But which director was the culprit—Peter, Hank or Jorge?
Her heart gave a painful jolt as Peter’s narrow, unassuming face and long, lean body took shape in the binoculars. Of the three directors, he had shown the most kindness to her, had been the most supportive from the start. Was his shy, earnest manner an act? Did it cover up a bitter, deep-seated grudge?”
“Oh no,” she groaned out loud. “Not Peter.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Ray muttered and released his 9 mm Sig Sauer from the leather holster at his hip.
“Be careful,” Crimson whispered. “Don’t hurt him.”
Ray slid the safety off. “I won’t,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”
In breathless silence, they watched as Peter reached the trailer. He paused by the metal wall that shone pale above the tarmac, rose on his toes and peered in through the small window. Appearing satisfied, he set off again in a stealthy dash toward the bicycle shed.
Crimson lowered the binoculars. In the darkness, she could just about make out Peter’s features as he slipped inside. The surprise on his face was almost comical.
“Ray? Crimson?” he spluttered. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Ray holstered his gun. “Pumping up bicycle tires.”
“What? There are no…Oh…Joke. Right.” Peter’s voice rose in amusement. He sat down on the floor, arms wrapped around raised knees. “Stakeout. It seems I’m not the only one with brains.”
Ray huffed. “You can stay, provided you keep your trap shut.”
Crimson stifled a smile. Peter had a habit of using any opportunity for an impromptu business meeting. He could never understand that others didn’t share his love of facts and figures.
Ray resumed his vigilant position. “Quiet. He is here.”
At first, Crimson saw nothing through the night vision binoculars but the blurred green contours of the landscape. Then he saw a figure. He was holding something in his hand. She lowered the binoculars. The clouds parted for a second, and a beam of moonlight glinted on metal.
“He has a gun,” she whispered.
“Quiet,” Ray snapped. His voice was like a dart—swift and sharp.
She watched as the agile, athletic figure clad in black skirted the parking lot, keeping to the shelter of the surrounding trees. Another shaft of moonlight illuminated his face. A face with a slim, newly grown moustache that added glamour to the handsome features.
Jorge. Crimson bit her lip not to say it out loud. Of the three directors, he was the most fun. Did his flirty, cocky manner mask ambition so fierce it stopped at nothing? Had all those teasing smiles, all those boisterous, silly jokes been a lie?
Ray uncurled from his crouch. “Stay out of sight,” he ordered and slid out, silent as a shadow.
In the meantime, Jorge had continued his journey around the parking lot. Now he burst into a quick dash across the open expanse between the trailer and the bicycle shed, and flung his body inside through the entrance. He tripped over Crimson and crashed to the floor, emitting a groan.
“Be quiet,” she whispered, tugging at his sprawled leg.
Jorge scrambled into a sitting position. “What the fu—?”
Ray slipped back inside. “Shut up or I’ll have to shoot you.”
Jorge glanced up and grinned. “Bullet in the brain? Is that a new fringe benefit?”
Peter guffawed. Ray silenced him with a glare.
Jorge swept his gaze around the bicycle shed, took in the concrete floor, the gray cinderblock walls, the narrow gap between the top of the wall and the corrugated iron roof. His survey came to a halt at the open entrance that had no door blocking access. “If more people have the same idea,” he muttered, “we’ll be like sardines in here soon.”
Ray shoved his gun in the holster. “No talking. And put that thing away.”
“It’s not real.” Jorge stuffed the pistol in the waistband of his snug black pants.
Ray cursed, rolling his eyes. “Save me from a bunch amateurs.”
“Ssshhhh,” Crimson hissed. “Pay attention. He’s here.”
The man wore camouflage. Muscular body in combat gear, face smeared dark, cap pulled low over his head, the intruder drifted across the landscape like a ghost. Not an amateur, this one, flashed through Crimson’s mind. As inevitable as a train gliding along the railway tracks, he proceeded to the trailer that rose in the middle of the parking lot like a gigantic sugar cube. He lifted a hand, pressed something to the wall.
