Sole Witness

by Jenn Black

  Catching sight of Davis, the other officers melted backward.

  “What happened here?” Davis demanded as he stalked up to the clerk.

  “I don’t know, man, they were just unruly, that’s all. I told ’em no drinking in the lobby, but they didn’t listen. I’m pretty sure they were of age, but I’m not a bartender, man, I’m–”

  “Making me crazy. What happened with Lori Summers? The one whose room got broken into?” Davis raised an eyebrow and gave him a pointed stare.

  “Oh, her. Okay, first, this broad comes in. Sexy in a slutty kind of way. Easy. Not Summers—this other chick. You know, the kind with her shirt undone and everything just hanging out?

  “Anyway, she feeds me this line about how she needs some extra pillows—which, by the way, is a legitimate guest request—and how she’ll do me and whoever once I get ’em. So, I bring back the pillows, and not only is she gone, so’s half the keys.

  “What am I supposed to do, knock on every door on the north wing and ask if some blonde is throwing an orgy inside? I gotta man the counter. Spring Break. How was I ’posed to know she’d be vandalizing the place like a teenager?

  “Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it really was a teenager. Drunken assholes. Not that I condone underage drinking. I didn’t have nothing to do with it, you know? I’m just the clerk.”

  Davis finished counting to ten—twice—and tugged his notebook from his pocket.

  “Forget the kids. A woman stole the keys? What did she look like? Besides blonde. Height? Weight? Eye color?”

  The clerk shrugged. “I don’t know, man. She came in and all I saw was nipples, red lipstick, and visions of sugarplums, you know what I’m sayin’? Eye color? No idea.”

  Gritting his teeth, Davis glanced over his shoulder at the beat cops. One rolled his eyes, the other shrugged. They hadn’t had any luck with this clown themselves, or they’d be sharing what they had.

  Davis let his gaze wander around the lobby and he took careful notes on everything he saw. Suddenly, something above the counter caught his eye.

  “You have a freaking video camera and you didn’t mention it?” Davis demanded. “I need to see your security tapes.”

  “Aw, man, there’s no tapes. It’s not even wired. It’s a deterrent. You know, to crime.”

  Davis clenched his jaw and stalked over to the registration area. He slapped his notebook onto the cracked counter, flipped to a fresh page, and motioned to the clerk. “Come here. Now.”

  Tugging at his hands, the clerk shuffled over and slumped against the counter.

  “Okay. What did her face look like? Don’t tell me you don’t know. I don’t want to hear it. Was she fat? Skinny? Freckled? Tell me.”

  The clerk closed his eyes and gnawed at his lower lip for a moment.

  “No freckles. Mostly skinny. In a way. Kind of a round face, but not fleshy, you know? Like the skin was right over the bones. Hard to describe. Cheeks like Michelle Pfeiffer. Real noticeable. Lots of makeup. Don’t remember her eye color… but I do remember her eyebrows. Real pointy. Like Scarlett O’Hara. My mom made me watch that movie. I think an ordinary nose. It can’t have been all pointy or one of those snub pig-noses. I notice noses when they’re weird.”

  Davis’s pen flew across the paper, sketching as the clerk spoke. “Mouth? Teeth? Haircut? Identifying marks?”

  Eyes still closed, the clerk shook his head. “Sorry, man. Red is all I can think of about her mouth. Real white teeth, though. Remember that because of how red her lips were. Don’t know what kind of style you call it, but she did have big hair. Don’t know if that helps.”

  “Long? Short? Bangs?”

  “I guess bangs. Long bangs. Teased up at the top and over her ears.”

  Davis tapped his pen against the notepad. “Earrings? Tattoos? Help me out here.”

  “Don’t remember, dude. Sorry. Seriously, all I was thinking about was getting–”

  “Look at this. Tell me if I’m close.”

  The clerk opened his eyes and staggered backward in surprise. “Dude! That’s pretty good. You should be an artist. Me, I can’t draw more’n stick people.”

  Davis jabbed a finger at the notepad. “Does she look like this or not?”

