Survival Instinct

by Doranna Durgin

  But when she hung up the phone she found herself staring at it balefully, as if it was at fault.

  Rumsey, back in her life. Rumsey, the man who’d rigged those felony charges against her. Rumsey, the single person who could take one look at her and know exactly who she was.

  Crap.

  She changed into one of the suit outfits—the short skirt, barely there camisole and tailored jacket. It was a lean combination and it made her legs look impossibly long; the unusual chocolate brown shade brought out her contact-colored eyes. From her room she called a limo service and hired them for the day on Hunter’s credit card, requesting a luxury sedan and a driver who knew how to keep appearances.

  She had the limo pick her up at a nearby flower shop, where she acquired several small daisies that she tucked into her hair above her ear. Put-together and yet confidently carefree, that was Maia Brenner. She leaned forward to hand the driver one of her Yellow Pages. “I need to visit some printers.”

  “All of them?” he said in doubt. He was as advertised—trim and neatly dressed, one of those spare men who would never flesh out, his hair silvered at the edges of its conservative cut, his tie precisely knotted and his currently wrinkled brow holding just the right amount of deference for the question.

  “That depends on how fast we find the right printer,” she said. “I’m looking for someone with high standards and creative, impeccable work on invitations and announcements.”

  He gave a decisive nod. “That’s better, then. I can narrow that down for you.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she said, using her warm Maia voice. “Also, I’ll need a driver frequently during my visits here. Would it be all right to ask for you?”

  “It would be a pleasure, ma’am. You can ask for Bill Chantrey.” He put aside the Yellow Pages, checked his side view mirror and pulled smoothly into traffic.

  “Please, Bill—may I call you Bill?—I’d feel much better if you called me Maia.”

  “Miss Maia,” Bill allowed in a broad Coastal accent, unwittingly becoming part of her deliberate trail through town. Before she was done, she’d have him convinced she was throwing her own party, complete with the implication that the occasion would offer a select group of people an opportunity of some sort.

  If Longsford checked her out—and he should—he’d learn just what she wanted him to. Maia Brenner was in town to do business, and if Longsford wanted in on it, he’d get the distinct impression he’d have to move fast.

  The first printer was a bust; she knew as soon as she entered the shop that they weren’t of the caliber Longsford would use. In these high-tech days where genteel formality often fell by the wayside, he always sent beautifully printed invitations. One of the national entertainment magazines had gone so far as to print a photo of one in their piece on a recent party.

  Dave had been thorough in his research, she’d say that for him.

  At the second printer’s she walked in and caught the proprietor’s eye in an instant. Maia was a woman with class, someone used to buying what she wanted and used to making things happen. She said nothing, nodding a fractional greeting before she put the printout on the counter and pushed it toward him.

  He put a finger on it, pulling it closer, and pretended to examine it before he nodded. “This is one of ours,” he said, and pushed it back to her.

  She smiled, guileless and relieved. “I’m so pleased to have finally found you,” she said. “I love the look of the invitation, and would like something similar for an upcoming event. I’d choose my own font, of course—this has a lovely bold, masculine look, but that’s not quite me.”

  “Not quite,” he said, somewhat bemused at her take-charge approach. Good. The less time he had to think, the better.

  “But if we could use the same paper, and that ink—the embossing is perfect, and I love the matte surface—I’d be delighted. Do you have a font book I could look through? And I’d love to see that paper.” She dug through her fashionably petite purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This isn’t so much an invitation as it is an announcement, but I think it’ll look wonderful in a small fold-over version, don’t you?”

  He traded his font sample book for her carefully printed words about a cocktail party at a swanky hotel. Peering at them through the glasses sitting near the end of his nose, he gave a little nod at the simple lines of invitation, but then looked up at her in question. “That’s it?”