Ray sprang up and yelled, “Put your arms above your head!” He rushed forward, holding out the gun with both hands. The figure in camouflage dove to the ground, rolled over twice, surged to his feet and vanished behind the corner of the trailer.
Recognition sliced through Crimson. His movements, quick but smooth, seemed familiar. How many times had she seen those brawny arms fling out beside her in the car, flashing to the rescue just as she was about to crash into something?
Hank? Tears welled in her eyes. Of all the directors, he’d been her enemy to start with, but they’d warmed up to each other. Damn, she’d almost come to look upon him as some sort of a father figure. Had he been playing her? Gaining her trust?
Ray set off in pursuit around the trailer. A gruff, masculine voice rumbled in the darkness, bringing the aging security guard to a halt. “Don’t be a fool, Ray,” Hank bellowed in the silent night. “You’re no match to me. I’m not coming out unless you promise to put your weapon away. Don’t touch the transmitter I attached to the trailer.”
Five seconds later, Ray and Hank walked up through the darkness. Hank did not make a sound. Ray’s footsteps echoed in irritable I-can’t-take-this-farce-anymore thuds.
Peter sounded cheerful. “Now that we’re all here, we can discuss replacing the overdraft with a short term loan.”
Jorge let out a groan of protest.
Hank raked a smug look around the cinderblock shed. “What are you bumbling idiots doing here?” His steel-blue eyes flashed in the blackened face. “I’ve got the perimeter wired and a transmitter mounted on the trailer. Ray has two security cameras focused on the parking lot. Why don’t we all go into the cafeteria and have coffee while we wait for something to happen?” He smirked at them. “Something real, not a bunch of fools playing soldiers.”
“Stop showing off,” Jorge complained. “We all know that you used to kick ass in the marines.”
Peter sprang up to his feet. “About the overdraft…”
By the thin beams of their collection of flashlights, they trooped into the cafeteria. Crimson’s heart beat in joyful leaps. She’d been a fool to suspect Peter, or Jorge, or Hank. Thank heavens there was not a traitor among them. As Oscar Wilde might say, to be betrayed by one person she trusted—Nick, that is—might be regarded as a misfortune, to be betrayed by several looked like carelessness.
****
The thick, sludgy coffee Crimson served with the express purpose of keeping them awake seemed to work. They waited, passing the time with small talk, ganging up on Peter to stop the conversation from turning into a management meeting. Almost an hour later, something in Hank’s army fatigues started bleeping. He shoved a black-smeared hand into a pocket, leaving a streak of body paint on the fabric. The man didn’t go for half measures, Crimson thought as she inspected his clothing. He looked ready to invade a small country.
“He’s breached the perimeter,” Hank informed them.
Following his silent gestures and soft commands, Jorge turned off the big flashlight they’d used to navigate around the dark cafeteria. Ray pulled out his gun. Peter held the door ajar to let Hank and Ray slip out first. The rest of them followed.
“False alarm,” Ray said. “It’s the night security guard.”
“Quiet,” Hank whispered. “Nobody move.”
The moon was out in full now, the clouds dispersed, and they had a good view of the guard in his blue uniform as he strolled across the parking lot.
“What’s that in his hand?” Crimson sai
d. “A bottle of water?”
Hank nudged her aside, ushering her behind the others. “No one carries a two liter bottle on their rounds,” he told her. “They carry a small bottle and keep refilling it.”
Crimson crept forward again, refusing to be treated like a fragile female. She saw the guard come to a halt by the trailer. He unscrewed the cap, lifted the bottle toward his mouth and tipped his head back, as if to drink, but his head made small, jerky movements while he scanned his surroundings to make sure he was alone. Then, fast as a lizard, he darted forward, upended the bottle, and started pouring the contents along the base of the trailer.
“Freeze,” Ray yelled. “Hands above your head.”
The guard dropped the bottle and snapped up straight. One of his hands darted into a pocket, came out again. A silver cigarette lighter glinted in the moonlight. Then, with a clang and a whoosh, the security lights attached to the roof of the factory came on, their golden beams piercing the darkness, illuminating the security guard, like a solo dancer on the stage.
