His eyes widened as he looked up at me, expectant, like a puppy dog wanting a treat. “You think you could help me, Ray? I could really use your help.”
I sat perfectly still in silence, until Adrian became uncomfortable. It was my favorite trick.
He sat back, downed the rest of his beer.
“I’m still working for your wife,” I said. “She employed me, 200 pounds a day, my first client. I’m also working for a Dan Branson. You know him?”
Adrian stood, knocking back his chair, and swung wildly. I stepped to the side. I was a bit sick of being cracked over the head. I sent my elbow careening towards his temple. He crashed to the floor. The bouncer came over. I waited for them to throw me out. But the big fella turned the screws in his head and arrived at a different conclusion. He pointed at me: “You, you’re okay,” he said. “He, he has to leave.”
He picked Adrian up, looping his hands under Adrian’s armpits, and dragged him through the restaurant, through the bar, and threw him out onto the street. All the while, Adrian protested. I even felt a teeny bit sorry for him. But the steak was excellent so I kept my seat.
The waiter came over. “You alright, sir?”
“Yes. Another drink, thanks. And one for the lady.”
I nodded in the direction of a tall, hippy-looking chick at the bar. She was graceful, smooth, elegant. She wore a beautiful, flowing green dress that sparkled in the light and showed off the hair under her arms when she held her arms up to tie her hair behind her head. I’d seen her once before, on the deck of an oil tanker captained by a crazy environmentalist. I remembered the cigarette she’d put in my mouth and how she said she just wanted to see me before I died. Maybe it was a bad omen, seeing her here.
The waiter handed her a drink—something fruity, I guessed—and then brought mine over to me, setting it down on the table. She turned and looked in my direction, raised her glass, winked. I knocked mine back at the same time as she took a sip. Ten seconds passed and she slid gracefully into the chair next to me. “I was hoping I’d see you again after this morning.”
“This morning?” I asked, took another sip of my drink.
“At the funeral.” She held a dainty hand up to her lips, kissed it, and then waved. “Saying goodbye to your friend, the photographer.”
“You know about him?” I asked.
“We met, Andy and I. He was nice. I liked him.” There was a flirtatious edge to her voice. She raised her syllables at the end of her sentences. “A lovely man, a lovely man,” she said. “It was a shame, a crying shame.”
“You were the woman in black.”
“Why, didn’t you recognize me, darling?”
I had. I just hadn’t realized it was her. The way she moved, something about it had caught my eye, and I knew that I’d seen it before. I decided to change the subject before I got into any more trouble. “How’s the rebellion going? Worked out how to stop the oil drilling?”
Her laugh was a flutter of butterfly wings. “Oh, I figured that out years ago. No, nothing quite so exciting.”
I finished my drink and set it down on the table. “I don’t know your name,” I fished.
“But I know yours,” she said, winking.
I stood up, held out my hand. “Ray Hammer. Pleased to meet you.”
She didn’t shake, didn’t offer a name. “I don’t just give out my personal details. Mr. Hammer.”
“I’m not asking for your star sign, just something to call you.”
“Call me whatever you like, darling. It makes little difference to me.”
“Cynthia,” I said. It didn’t suit her. “No. Maybe Indigo.”
“Oh, I’m not an Indigo. That doesn’t work at all,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Oh, I like this place,” she said. “It reminds me of high school parties and late nights.”
“That doesn’t seem so long ago. You’re quite young,” I said.
“I’m older than I look. People tell me I have an old soul.”
I remembered the way that she looked at me when she put the cigarette in my mouth. There was something about her eyes that did look old, like she understood the way the world worked, that she was wearied by it as I was but she’d found a more beautiful way of expressing it. She touched my arm playfully, and the waiter brought over another drink and set it down in front of me, another one in front of her. She was only halfway through the first one.
“Hurry up and finish that, darling. I want to do some terrible things to you.”