  She smiled as if quite delighted with herself. “It’s enough. They’re going out by hand.” She pushed the font book back at him. “This one. What do you think?” Also a bold font, but arguably feminine. Perfectly appropriate, even though the cards would never be distributed. She couldn’t come in asking for the details of Longsford’s invitations without a good backstory, and she had to support the backstory with action.

  Not to mention that should Longsford hear about it, he’d only be more convinced that she intended to follow through with her efforts to sell the Ranchwood property. Her proposal would suit anyone on the hunt for charitable donations and eventual profit on the side, and he’d know it. Opportunity knocks once, and then moves on….

  The printer was nodding at her choice. Karin pulled out a tiny notebook and flipped it open, also producing a classy, expensive pen that Dave might or might not have missed by now. “And what’s the name of that paper…and the ink?”

  “Arches Cover, slate,” he murmured, making his own notes. “How many of these would you like printed?”

  “Two hundred,” she said. “I know it’s not much…I could do the same on almost any desktop these days. But the quality…the impression the invitations give…it just wouldn’t be the same, don’t you agree?”

  “A rhetorical question, I assume,” he said. “And do four-by-five-inch cards suit you?”

  “Perfect. What was that ink again?”

  And he told her as he finished writing up her order, even making sure she had spelled it right. He promised the results within a week, and he gladly took her credit card number for a deposit.

  Her own credit card this time; this was an expense likely to stand out to any Hunter accountant’s eye, especially should the sudden activity on the card bring the account to anyone’s attention. She’d already transferred most of her Ellen accounts into Maia’s holdings, but she didn’t have nearly enough to finance this gig and then still move on. She might well have to pay herself back by completing the scam.

  She waited for the thrill at the thought, but it didn’t come. She still managed to smile at the nice man behind the counter, and she left the printer with the information she’d come to get. It was as she was leaving that she suddenly understood. She’d planned to have someone at her side for this job…and she didn’t.

  Bill the driver didn’t open the shop door for her, but he did spring from the car to open the back passenger door. “You stayed a few moments, Miss Maia,” he offered, as he slid back behind the wheel. “Was that the jackpot?”

  Karin smiled. “That was indeed the jackpot. Now…I have a little shopping to do. Women’s accessories, that sort of thing. Can you recommend a spot?”

  “Just leave the driving up to me,” he promised, and deftly navigated the thickening traffic.

  Karin lost herself in the details, staring at the note in her hand. Now she needed an entirely different sort of printer to forge an invitation for Longsford’s party two evenings from now.

  After that it was just a matter of wooing him, and the wooing wouldn’t be hard. Not with an investment tailor-made to suit both his greed and his need to establish control. It might take a week or so…and she certainly still had details to sort out. People to hire as extras, a few more technical things to sort out. If she’d been on her home turf, she’d have known exactly who to go to. Here…

  She’d know more before the evening was over, one way or the other.

  She parted ways with Bill in the late afternoon, peeling off a generous tip for his day’s work and reserving his time f
or Longsford’s party. It was getting a step or two ahead of herself, as she had yet to acquire the invitation—but then, that was what she was about to start working on.

  She’d given herself five long blocks to walk before she reached the hotel, here in the middle of rush hour. The streets were jammed with traffic and the sidewalks likewise, making it difficult for a woman with a handful of shopping bags to make any graceful progress. Karin sidestepped several near-collisions until she found the older man who suited her needs. For him, she contrived to trip into his path.

  Her shopping bags went flying; she bumped into him and he into her during their efforts to recover her belongings—the scanty panties and lacy bras she’d bought just for him. And he didn’t have the slightest clue when she lifted his watch.

  After that she sorted out the lacy things with efficient cheer, stuffing them back into random bags and making apologies and calling him a gentleman. For a moment she was worried—it had been a while since she’d seen a man’s face so red—but he went on his way with swift, stable strides and she decided maybe he wouldn’t have a stroke after all.

  She didn’t look at the watch until she was back in the hotel room, a smooth journey with no more bumps or jostles. There, she dumped the lingerie on the middle of her big queen bed and pulled the watch out from the tangle.

