by Lakes, Lynde
He took her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Remember everything I told you,” he said. “Follow the script!”
She made a thumbs-up gesture. “Gotcha,” she said, a little too bravely. Good, he’d scared her.
For luck, Razor gently touched Rusti’s lips with his own. Then he slid open the entry door in the hallway ceiling and hoisted himself up into the attic. From his vantage point, which was just off the living room, he could see about a fourth of the area. “I’ll be close by,” he said. “Remember, if anyone comes, stand where I can see you both, like we planned. And don’t trust anyone!”
Chapter Thirty
Rusti watched Razor disappear up into the attic. She could hardly breathe. She’d been so ready to make love with him again she hadn’t thought beyond her desire. Thank God Razor had sufficient control for both of them.
Before meeting Razor, she’d always been sensible, responsible. Why was she playing with fire? She’d already loved one lawman and lost. It was reckless to want something that couldn’t last, but she wasn’t sorry about their night of passion on the boat, bathed in starlight and moonbeams. Razor had stirred the embers of fires long banked, and excited her beyond anything she’d ever known. She feared when this was over, those feelings wouldn’t pass, and she’d long for him the rest of her life. Rusti put her hands over her ears to close out the ticking of the clock. Each tick repeated itself like a tattoo against her heart: you love him, you love him.
A loud clap of thunder shook the condo. She thought of movies she’d seen where thunder announced that the killer was about to claim his first victim.
She held out her hand and was surprised to find she wasn’t trembling. Everything that had happened since she first looked into Razor’s blue eyes had chipped away at her, molding her into someone more daring, more willing to take chances.
But that didn’t stop her insides from feeling like a mass of gelatin. In spite of the fear and anxiety of wearing the wire and putting herself in harm’s way, the whole situation was strangely exciting. The goose bumps and sweaty palms would be worth it if she managed to lure René’s killer into their trap.
Since the plan included packing up René’s things, Rusti decided to check the garage for packing materials. Her heart speeded when she opened the door and looked inside. In spite of the darkness of the stormy day, she could see René’s car. Her throat tightened. Her sister would never drive it again.
Rusti closed her eyes briefly to get past her churning emotions. Razor had arranged for Ben to drive it here from the Egyptia’s parking lot so she wouldn’t have to worry about it. Such thoughtfulness coming from a hardened undercover FBI agent never ceased to amaze her. The warmth that surged through Rusti was followed by her reoccurring concern about his relationship with Ben Guerrero. If the men were as close as it seemed, why hadn’t Ben driven her here today? And why wasn’t he here to help? Were they still on the outs? If so, would he turn against Razor and blow his cover?
Rusti felt for the light switch. She clicked it, but nothing happened. Sighing, she propped a chair against the door. Even with the door wide open, the light from the kitchen wasn’t bright enough to see much beyond the doorway. She grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer.
Stepping into the semi-darkness, she flashed the beam around and saw some flattened packing boxes propped against the wall. Just what she needed. As she reached for one, something in the corner moved. She leapt back, knocking the chair from in front of the door. It slammed shut. She screamed.
She regretted it immediately, but it was too late to take it back. She could imagine Razor swinging down from the attic and racing to her rescue. When he yanked the door open, he was crouched low, gun ready.
“Sorry, Razor. False alarm.” Fortunately, the darkness hid her flushed cheeks.
First relief flashed across his face, then anger. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I needed some boxes.”
“Why did you scream?”
“Something moved over there.” She felt so foolish, so inept.
He checked where she pointed. “It’s just the wind flapping that tarp.”
She could see that now. The wind had come up and was whistling around the garage door. “Sorry,” she said again.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you needed boxes? I would’ve gotten them for you.” He swept her off her feet, carried her to the living room sofa and roughly dumped her down on it. “Now, stay put. Going into the garage wasn’t in the script.”
Razor brought the flattened boxes in along with a roll of tape. He put them together, mumbling to himself. Then he headed back to the attic, pausing in the doorway. “I knew working with an amateur was a mistake.”