  “Mostly, yeah.” The clerk studied the sketch, squinting at it from several angles. “Wrong expression, though. More sultry, you know? Like she’d go home with anyone who asked.”

  Blonde, red-lipsticked, and willing to go home with anyone.

  A perfect description of all thirty-two women Tommy Turner had been involved in over the last two months.

  Davis wished he’d at least gotten eye color. Less than half of the women had high cheekbones, though. And maybe half of those had white teeth. That left maybe eight potentials to re-interview and alibi.

  But, first, he needed to check out the crime scene.

  One of the uniforms led him to the room, not that the yellow tape was a dead giveaway. The bed was slashed and the walls gouged. Drywall particles and pillow fibers floated everywhere. He wasn’t sure if this was an evidentiary wet dream or a forensics nightmare.

  “Knife marks. Perp was armed. And angry,” one of the cops piped up helpfully.

  “Thanks,” Davis muttered, snapping on his gloves and ducking under the tape.

  Forensic techs were busy bagging everything in sight.

  Davis crossed over to one standing by the bed and asked him to compare any hairs to the one found at Tommy Turner’s studio and the exclusionary samples collected at Lori’s house.

  Lori. Was she safe? Where was she? Why would a groupie target her like this?

  Even if she had been sleeping with Tommy—although she’d sworn she had not—every single one of Tommy’s women had to have known that he was far from monogamous.

  Maybe Lori knew more than she was saying. Maybe she could identify the killer’s vehicle at the studio. Maybe she could even identify the killer.

  No doubt Lori was scared. She was in real danger.

  Davis was scared, too.

  * * *

  Trying not to freak out, Lori cruised southward down Gulf Boulevard slow enough to get honked at.

  Her bright pink boat was a beacon of conspicuousness and she had to get it off the street.

  Now.

  Catching sight of Tiki Nation’s massive thatched roof ahead on the right, Lori swung in and gratefully handed her car and keys over to the valet. Wherever he parked her car, at least it wouldn’t be visible from the road.

  Strands of damp hair clung to her face in the sudden humidity. Lori was sure the silhouette of her bag was outlined in sweat on the back of her shirt.

  She avoided the football field-sized “mingle” area already packed with swimsuit-clad bodies and headed instead for the tiki bar. She settled atop a tall barstool and dropped her bag beneath her feet.

  With the gyrating crowd in front of her and the ocean to her right, Lori had a clear view of the street to her left, only obstructed by a few palm trees and scattered tiki torches.

  Not that she had any idea what she was looking for. The killer could be driving the Goodyear Blimp for all she knew. He was the one with all the advantages.

  At the motel, he’d come so close…

  “What can I get you, honey?” asked the platinum-streaked bartender in a husky smoker’s voice. “Daiquiri? Margarita? Piña Colada?”

  Lori realized her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since she’d torn out of the motel like the devil himself was on her heels. Maybe he was. And maybe a drink wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  “Margarita,” she decided, giving the girl behind the counter a grateful smile. “Rocks. Salt.”

  “Coming right up. Want to start a tab?”

  With the kind of week she’d been having? Why not.

  Lori nodded, then jumped when loud music suddenly blared from her army bag.

  She hopped off her chair to fish in the front pocket for her cell phone and frowned when she didn’t recognize the number. She climbed back up
her chair and leaned her elbows on the counter before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Thank the Lord,” breathed a soft, deep voice. “Are you somewhere safe?”

  Davis. Lori’s stomach clenched and the shaking in her hands worsened.

  “How did you get my number?” she stammered.

  “Caller ID on my cell phone. You called me this morning, remember? Lori, you don’t seriously think I have anything to do with this, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Lori answered truthfully, shooting the bartender a frazzled smile when her margarita appeared before her. “You thought I killed Tommy. Seems to me you’re acting even more suspicious.”