  Oh, yeah. A large Tiffany Mark bracelet watch. Self-winding, in stainless steel. Well over two thou retail.

  This would get someone’s attention.

  She pulled off the Maia clothes, hanging them with neat precision. She’d need to grab some food, but first of all she had to get out of here unseen. She wasn’t leaving this place as Maia. She pulled on a pair of tight, worn jeans, not especially stylish but attention-getting all the same. A black turtleneck, taken from Dave’s thrift-store purchases. Her own worn army surplus field jacket over it all…and Dave’s Ruger stuck into the deep pocket of that jacket. She slicked her hair back tight, turning the blond society coif into a mean ponytail, and pulled out the brown contacts. She scrubbed her face of its gentle makeup and applied mascara and a hard eyeliner, leaving the rest alone. A few things in her back jeans pockets, the watch in an inside jacket pocket, a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap on her head with the ponytail sticking out the back…

  Ready to go. She checked the hall and she slipped out the door and into the stairwell; half a flight of stairs down got her to the main exit door. She hesitated there long enough to insert her door key into a planter of early annuals. Tonight would be the riskiest part of this whole operation, and if she happened to get searched by the people she hoped to find, she didn’t want to give up anything but the watch. No ID, no key card, no credit cards. Just some cash, a watch and a lot of attitude.

  On the other hand, with the Ruger in her pocket, she hoped to avoid anything that up close and personal.

  She walked a few blocks away from the hotel and picked up a battered taxi, waving it down in the dark. When she told the driver she wanted to check out the southeast pawnshops, he turned to look at her askance, assessing her expression. Then he turned back to the road with a shrug, and accelerated into traffic.

  She paid him to wait at the first place, where she idly played with the watch and asked questions about special-interest printers. The man behind the counter turned impatient fast and bitched at her for wasting his time.

  The second store visit netted her the grudging suggestion that she try Freddie’s. The cabbie rolled his eyes when he heard their new destination, and this time he opened his mouth. Karin cut him off. “I know,” she said. “But it’s where I need to go. And I’m a big tipper.”

  Another eye roll, but he took them there. A tight little storefront with a darkened shoe-repair place on one side and a dimly lit sex-toy shop on the other. Bars across all the windows, of course. Looked just about right.

  Karin leaned forward to catch the cabbie’s attention. “Wait for me.”

  He gave her a dour look behind an overgrown mustache. She slid out of the car, striding confidently for the pawnshop door, one hand on the Ruger in her pocket and the other already holding the watch. She pushed inside to the inevitable jingle of bells and quickly spotted the security cameras. Three of them. This guy wasn’t taking any chances. A few more steps of the crowded store revealed that the cash register was behind security glass.

  Yup. This looked like the place.

  “We’re closing!” a man called from the back, bored with her already.

  Karin held the watch up in clear view of at least two of the security cameras, dangling it enticingly from her fingers.

  Yup. Here he came. She heard footsteps with a limp. When the man came into sight from the back room—grizzled, beefy and clearly a candidate for hip replacement—she lowered the watch but kept it in sight. “It’s yours, if you can give me the right information.”

  He grunted. “And just how hot is it?”

  She didn’t pretend otherwise. “You’ve got a day or two.”

  “Whatta you want?”

  “I’m looking for a printer.”

  He grunted again. “Try the phone book.”

  She sighed loudly, and stuffed the watch into her coat pocket. “Oh, please.”

  A shrug. He eyed the pocket where the watch now resided.

  “Look. I give you the watch, you’ve got something over me if you want it. Meanwhile, I’ve got a special print job to run. It’s a one-time job, then I’ll be out of here. I’m not moving in on anyone’s turf.” She cocked her head. “Though I could, if I wanted to. Just in case you think I might blunder around leaving tracks to this place. Not gonna happen.”

  “I should think that?” The very picture of innocence. Deeply sarcastic innocence at that.