His words cut deep, but she lifted her chin and used anger as her armor. “Your attitude stinks, Mr. Big Shot Pro. It wasn’t an amateur who made the first mistake in this case. It was you.”
Regret washed through her. She shouldn’t have said that, but he made her so darn mad. From the beginning, he’d doubted she could handle herself like a pro. And she’d just proven him right. Not following his so-called script had put their plan at risk.
She felt like throwing things into the boxes, instead she found some tissue paper and packed everything with care. René’s things deserved nothing less.
Good thing Baxter hadn’t come running when she screamed. That would have been doubly embarrassing. Why hadn’t he come? Had the killer arrived and disabled him? The rain was coming down harder. What if the electricity went off?
René must have had nerves of steel to do undercover work. What about Razor? He was clearly uptight. He must be uncomfortable up in that stale, dusty attic. What did he think about all alone up there? Probably his job. What if he thought of her the way she thought of him? He had hugged her, even kissed her when she’d first arrived. Of course, that was before she’d screamed.
The blowing rain and the branches rubbing against the outside walls sounded just like someone breaking in. God, she had to stay cool and prove to Razor that she could do this. To keep herself from jumping out of her skin at every sound, she got busy again. After several hours of nonstop packing, she got hungry and headed for the kitchen. She didn’t expect to find much in the refrigerator but found a pleasant surprise. There was juice, a quart of milk, lunchmeat, bread, and a couple of Butterfinger candy bars. Razor must’ve stocked it. She made up a tray for herself and one for him. After closing the blinds, she whispered into her wire, “Hey, Razor. Lunchtime. Want me to come up there, or will you come down?”
He slid the partly open attic door wider and jumped down. “Look,” he said, “this is nice, but it’s not part of the plan. You have to forget about me and go about your business as though I’m not here. You’re supposed to be alone. Remember?”
“Here,” she said, shoving the tray at him. “Go back into your hole, and take this with you. As of now, you no longer exist.”
The day passed slowly, going from dreary gray to a chilling darkness. Razor had come down a couple of times to use the bathroom and grab a couple things from the refrigerator, and then, with minimal words between them, he returned to his vigil. Rusti was quickly learning that stakeouts took unbelievable patience and she definitely wasn’t cut out for it.
A loud clap of thunder shook the condo. Rusti went to the living room window and peered through the half-closed vertical blinds. Lightning cut the sky, illuminating the yard and spotlighting several likely hiding places in the trees and bushes. She saw no sign of Baxter. She hoped his absence meant he was well-hidden—not gone. After the first drops of rain splattered against the glass, she stepped away from the window. Let the men worry about their jobs; she had worries enough of her own.
****
Detective Baxter was wet and cold, and his eyes burned from being trained on René’s condo for the past few hours. He almost welcomed the distraction of his vibrating beeper, warning him that someone was trying to reach him. He noted the number and flipped open his
cell phone. Ordinarily, under these circumstances, unless it was Razor, he would’ve ignored it. But it was Buck Williams’ number. A tendon in his jaw twitched as he dialed. The line rang and rang. Had he misdialed? He tried again. Just as an efficient sounding woman answered, Baxter saw a man hurrying up the walkway of the condo. “Gotta call you back,” he growled. If anything happened to Rusti right under his nose, he’d be back pounding a beat.
****
Fully absorbed with carefully packing the delicate crystal, Rusti barely heard the tapping on the condo’s front door—then it became louder and more persistent. Her heart missed a couple of beats. Could this be what they’d been waiting for? She tensed in readiness.
“Who is it?” she called, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“Kirby.”
Rusti swallowed. The Egyptia’s bartender was tall and lean, just like the killer. But a killer wouldn’t announce his arrival by knocking at the front door.
“This isn’t a good time, Kirby,” she called. Why wasn’t he tending bar at the Egyptia? Had he gotten someone to cover for him? Why?