Crimson recognized him. He was the dark, short and stocky one, the one who had bad skin and puffed up features. Squinting against the bright light, he raised his hand. The lighter clicked, sent out a flicker. He stood there, unmoving, the small flame fluttering in the chilly night breeze.
“No,” Crimson yelled. “Don’t.”
He ignored her. Instead, his gaze followed Hank, who was easing forward, hands held out before him, palms out, in a calming gesture that contrasted with his militant, battle ready posture. “Come on, son,” Hank was saying. “We can sort this out. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
“What the fuck do you know?” the guard said in an angry snarl.
“I know more than you do, son.”
“Fuck you.” The guard dropped to his knees and held the flame to the fuel he’d poured out on the ground. A wall of fire shot up, an explosion of orange light that for a second cut through the night darkness.
Beside the fireball, the guard rolled over on the tarmac, his body in a tight coil. Sprinting up to his feet, he set off at a fast run, but he stumbled and fell, landing with a hard thud, face down, arms spread out. Flames licked at the legs of his blue uniform.
Behind Crimson came yelling voices and the sound of running feet. She tried to control her breathing, tried to keep it even. She saw Jorge and Peter rush past her, each carrying a fire extinguisher. Working together, they quickly put out the flames that found no fuel in the metal structure of the trailer once the gasoline fumes had burned out.
The guard sprawled on the ground, foam coating his legs. Crimson hurried over to join the men clustered around him. The smells of gasoline, of burning fabric, and the sharp, chemical odor of the foam mixed in her lungs. Breathe. Breathe. Her fingers curled around the inhaler in her pocket, but her throat didn’t swell up, and her chest didn’t tighten.
Hank poked at the fallen man with the toe of his combat boot. “‘Who are you?” he bellowed. “What are you up to?”
“You bastards.” The man scrambled up to a sitting position. He puckered his mouth to work up saliva and spat over his shoulder. His eyes sought out Peter, and then darted to Crimson. “American company. American cars. That’s what you tell the public. Hell, soon there’ll be nothing American about them but your lies.” He dashed his hand across his mouth. “Ever heard of Thornley Electric? Hmm? Ring any bells? Hmm?”
Hank spoke, his tone calm. “I know the name. We dealt with them until this year, when we switched to a Japanese company. Cheaper, better, and faster. Thornley Electric kept missing delivery dates.”
“No loyalty.” The security guard jutted out his chin. “That’s what my father said. Do you know what happened to him? Hmm? He lost his business. Lost his house.” His heavy features drew into an ugly snarl. “I blame you. All of you.” He spat again, the globule of saliva reaching far enough to land on Crimson’s black Reeboks.
Something cold and hard gathered inside her. It wiped out all compassion, every trace of sympathy. It swelled up from thousands of days of bleeding feet, hundreds of disappointments. Of dead hopes, of failed dreams.
She stepped closer. Hank put out a hand to stop her, but she brushed him aside. “No,” she told him. “Let me say my piece.” She glanced over to Ray, who stood to one side, the sidearm still in his hand. “Cover me,” she ordered. “Shoot, if he does anything stupid.”
The guard looked belligerent. “I’m not armed.”
“Good,” Ray said. “Then I don’t have to worry about you shooting back at me.”
Crimson waited until she stood almost on top of the security guard. She scowled down at him. Waves of anger roiled like a storm inside her, and some of it had nothing to do with the man sitting on the ground. “I’m a ballet dancer,” she told him. “For every role, I have to audition with a hundred other hopefuls. If someone is better than me, I don’t get the job. If someone’s appearance fits the part better than mine, I don’t get the job. If someone is friends with the producer, or the star, or the director, I don’t get the job. Every day of my career, I put myself on the line, for rejection, for failure, time and time again. That’s life. Why should your father’s business be exempt from having to measure up? No one is. If someone is better than you, they take your place. Grow up. Live with it, like the rest of us do.”
