She gagged and shoved a fist into her mouth to keep from barfing into the bushes.
Hey, at least they were her bushes. Right?
Saturday, 11:39 a.m.
Lord of the Ring
After the needles in her eyes had been replaced by tiny straight pins and there was absolutely nothing left in her stomach to puke up, Grace made a pot of coffee and braved the thirty seconds of blinding sunlight to fetch the paper from the lawn.
She needed a few minutes to get herself together before she called a cab and went back down to the city for her car.
She sat down with her World’s Best Mom mug and opened the obituaries, half expecting to see her own name, when she stopped short.
Her anniversary band.
The twenty-thousand-dollar diamond-and-sapphire Tiffany anniversary band.
It wasn’t shooting spectacular prisms of light across the kitchen ceiling. Nor was it catching on the edge of the paper like it always did or digging uncomfortably into the sides of her fingers.
It wasn’t there.
She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the persistent sensation that her head was going to explode.
The crystal dish on her dresser where she usually kept the ring was empty. Beside it lay a red credit card.
No, not a credit card. A hotel room key.
“Jesus.” She clutched her head between her palms. The previous night played in her head like a Fellini film.
The last time she had seen her ring, it was lighting up that gorgeous guy’s smile. He’d chugged the drink she’d put it in, and caught it in his teeth, like a frat boy playing quarters.
Her stomach churned. Oh, God. What was his name? Nick something. Barlow? Bartlett?
No, something more ethnic.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Balboa. Like Rocky. Yo, Adrian. That was it!
It all came back to her in a rush. He was staying at the Baccus, a swanky hotel in Center City. He’d invited her back there. But she’d chickened out. Took a powder. Scrammed. Punked out.
Why is the voice in my head talking like Sam Spade?
She took a moment to hyperventilate before she grabbed the room key from the dresser.
Okay. All right.
Just what were the odds a young, gorgeous godlike stud would still be there, waiting for her to show up, with a twenty-thousand-dollar ring between his teeth?
She ran into the bathroom and ralphed in the sink.
Chapter 4.5
Saturday, 11:53 a.m.
Over Easy
It had taken Pete all night, but he’d finally tracked Balboa down at the Baccus. Dumb shit had checked in using a fake name but his own credit card.
Pete stepped into the elevator and flipped open his cell phone.
“Lou. I’m at the Baccus. Any movement from the Russian?”
“Nah. Everything’s quiet here. Just the girlfriend coming and going. You shoulda seen what she was wearing last night.” Lou whistled into the phone.
“Glad to hear you’re having a good time.”
“Hey, a man’s gotta entertain himself.”
“Just make sure you’re not ‘entertaining’ yourself when the Russian makes a move.”
Lou laughed, and Pete flipped the phone closed.
The elevator arrived on the seventeenth floor, and Pete unbuttoned his coat to give himself easy access to the weapon in his shoulder holster. He didn’t think he would need it. Balboa was a lover, not a fighter. But you never knew.
He walked quickly to Balboa’s door and waited there, listening. He didn’t hear anything, but that wasn’t surprising. Balboa typically slept until noon.
He pounded on the door, watching the peephole for light or movement. Still nothing.
After a cursory look up and down the hall, he pulled a key card from his pocket. The card had been doctored with copper tape, to which he’d attached a wire with a toggle switch hooked to a nine-volt battery. He slid the card into the lock and flipped the switch, holding his breath.
The lock popped, and he pushed the door open.
The room was dark, the curtains still drawn. He flipped the light switch, half expecting to see Balboa snoring in the king-size bed, but he wasn’t.
The room was empty.
“Shit.”
Pete gave a thorough search through the drawers and the pockets of the clothes hanging in the closet.
He found a pair of pink ladies’ underwear and a black handbag which, a search revealed, belonged to one Grace Becker.
The lady in red.
She had darker hair in the picture on her driver’s license, and longer, too. But it was definitely the same broad.
He checked her birth date, and whistled through his teeth. Thirty-seven.
Really not Balboa’s type.
But he had to admit, she looked good for her age. Hell, she looked good for any age. Maybe Balboa’s taste was improving.
He looked through the handbag again, searching for the memory key, but it wasn’t there.
Maybe they’d taken it somewhere. To the Russian or someone else. Iatesta, maybe.
That memory key was worth double what the Russian had agreed to pay for it, and Balboa knew it. He wasn’t a stupid guy.
Maybe, if Pete was lucky, Balboa and the lady had just gone to breakfast.
Pete’s stomach growled. He should have stopped for something to eat before coming up. A nice plate of eggs and scrapple at the Melrose, or a tall stack of pancakes. Jeez, he could be waiting there all day.
He called Lou again. “Hey, I need you to have someone checked out for me. A Grace Becker.” He read the driver’s license number and address.
“Right, boss. By the way, the Russian’s girlfriend just left again. She was wearing this stretchy blue skirt, like a tie-dyed thing, with these really high heels…”
Pete sighed, suddenly jealous of Lou, with Skobelov’s girlfriend coming and going in her crazy stripper outfits. At least Lou had something to look at.
Pete hung up the phone, turned off the lights and flipped on the TV, turning the volume all the way down and hoping he wouldn’t have to wait too long.
Chapter 5
Saturday, 12:41 p.m.
Looking for Mr. Goodbody
It didn’t hit her until she was in the elevator at the Baccus Hotel, on her way up to the seventeenth floor, that maybe she should have brought some protection. But what kind?
Mace? Condoms?
Both?
