And Now She's Gone(67)
There weren’t many people working at almost eight o’clock. There were more shadows pushing vacuum cleaners than clicking computer keyboards. That meant she could work in silence, work without expecting Jankowski to pop in, helmet hair in place, Stepford wife smile on her lips, steno pad in her hand.
Her mind free to focus, Gray updated logs, files, and clouds with all things Isabel Lincoln. Stuart Ardizzone had left a voice mail message: “Great conversation with Mitch Pravin yesterday. Thanks for the lead in that. Lemme know if you need anything or heard anything new.”
The dark outside her office was coming on hard, a December kind of dark, instead of July. The color of night in Los Angeles was milky purple and black, with sparkles of white and red from soaring airplanes and low-flying helicopters.
Not that Gray had been paying attention to the light beyond her office blinds. Her body’s clamor had stolen the thunder and she now covered her eyes with shaky hands. Was this pain, months after surgery, normal? Maybe Dr. Messamer had left a scalpel or a cotton swab in her wound before he’d sewn her shut? If she’d had her own tools right then—a scalpel, a knife, a fireplace poker, and a big cold bottle of vodka, Smirnoff even—she would have shoved one of them into her belly just to make the pain stop, or to simply pass out and wait for a cool, silky morphine cocktail administered by doctors who would correct Dr. Messamer’s mess.
Maybe the EMTs would drive her to UCLA or Cedars-Sinai this time, hospitals with clean beds, good food, and beautiful doctors—doctors like Ian O’Donnell, who could help her commit insurance fraud for sex. #Goals.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three …
By fifteen Mississippi, the invisible knife was pulling out of her gut and the twang was lessening to a twinge. Her muscles slackened, her teeth unclenched, and her fists opened into usable things. She was trembling, but then, every minute of the day couldn’t be smooth Newport Alive with Pleasure days.
“Where are the freakin’ margaritas when you need one?” She pawed through her purse and found the bottle of Percocet. She popped one, then slumped into her chair.
Her office phone chirped and flashed Nick’s number. When she picked up, he said, “You rang?”
“I did. Crazy idea.” Then she caught him up on Isabel and Ian, insurance fraud, T-boned Maseratis, and furniture store owners.
Nick didn’t speak.
“Hello?” A Perc smile twisted onto her face. “You there? Bored already?”
“Ian walked right into it, didn’t he?”
“Men and their penises.”
“Empires are built because of men and their penises.”
“Rome. Atlantis. The Death Star … And Ian was a willing participant in some of this.”
“You’re on a path. Why’d you call me? To tell me how awesome I am?”
“You’re awesome, but also…” Gray twisted in her chair. “I wanna check out that cabin in Idyllwild before I talk to Tea. I’ve been avoiding her.”
“Why?”
“Cuz I wanna catch them off guard. What if Isabel’s there at that cabin? Or worse? What if Isabel’s buried somewhere on that property? And since I don’t know what I’ll find out there, would you mind tagging along? I know you’re doing your own investigation—”
“And every contact I talk to says Dixon isn’t their client.”
“Could someone be lying?”
“It’s possible somebody’s working and not saying.”
“So?”
“So … I’m gonna keep on asking questions. I’m gonna keep on trucking.”
“Until then, come with me. I’ll buy you breakfast. And I’ll also put together a fun bag.” Wigs, glasses, colored contact lenses, gloves, and scarves.
Nick lived seven minutes away from Rader Consulting and didn’t take long to pick up Gray in his Yukon. She climbed into the passenger seat with opioid electricity razzing through her body.
“I brought you something,” he said.
She held out her hands. “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”
He placed a plastic bag on her palms. “Okay, open them.”
She peeked into the bag. “Aww. You remembered.” First, she pulled out the snow globe—palm trees, a blue wave, Santa on a surfboard, red letters that spelled “Hawaii.” Then she pulled out the can of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts with pineapple.
Nick had also brought Baby Ruths and Cheetos, Mountain Dew for him, and bottles of Pellegrino for her. “So, where am I going?” He cruised out of the parking lot.
Gray studied his profile. Those cheekbones, his lips … Damn.
Did I say that aloud?
She punched an address into the car’s navigation system. She popped open the can of nuts, then settled into her seat. She ignored the prickly heat that had killed unsuspecting queens. Like Cleopatra and … and Cersei and … was Jezebel a queen? Gray was also glad that Nick was now playing the Gipsy Kings on the stereo. Dancing music instead of sexing music. Thanks to Spanish guitars, she was now certain that she wouldn’t unbutton the fly of his jeans and give him road head. If he only knew.
“Only knew what?” Nick asked.
Oops. “Huh?”
“You okay?”
Alert now, Gray nodded.
“What did you take?”