The guard said nothing but she could see that she’d gotten to him. He was blinking, looking sullen, his small, protruding eyes refusing to connect with hers.
Hank gave the guard another nudge with his boot. “What do you want to do with this piece of shit, Crimson?”
She turned to Peter. “How does it work with the insurance?”
Peter replied promptly. “The security company was negligent. Our insurance company will insist that their insurance company covers the damage. It may take months to resolve. Years, if it goes to litigation. Too late to help us inside this financial year.”
“How much do we pay for the night guard?” she asked.
“Around twenty-five thousand a month.”
“Fine.” Crimson addressed her words to the security guard. “For ten months, that’s a quarter of a million, about half the value of the damaged cars. If you can convince your bosses to reimburse every penny we’ve paid since the start of the year, we’ll let you go. They can decide what to do with you, and they can sort it out with the insurance company. Otherwise, we’ll call the cops, here and now.” She pointed to his radio. “Start talking. I expect you’ll need to get a lot of people out of bed.” She raked a tired smile at the men around her. “Let’s go and make more coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”
As they trooped in, the subdued security guard trapped between Ray and Hank, Crimson accepted the night had revealed two things about her. Despite the dust on the concrete floor of the bicycle shed, and the smoke from the flames, and the fumes from the fire extinguishers, she had not had an asthma attack. The doctors had told her stress could be a trigger. She believed it now. But not the face-the-villain, pull-out-your-gun type of stress. The kind of stress that came from dancing on the stage every night and fearing that she might not be good enough. It was the pressure of dancing, of performing, that had made her sick.
The second thing she’d learned was even more frightening.
She had the capacity to be ruthless.
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Chapter Fourteen
“I want it to be something like this.” Crimson swept into an arabesque, one foot en pointe, the other leg extended behind her, raised up toward the showroom ceiling. She craned her neck to look at the three directors. “I want it, cast in silver, on the hood of the new Spurs. Like Rolls Royce has the Spirit of Ecstasy.”
Jorge clucked his tongue. “No can do. You’ll breach their trademark.”
Crimson held the pose. “The lawyer has looked into it. If we make it an exact replica of me, we’ll be okay. I’m allowed to put my likeness on the cars we make.”
Hank circled her. “With you standing on one
toe like that, it’s going to be a weak joint. Easy to snap off. They’ll get stolen.”
“So, we’ll make them in chrome instead. Make the joint a clip-on. We’ll send the owners a replacement they can just clip on. It could become a cult, people stealing them.”
They discussed the idea, wrapped up the rest of the questions on the agenda. It had been a month since they caught the vandal. The security company had reimbursed the fees paid since January. If everything went well—if they got a real buzz going on at the auction—perhaps they had a chance to meet the profit target for the year.
She’d heard nothing from Nick.
Not that she had expected him to chase after her. Crimson pulled a face as she put on overalls on top of her leotard. Who was she kidding? Of course she had expected to hear from him. She’d thought he’d bombard her with emails and phone calls, begging her to marry him. Not for her, of course. For the company. But nothing. Nada. Not a peep.
However, she suspected the directors were keeping in touch with him. Running the business just seemed too easy, problems solved even before she got to hear of them. Every time someone needed her approval for something, they gave her a clear, simple explanation, and a recommendation that merely required her to say yes.
Her phone rang.
“Hi Crimsy, it’s Mom.”
Crimsy. Her heart jolted. The name had been Nick’s idea. No one else had called her that…which meant that her mother must have seen Nick, and they must have talked about her…
“Crimson?” her mother said. “Are you there?”
“Hi, Esmie,” Crimson replied. “I’m here.”
“I wish you’d call me Mom.”
“Hi, Mom.”
Esmeralda laughed. “Are you free? Myrtie and I have a surprise for you.”
“Now?” Crimson glanced at her watch. Five o’clock, almost the end of the day.
“If you can spare time for me in your busy schedule,” her mother said in the plaintive tone mothers use to remind their children of the importance of the parental bond.
Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease Page 17