“Come on, Rusti. I’m not leaving until I see for myself that you’re all right.”
She really didn’t think he was the killer, so why was he here? She chewed her lower lip. Letting him in could blow the plan. But what if he was the killer? She raked her hair with stiff fingers and glanced at the attic opening. She couldn’t see Razor, but felt his gaze on her. “What shall I do?” she whispered into her tiny microphone.
“Let him in,” Razor said. “And stay where I can see you.”
Rusti imagined Razor tensing as she opened the door. Kirby handed her a bunch of pink carnations. “These are for you,” he said, “and this little card.” He handed her a small envelope. If Kirby was a murderer, he was playing it pretty cool.
It must be hard for Razor, trying to gauge the level of danger. To prove she could follow “the script” and make his job easier, Rusti drew Kirby to the center of the agreed upon observation area. Suddenly he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Acutely aware that Razor was watching, she stiffened. “Kirby!” she said, backing away.
“I’m sorry, Rusti. I don’t know what came over me. You’ve probably guessed that I loved René…and when I saw you standing there, looking at me with her eyes…”
Rusti gently touched his arm. “René never told me.”
“We dated for a while,” he said, “until about the time you came, then everything changed.”
Rusti trembled. Did Kirby believe she had something to do with their breakup? She looked into his eyes and saw nothing but grief. “You loved her very much, didn’t you?”
“I wanted to marry her, but I think there was someone else.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Did she ever say anything to you about that?”
“No,” Rusti said. “If there was someone, it would help to know who it was. Baxter says her death could be a crime of passion.”
Kirby shook a fist. “I could kill her murderer with my bare hands…” His voice broke and he closed his eyes a moment as though fighting to regain control.
Rusti felt an urge to hug him, but because of his earlier kiss, she feared her empathy might be misinterpreted. “I know,” she said softly.
“Me, too.”
Since any further display of kindness would only get her in trouble, she took his arm, walked him to the door and gently sent him on his way. When this was over, she would apologize for sending him out in such a downpour. Poor Kirby, he must be going through hell. Her sister was lost to him forever.
Rusti’s spirits lifted when she heard Razor call softly through the open attic door, “Good job, Collins.”
She beamed, feeling as proud as if he’d shouted it to the whole world. It had gone well, she thought. She’d learned a little more about her sister, consoled a man who desperately needed it, kept him as a friend, and sent him away quickly enough to maintain the integrity of the mission.
Her gaze fell on the carnations. She tucked the little note card in her pocket and went to find a vase and a cloth to wipe up the water Kirby had dripped in the entryway. With those things handled, she returned to the packing.
When she’d finished in the living room, she headed toward the rear of the condo. “I’m on my way to the bedroom,” she said into her little microphone.
Rusti paused in the doorway and stared at the bed where Petra had been stabbed. Her throat constricted. Dear God. She briefly closed her eyes, and then she squared her shoulders. The sooner she got René’s things packed, the sooner she could escape this room and its bloody memories.
Rain beat against the window the killer had come through that horrible night. Rusti pulled back the drapes only enough to make sure the window was locked. Not that a locked window had saved Petra’s life.
Like flashing strobe lights in a house of horrors, lightning scrawled across the sky, changing the night into a gruesome world of light and dark. The silhouette of a man darted behind a tree. Baxter? The killer? Her heart pounded. She closed the drapes and backed away from the window. Suddenly she wanted Razor’s arms around her, wanted it so much she trembled just thinking about it.
Rusti took a deep breath. If she went running to Razor, it would call attention to her amateur status all over again. She had to calm down. Everything was going according to plan. Baxter was outside, Razor in the attic. No one could hurt her.
She got a box and more tissue paper and started packing René’s knickknacks. She chose first a nine-inch replica of the RCA Victor dog, Nipper. It was black and white with one ear cocked up, listening. René had said it was a special favorite. Rusti stroked it, her throat tight. Now it was hers.