  “A name,” she said. “The go-to guy. Where I can find him. That’s all.” She withdrew the watch but kept it close to her body this time.

  “Tiffany’s?” he asked, not quite believing it.

  “Just something I bumped into.” She smiled at him, knowing he’d catch her meaning just fine.

  Someone else came into the store; she stepped aside so she could keep them both in view at the same time. This fellow was scruffy—way beyond fashionably scruffy—and he had a mean, leering look. At least ten years older than Karin, he’d gone far past youthful indiscretions and straight to loser.

  He said, “Hey, Freddie, you got nice company.” He turned to Karin. “Don’t suppose that’s your cab what just took off?”

  Karin glared at him. “What’d you say to him?”

  He grinned. “Just my natural charm.”

  She looked him up and down with distaste. “I can imagine.” And then, when he took a few steps toward her, she shook her head sharply. “I can imagine quite well from here, thanks.”

  He stopped, but she didn’t like the looks of him. Too confident, too anticipatory. He was playing with her, and didn’t think she’d know it. He said, “Nice watch,” and couldn’t quite hide the greed in his voice.

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “That’s why I took it.” She angled her head back at Freddie, but kept a close eye on the unwelcome newcomer. “Just write it down, Freddie. We’ll make the swap. I’ll handle my business and be out of this area for good.”

  Freddie exchanged glances with the man—he’d inched a little closer to Karin and clearly thought himself sly for it—and shrugged, a gesture limited by Freddie’s own beefy nature.

  Karin almost tsked out loud at the obvious nature of his underlying decision. Write the stuff down, then have the scruffy guy pounce on her for the watch without ever giving anything away. But she wanted the information, so she kept her tsking to herself until Freddie was done, holding the paper up for her inspection from a distance.

  She was supposed to reach for it, to be distracted and off balance, not noticing the other man. And she did reach for it, snatching it out of Freddie’s thick-fingered grip even as she drew the Ruger and jammed it into the belly of the other man, stopping his sly move short.

  “
Whoa,” he said, and his hands shot up, surrender and denial both. He backed away in slow motion, casting meaningful glances at Freddie. Appeal. He expected the man to do something, and no doubt there was a sawed-off behind the counter somewhere.

  But Freddie didn’t look like a fast man, and he looked like he knew his limits. “You got what you came for. Now what about that watch?”

  She could have snorted and left, but she didn’t. He’d been right to be concerned about her credentials and the effect of her activity on his turf. And she had indeed gotten what she’d come for. Don’t cross the local players unless you want them popping up to jam up the con.

  Karin watched them both as she pulled out the watch and tossed it underhand at Freddie. “All yours,” she said. “Of course, if you’ve scribbled up some nonsense here, the cops will know where to look for that watch.”

  He waved her off with such disinterest that she knew he’d stopped toying with her. She’d earned her way to the local printing expert—a woman she would visit the next day—and with any luck she’d never see Freddie or his friend again.

  Said friend was easing toward the door. Karin stopped him merely by aiming the gun not at him, but at the spot just ahead of him. To continue, he’d have to walk right into her sights. “Hey,” he said. “I’m not part of this.”

  “Keys,” she told him.

  “Whatta you—”

  “Keys.”

  In the background, Freddie grunted. “You scared off her ride, dope. Next time maybe you’ll check things out before you try weaseling in.”

  But the man sulked. “It’s a motorcycle.”

  She only smiled at him. “It’s a beautiful night for a ride.” It wasn’t; it was chilly and she wasn’t dressed for the wind of a motorcycle ride. But she wasn’t going to wait for another cab. She held out her hand, twitching her fingers in a little come-hither gesture meant for the keys. “Toss ’em.”

  He fished on his belt for the release to the big jangle of keys by his side, a sullen eye on the Ruger. When he freed the key, he tossed it just to the side—an invitation to reach out and become off balance, or to miss the key altogether.