I was tired of terrible things happening to me, but the way she said it, and the dulcet tones coming through those soft, rounded lips suggested that the terrible things would be incredibly enjoyable. Her hand tickled up and down my arm on the side that wasn’t grazed, sending shivers running through me. I felt that stirring that I’d felt in the graveyard when I’d seen her slip away. She was more than stunning. She was an enigma, and I wanted to be enveloped by her.
“Come, let’s go,” she said. “My car is outside.”
I downed my drink and the world spun as I stood up. I somehow navigated my way across the restaurant to the bar and made a dick of myself as I tried to pay.
She waved a gracious hand. “I’ve already settled the bill,” she said, and before I knew it, we were sliding into the back seat of a long white Cadillac limousine. Her driver waited patiently in the front seat, a shadow behind tinted glass.
She sidled up next to me, threw one leg over and her lips made soft trails up to my ear, and then forward around my mouth, and I felt her tongue warm inside my mouth and dizziness overcame me. Her perfume was intoxicating, different, subtle, somehow familiar. We were well and truly in the throes of passion when the limousine pulled to a halt. Our hands were exploring each other as our mouths worked up and down necks, cleavage, chests. The driver wound down the panel that separated the front from the back.
“We’re here,” he said, not even seeming the least bit surprised by the near-pornographic scene playing out just inches from him. I realized suddenly that I’d never known a hippie who had the money or the means to secure a limousine for their own personal transport, but she was doing things to me now that I hadn’t felt for a long time, things that I hadn’t felt with any other woman, and I wanted to be lost with her.
And then, she was stepping backwards out the door, dragging me by my arm, pulling me up the steps. I hadn’t even realized where I was in my hazy daze. We were back at Dump City. Home sweet home.
“Have you got your key?” she whispered in my ear as we reached the door of my motel room.
I felt my lust shrivel up inside me at the thought of what awaited in my bed. Dear Pavel. What was left of him, at least. “I can’t do this.” I panted.
“Sure you can, darling,” she said. “It’s easy. Just let me lead the way.” She felt around in my pocket for the key, hand brushing mischievously against the bump that let her know that while my mouth was saying no, my body had an altogether different opinion. She found the key, pulled it out.
I grabbed her wrist. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.” I pushed her away, gently but firmly.
“Come on. It’s okay, darling. Calm down.” She turned, still had the key in her hand. “Do you always get this aggressive when you’re drunk?” And then, her eyes mellowed. “It’s kind of sexy. I like it rough, you know.”
I felt everything inside me stirring, shivering, wanting her desperately. “It’s a bit messy in there,” I said. “How about we go to your place?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said and came forward, and her mouth locked onto mine and her hand worked the key into the lock and she turned it, pushed open the door, and stepped backwards into the room.
Chapter 21
Legs
She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the dark room. I was panicky now. “Don’t.”
“It’s okay, darling. It does smell a bit dank in here, but that’s fine. I’ll open the windows later, . . . after.” She re
ached down to the hem of her dress and rolled it up her thigh, lifting it up and over her head, stretching her arms as she did so. She let it fall to the ground, a soft, silky green puddle.
“We can’t,” I said, pulling my flask out of my pocket. I lifted it to my lips and it slipped out of my hands, dropping to the floor.
She placed a long elegant leg, ending in a stiletto heel, on the flask. “Leave it.”
