t a long drive. Pine Rock was a sleepy bedroom community just north of Houston—six stoplights and two churches.
Her sister’s Wonder Woman ring tone emanated from the speakers, and Brynn answered.
“Have you left yet?” Liz asked.
“We leave Sunday.”
“Perfect!”
“What is it?”
“Mike’s got a college friend in from out of town. We’re taking him out for Tex-Mex tomorrow night, and we want you to come.”
“I wish I could, but I’m slammed,” Brynn said.
“You’re just saying that because you think it’s a setup.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“It’s Tex-Mex and margaritas. Totally casual. And this guy’s cute. I know you’ll hit it off.”
Liz and Brynn had a special language when it came to men. “Hot” meant drool-worthy alpha. “Cute” meant a teddy bear, and the last “cute” guy her sister had set her up with had been three inches shorter than Brynn.
Not that it should matter. Who cared what he looked like if he was decent and smart and managed to get through the evening without burping or bad-mouthing his ex? Brynn was the problem.
“I really have to work,” Brynn said. “I have a whole new fire drill, as of ten minutes ago. Our star witness is missing.”
“Damn. Really?”
“Really.” She turned into the parking lot beside her building and whipped into her usual space.
“Well, call me if you catch a break and want to go out tomorrow.”
“I will. Love you.”
Brynn strode across the lot, careful not to catch her Jimmy Choo sandals in any of the potholes. She dropped her phone into her purse as she mounted the steps to the converted Victorian that housed the offices of Blythe and Gunn.
Reggie had bought the property three years ago when he moved his law practice from Dallas to Pine Rock. From the street, the place looked charming. But years of dealing with leaky windows and temperamental plumbing had dampened Brynn’s enthusiasm for the architecture. The building was originally a boardinghouse, but Reggie had renovated it to accommodate six lawyers, two paralegals, an administrative assistant, and a receptionist—not to mention the steady flow of clients who drifted in and out seven days a week. Big trials were the firm’s gravy, but Saturday-night arrests were its bread and butter.
The waiting room was empty of tearful mothers and hand-wringing spouses this morning. The receptionist’s chair was empty, too, and Brynn followed the smell of fresh coffee to Reggie’s office.
Faith sat behind her mahogany desk, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Brynn stopped short. Reggie’s assistant never cried. The mother hen of the law firm was unflappable, no matter how crazy things got.
Brynn stepped over. “Faith?”