  “Come on,” Davis said, his agony plain in the strained tone of his voice. “I never thought you killed anyone. I just thought you might know more than you were saying, that’s all. Why else would a killer come after you? Tell me where you are. I’ll put you up somewhere safe if I have to pay for it myself. Why the hell would I want anything bad to happen to you?”

  Lori traced the rim of her glass with one finger, knocking some of the rocky salt into her drink in the process. She took a deep breath.

  “I don’t know, Davis. I wouldn’t think you did, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But look at it from my point of view. Two people I know were killed in two days time. Someone is clearly after me. I hide out in the most disgusting motel I’ve been to in years, and the only person I trust enough to tell where I am is you. An hour later we’re shifting uncomfortably in the diner, and the killer magically appears in my motel room. You tell me what to think.”

  Davis sighed. “I’ll be honest. I have no idea what’s going on. But I do know that I have nothing to do with it and that you’re just as innocent. Not only that, but you’re in danger. All I want is to protect you. Lori, I–”

  Lori waited, but Davis didn’t complete his sentence.

  “Look,” she said finally. “Despite… our past, I can’t imagine any reason why you’d want to hurt me. I want to believe in you. I did believe in you. But the facts tell me something is fishy. If you didn’t tip off the killer, then you had to have told my location to someone who did.”

  “The only people who knew where I was going were cops, Lori.”

  “Then there’s a leak in your department.”

  “What? No way. I’ve known all of them for years. Except the new guys, who, trust me, are too green to leak anything anywhere. There’s got to be some other connection.”

  Lori leaned forward and took her first sip of the margarita. Man was that strong. She wiped salt off her upper lip with a small square napkin and considered his point.

  “Then you tell me, Davy. If the only people who knew where I was were cops, how else could the killer possibly know where I was?”

  Davis was silent for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “If you’ll let me come to you, I’ll protect you any way I can. I won’t tell anyone where you are, except my partner, and I’d trust her with my life. If it makes you feel better, I’ll even let her ride with me without breathing a word about where we’re going. It’ll drive her crazy, but she’ll let it go.”

  Lori took another sip of her margarita before pushing the still-full glass a few inches away from her. Better not drink it. Best to think clearly.

  She shut her eyes and let the noise envelop her. College kids shouting and flirting. Blaring music from a distant car stereo. Cars, honking from the log-jammed boulevard. The salty ocean, its waves barely discernable over the cacophony of sound. Glasses clinking.

  Nothing amiss. She was at a tiki bar, for Pete’s sake.

  Was she really safe here? Was she really safe anywhere? Should she trust Davis again? Her heart said yes. But then again, her heart didn’t know much. It had gotten her nothing but heartache when it came to Davis Hamilton.

  “Are you there, Lori? Please tell me you’re somewhere safe. Somewhere public. Stay there and let me come to you. I won’t put it in my report. I swear. I just want to keep you safe.”

  Lori opened her eyes.

  “All right. I’m at Tiki Nation on Gulf. It’s very public—there’s about a million kids here and I have a good view of the road. I’ll look for your car.”

  Davis breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’ll swing by the station and pick up my partner, and then I’ll be right there. Forty-five minutes, okay? With traffic, an hour, tops.”

  “Okay.” Lori snapped her phone closed and sat it next to her untouched margarita.

  “Something wrong with it, honey?” asked the bartender. “I can make another.”

  “No, it’s fine. I just decided I wasn’t thirsty after all. How much is it? I’ll settle up.”

  “Six fifty.”

  Lori reached in her purse and started to withdraw a twenty-dollar bill before deciding that she’d better hold on to her cash.

  Instead, she pulled out her Isla Concha debit card and handed it to the bartender.

  * * *

  Amber’s red-lacquered nails clicked against the keyboard as she punched up Lori Summer’s account for the fortieth time since she’d been back from her “dentist appointment”. A litany of four-letter curse words marched a marquee through her mind. She refreshed the screen one more time.

  Gotcha.

  No need for a sticky note this time—Amber knew precisely where to find Tiki Nation. West side of Gulf Boulevard, barely a two-cigarette drive from here. She slammed her rolling chair into her desk, slung her purse over one shoulder, and stalked toward the exit.