I was crouched down to pick it up, and my eyes slid upward along that never-ending length of leg. Her silky white skin shone in the light from the bathroom doorway, her legs taught, supple, tensed. I felt my hand touch the top of her foot. I tried to lift it off the flask. She pushed down harder. Her muscles tensed. Blood rushed away from my brain and I felt an alluring fog descend over me. She grasped the back of my head with her hands, running her long, elegant fingers through my hair. It felt divine. She pulled me forward into her and I let my brain fully depart my body, but there was something there nagging at the back of my mind: Pavel. Pavel. Pavel. A ghastly mantra.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
I tried to pull away, but she drew me in tighter. I breathed in deeply. I savored her alluring scent and my lips began to explore her soft inner thigh. She let go with one hand and hooked her thumb around the band of her panties and pulled them down. I breathed in again and allowed my tongue to dart out, to explore, to taste her damp delight. She pulled me in deeper and lifted one leg over my shoulder. I was lost in her, and then my brain pulled me back out, sharply, jagged, wrenching me back into reality. I’d wanted this all day and now I couldn’t have it. I’d wanted this from the moment I saw her, but the second she saw the body it would be all over. I had to get her out of here; all the better if I could go with her.
I stood up, embraced her, wrapped my arms around her, undid the clasp behind her back and let her lacy bra fall to the floor. I whispered in her ear. “I’ve always had a fantasy about doing it in the carpark of a motel.” I winced when I heard those words coming out of my mouth. Lame. Creepy, even.
She nuzzled into my neck and bit the soft spot behind my ear. “Don’t be stupid, darling. We have a perfectly good room here.” She pulled me back with her. Maybe if I could just keep her eyes on me, keep her away from the bed, keep us both away from the bed. I didn’t know where it was, but it was somewhere in this small room and it wouldn’t take long for us to bump into it. I let her pull my shirt up over my head, let it drop to the ground.
‘Let’s do it in the bath,” I said, grabbing her under her arms and lifting her up, spinning her around quickly so she couldn’t see the bed.
I couldn’t see it either. And then, I remembered that I didn’t have a bath, just a shower. The second I set her down on the floor, she grabbed hold of me, tight, pulled me back towards where the bed was. I put my leg on the floor behind her, tripped her, slowly lowered her to the floor, and nuzzled into her face, into her soft skin around her neck and then down to over her breasts. She arched her back, opened her legs and pushed my face down again. It felt so wrong, but I couldn’t stop. If I stopped, then she’d look, and if she looked, then I was dead, or as good as, anyway. My chances with her were done. I still didn’t know her name.
I realized with a start that I’d left the gun in the briefcase and the package in my editor’s car. I pushed it out of my mind and set back to work. Her fingers clawed at the back of my head, twisting into my hair.
“That’s it. That’s it. That’s the spot,” she said. She was gyrating now, moving in time with me. “Hammer me, Ray,” she said, yanking at me under my arms, trying to lift me up to her level so that we saw eye to eye.
And I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t check the dead man in my bed; couldn’t shake the feeling of worry, the concern; couldn’t stir the desire that lay inside me this whole time. And then, her hands were fumbling at my belt, opening the button, pulling down my fly, sliding soft hands inside my underwear.
“Oh no,” she said. “We can fix that, darling.” She slid down on the ground beneath me until her head was level with my crotch. I felt the warmth of her mouth around me and the blood return to where it should have been—not in my brain. I squeezed my eyes shut in pleasure and sat up on my haunches. When I opened them they were level with the bed. There was no lump, no feet in my face, no dead man.
My whole body relaxed. The tension in my muscles dissipated and I allowed myself to let go. I pulled her up onto the bed and we made passionate, lustful love. And when it was over I still didn’t know who she was, but I didn’t care either.
The sheets were new and whoever had taken the body had changed them—or had someone come in and changed them afterward? Was it management? The police? Hathaway? Had it been the same person who’d put the body there in the first place? It didn’t matter now.
She rolled a cigarette back and forth in her long, elegant, dainty fingers and popped it in the corner of my mouth. She lit it, and snuggled down against my chest.
My hand found the remote on the bedside table and I turned on the television, idly watching an imported American sitcom. Twenty minutes in, the lurid graphics announcing a breaking news bulletin flashed and a blown-up image of Sarah Jones filled the screen.
She rolled off me and sat bolt upright in the bed. “That girl again. She’s everywhere.”