Rusti froze at a tapping at the window. An icy prickle shot up her spine clear to the base of her skull. “I think someone’s outside,” she whispered into the tiny microphone. “I’m going to open the drapes.” Her heart pounded against her breast. Slowly, she drew on the drapery cord. She gasped. A man’s grotesque face was smashed flat against the glass, straggly hair dripping.
“Rusti,” the man called. “Let me in.”
When it finally registered who it was, her breath returned to her lungs.
“False alarm,” she said into her mic. “It’s only Jerry.”
Chapter Thirty-One
What the hell was Nichols doing here? Razor wondered. It was clear they’d been successful spreading the word; the place was as busy as LAX on a weekend. He’d pushed the attic door completely open, ready to pounce, and it took a few seconds to quiet the adrenaline rush Rusti’s alert had caused. The poor kid must be going through hell—she was the one on the firing line. He’d hoped it was the killer so he could jump him and restore some sanity to her life.
Diverse emotions flooded through him—profound relief, resentment, jealousy, disappointment. He could handle the stress, but his proprietary feelings about Rusti sent him into a tailspin. Oh, crap. She was letting that joker in through the front door.
“You’re soaked,” he heard her say. “I’ll get a towel.”
She was back in an instant and led Nichols to the center of Razor’s field of vision. “Bend down,” she said.
Nichols complied. He seemed to be enjoying her playful attempt to remove the rain from his dripping locks. That Irish charm got women every time.
“I was so worried about you,” Nichols said, looping the towel around her and drawing her close. “The lights were on, but you didn’t answer the door.”
Razor felt like dropping down and punching the guy out. He tightened his jaw.
He felt better when she untangled herself from the towel. “With so much wind and rain, and the thunder,” she said, “I didn’t hear you.”
“You wanted to talk to me about something.” His voice was husky. “I left a dozen messages at your house.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Things have been so hectic, Jerry.” She took him by the arm and led him back toward the entryway. “I’ll be in touch, really. But you have to
go now.”
“What?” He laughed. “I just got here. Look, if you’re afraid I’ll make another pass, I promise to behave like a perfect gentleman.”
“I wish I could explain, Jerry, but I’m expecting someone and you can’t be here when he arrives.”
“I hope it isn’t that Razor Jones character. He’s bad news, Rusti. Remember what I told you about him. He and his buddy Ben Guerrero could be shafting the crime boss. In which case, they’re both as good as dead. No future there.”
“It’s not Razor. And it would be a great favor if you’d go now.”
“But—”
“Go. We’ll talk soon. I promise.” She opened the door for him.
Good, Razor thought. He was damn sick of her line of suitors coming by to gum up the works. He’d known she’d be in danger, but he hadn’t expected it to be from half the amorous bachelors in L.A.
As the time crawled toward midnight, Razor realized that the attempt to flush out the killer had failed, and he decided to call off the sting, relieved that no harm had come to Rusti. Baxter came in and the three of them had a brief meeting. No one suggested a repeat performance, and just as well—Razor had no intention of allowing any further amateur involvement. His next step would be solo. The question was, how would he protect Rusti while he was off busting the cartel?
****
The stakeout had taken its toll. Rusti was totally wiped out, and Razor had retreated into one of his silent broods. She was too tired even to try to coax him out of it, and after a hot shower, she crawled into her bed and immediately fell asleep. They’d planned to sleep late and spend the day resting and waiting for word from Baxter. Rusti woke first, well after nine o’clock. She glanced toward Razor’s room. The connecting door was open. He’d insisted upon it. She peeked in at him. His eyes were closed. She went into the bathroom to freshen up and get dressed.
It wasn’t until then that she remembered the card Kirby had given her with the flowers. Dear, harmless Kirby. Rusti pulled the card from her pocket. It was addressed simply to Rusti, in beautiful, Germanic script. Inside were only a few words. Rusti, please call me as soon as possible. I’m desperate. It was signed Zena.