  “Hey, Amber. Where you going?” called out one of the revolting sorority sisters. “You haven’t even been back half an hour. Something wrong with your tooth?”

  “Something like that,” Amber replied with a brittle smile.

  She strode out the door, her heels striking the steamy concrete and her keys jingling in her hand.

  With a growl, she ducked into her Camry and pulled out of the bank parking lot.

  “Please let me get there in time,” she muttered under her breath. “Don’t let her have left yet.”

  Tiki Nation was a beachside dive, stretching the equivalent of a city block or so down the narrow strip of sand. Except for the covered tiki bar, the whole place was wide open—nowhere to hide. Even the bar was just a C-shaped curve of counter flanked with a few rickety barstools.

  Amber sped across town.

  One hand extricated her Glock from her purse while the other gripped the wheel.

  If little Miss Thang was anywhere near Tiki Nation, Amber’d be able to see her from the street, no problem. Matter of fact, if she was stupid enough to be standing around in plain view, Amber’d probably be able to take her out from the convenience and safety of her car, without having to traipse across the sand in four inch stilettos.

  Brilliant.

  Lori Summers, bane of Amber’s existence. Soon to be ex-bane. It was practically a holy execution. Amber Tompkins, huntress, bringer of death. Lori Summers, supermodel, super dead. God rest her slutty soul.

  Amber laughed out loud as she pulled onto Gulf Boulevard. Her Camry sliced from lane to lane, fishtailing around curves in her eagerness to silence her quarry forever, her gun and purse sliding around the seat next to her.

  Tiki Nation loomed ahead. Amber cut into the right-hand lane, downshifted, and lowered the passenger-side automatic window.

  Just ahead, a car pulled into the Tiki Nation lot. Damn.

  Amber didn’t need binoculars to recognize the car as belonging to Hot Cop and Preggo Pig. She fished around on the passenger seat for her gun and grinned when her fingers closed around the cool metal.

  If the detectives were here, that meant the model from hell was here, and this was Amber’s last chance to silence her.

  Amber pointed the gun out the open window, her gaze rapidly darting between the traffic on the road and the perfect view of Tiki Nation’s clientele.

  The skinny blonde perched atop the corner barstool loo
ked like exactly the person Amber planned to kill.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After checking her watch for what felt like the millionth time, Lori glanced up to see Davis step onto the curb.

  He bent and spoke to his partner through her open passenger-side window before turning back toward Lori and waving. He walked toward the tiki bar with a tentative smile and made “come here” motions with his hand.

  Lori slipped from the stool and bent to retrieve her bag. When she straightened, she found her view of Davis blocked by two drunken college kids.

  The boy, red-faced and leering, breathed all over the giggling girl while groping her with clumsy hands. When he goosed her, the girl squealed and jumped, sending drops of sloshing appletini spraying across Lori’s otherwise clean shirt.

  With a sigh, she reached out her hand to rescue the precarious appletini from the girl’s outstretched arm when a sudden blast rang out.

  Gunfire.

  The appletini exploded, sending broken glass and sticky sweet droplets flying through the air, spraying across Lori’s face and clothes.

  The boy crashed into the screaming girl, knocking her to the sand and covering her body with his own. With a yelp, the bartender dove down behind the counter.

  Lori froze, terrified, exposed.

  She was going to die.

  * * *

  Davis ran.

  Feeling like everything before him unfolded far too fast, he watched the partiers topple, everyone hitting the sand as fast as they could except for Lori, who stood alone and fragile, an expression of shock and horror frozen on her face.

  Horns honked, tires squealed, metal crunched.

  Davis could hear cars scraping against each other in their haste to avoid the drive-by maniac, but he didn’t turn around to watch. He kept his gaze fixed on Lori’s, who gave a sudden little jerk and crumpled to the sand.

  No. No, no, no.

  Davis sprinted across the beach as fast as he could, leaping over trembling bodies and trying to ignore the blood rushing in his ears.