The news anchor, the blonde, attractive intellectual type favored by telecasters the world around, adopted a grave tone and read from her prompter. “There are serious concerns today for ten-year-old Sarah Jones, abducted in Gibraltar three days ago, after horrifying new evidence was found in a luxury department store in the middle of the city. This case is fast becoming a global sensation, with news outlets around the world reporting on the little girl’s disappearance. I warn you, the following images may be disturbing, and viewer discretion is advised.”
“Jesus,” she said, sliding closer to me. “The poor thing.” Her voice trembled with something close to recognition, worry, fear, concern. It was as if she’d experienced something like this before or had a closer relation to Sarah Jones than I’d presumed.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“I met her mother once or twice. She used to come out and see Dan Branson on the ship. Sometimes she brought her little girl along. She was gorgeous.”
“She’s in pieces now,” I said.
That shook her. “Don’t say things like that, darling.”
On the screen, another cliché blonde reporter stood in front of the department store in the middle of Gibraltar. She barreled the camera. “Earlier this morning, reports of screaming inside the store were passed on to media outlets and, when we arrived, the police were already here. The discovery, so shocking, so depraved. In the face of everything we’ve seen in the last few days, this puts those to shame. I spoke to one of the shoppers who said she saw it all. Apparently, a store clerk was dressing a mannequin when she discovered a long lock of blonde hair attached to a round piece of scalp about one inch in diameter. Police have since confirmed this and we were able to get an image of the specimen in an evidence bag on its way out.” A sharp image of a cellophane bag, a shock of golden hair and human flesh filled the screen.
I shivered.
She just sat upright next to me, her mouth open, her eyes wide. What came out of her mouth sent another shiver running through my body. “Most people don’t survive after a scalping,” she said. “That poor, poor girl.”
“They say they can’t find her mother. She must be the one.”
“But, how could a mother do that to her child, darling? How could they?”
I didn’t want to think about it. I’d been paid to protect that child and, ever since that first day, only bad things had happened to her.
“It’s horrendous,” she said. “I grew up in New Mexico, went to the museums, heard the stories, saw the pictures of some of the survivors. It’s not a pretty thing at all.”
I flicked the television off, felt around for my flask and remembered it was on the floor.
“You know, the Apache would lay their victims face first on the ground. Then, they’d grab a sharp stone, make a quick incision with one smooth movement around the head—and this is where it got grisly, really grisly—they grab the hair and pull back hard, standing up as they did so, tearing one by one each of the tiny nerve endings in the skin and the scalp away from the head. Most of the time, their victims were dead or they’d die soon after, but sometimes they did it as a warning.”
“A warning for what?” I said. “Why would anyone do that to another human being?”
“That’s a good question, darling. People do horrible things all the time. It’s a horrible place out there. Isn’t that what you came here to find out, to report on? What have you got on Michael Connelly so far? Dan’s getting impatient. It’s only a matter of time before one of those ships springs a leak and the entire strait’s ecosystem is destroyed for years to come.”
“I searched his yacht,” I said, “the one in the picture. I found some interesting things in there, before it blew up.”
Her hand tugged idly on my chest hairs. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Was it him? Did he know you were there? Did he try and kill you?”
I nodded, even though I didn’t have a clue. I gave her what she wanted, something she could tell Dan Branson until I had something more concrete. If nothing else, it would buy me a little bit of time.
“What’s your relationship to Branson?” I asked.
She smiled. “It’s none of your concern, darling.”
“I think it is. I met you on his boat and we just slept together, and now you’re asking questions on his behalf.”
“He’s a good man, Dan Branson. He looks after me.”
“What, financially?” I asked. “Sexually?”
She shook her head. “Nothing like that, silly. He believes in something, you know. He has principles. He cares about the world, does good by it.”
“By beating up journalists and throwing them into the ocean?” I asked, a little miffed that she was sticking up for him after what we’d just done.
The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 1) Page 10