Well, it was too late. If she turned around now, she’d never work up the nerve to come back. Besides, the irresistible combination of bad breath, bloodshot eyes and the baggy yoga pants she wore all but guaranteed Mr. Hottie wouldn’t come within six feet of her.
Her Lady Keds were silent on the thick, burgundy carpeting of the hall. What in the hell was she going to say to this man?
Hi. Remember me? I’m the slut who gave you my underwear and played tongue aerobics with you for several hours last night. I’d like my anniversary ring back, please. And as long as I’m here, you wanna make out?
When she arrived at room 1767—she’d finally figured out what the numbers on her palm were—she stopped and took a deep breath. Blood rushed to her head, and she had to squat down for a minute until it rushed back to all the other places it was needed.
She was never going to drink again. Ever.
She tapped lightly on the door. No answer.
Maybe he was still sleeping. Or maybe he’d picked up another woman at the bar. Probably the see-through nymphet who’d been sitting next to him when she’d first approached. Or maybe one of the toga-clad waitresses.
Or waiters.
She started to hyperventilate. Oh, God. She didn’t know anything about this man. He’d probably already pawned her ring and spent the money on crack, or heroin or the ponies.
What? Was she living in an HBO documentary now? Jesus.
She forced herself to breathe and knocked again.
Nothing.
Wha
t if he’d already checked out? She rooted through her pockets, producing the key card he’d slipped her. Saying a tiny prayer to the patron saint of Those with Poor Judgment, she slipped the key card into the handle.
The green light lit up.
She pushed the handle down, and, with an obnoxiously loud clack, the door swung open.
“Hello? Nick?”
The curtains were drawn shut, and the room was dark.
“Nick?” She stepped into the room.
The bathroom was immediately to her left. She turned on the light. A shaving kit stood open on the counter next to the sink. The air was damp and smelled of Aramis. She closed her eyes and breathed it in.
Across from the bathroom, the mirrored closet door was pushed open. Inside hung the pants and shirt Nick had worn at the bar. The leather jacket was missing.
She checked the pockets of the pants and shirt. No ring.
She wandered into the room and turned on the lamp on top of the dresser. The surface was littered with crumpled receipts, soda cans and empty potato chip bags.
Jeez. How did men do it? They could eat crap like this and not gain an ounce. Life was so unfair.
Going against every natural instinct, she resisted the urge to clean up the mess. Instead, she poked through it with the hotel ballpoint.
Like he’d leave a twenty-thousand-dollar diamond ring under a candy wrapper. Right.
Feeling an overwhelming urge to pee, she reached for the top drawer of the dresser. Before she could open it, she caught a movement in the dresser mirror.
She spun around. “Who are you?”
A man in a trench coat sat up against the headboard, his long legs stretched out over the bedspread and crossed at the ankles.
If Nick was GQ, this guy was Sears and Roebuck. And he was definitely no hot Italian. His red hair, freckles and glow-in-the-dark white skin reminded her of an overgrown Opie Taylor. Cute, in a forty-year-old boy-next-door sort of way.
“I assume these belong to you?” he said.
Her underpants dangled from the tip of his index finger. But they weren’t what caught her attention.
“Is that my purse?”
He lifted his right elbow. “I guess it is, Grace.”
“How do you know my name?”
He patted her purse. “Your driver’s license. The picture doesn’t do you justice.”
She steeled her nerves. Then she strode over and snatched the panties from the redhead’s finger. “Are you a friend of Nick’s?”
He snatched the panties back. “You might say that. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She shrugged. “It’s true.”
“Then what’s your handbag doing in his room? Not to mention your underwear?”
“I hardly know Nick. I met him last night, at the bar. I didn’t spend the night here, either. I just came to see if he’d found my ri—My purse. I thought I left it at the club, but it wasn’t there when I went back for it today.”
“You aren’t Balboa’s girlfriend?”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t spend the night here?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well then. I guess this isn’t yours, either.”
“My ring!”
It sparkled on his pinkie, catching the small fragment of light that filtered in through a crack in the curtains.
Opie stood up. He was a full head taller than her, slim and lean and much more intimidating than when he was sitting. He moved closer. “I’ll tell you what, Grace. You can have it all back, if you give me what I want.”
“Oh-h.” She backed toward the door. Her heart clattered in her rib cage. All remnants of her previous hangover were long gone. Damn. Why hadn’t she brought her Mace?
He laughed. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” He stepped closer. “All I want is the key. Give me the key, and I’ll give you your stuff.”
“The key?” Relief washed over her. She dug into her pockets and found the room key card, holding it out to him. “No problem. Here.”
He stared at it like she’d offered him a severed ear. “What’s that?”
“The key card. For the room.”
He exhaled through his teeth. “You know damn well that’s not the key I want.”
“What key do you want?” Her voice climbed higher. She could feel her heels hanging over the edge to hysteria. One more step, and she’d be gone.
“I want the memory key,” he said, speaking in tones he might use with a three-year-old. “The one Nick put in your pocket last night.”
She shook her head. “This is the only key he put in my pocket.”
He pushed his trench coat aside to reveal a pistol strapped to his side.
“Oh, Jesus.” She crossed one leg over the other. “I really have to pee.”
Opie ignored her. “I saw him put it in your pocket at the bar.”
He’d been at the bar. Had she talked to him? She picked through her fuzzy memory but came up with nothing.
“Did we meet last night?” she asked.
He scratched his head. “No. Just give me the friggin’ memory key. Or did you and Nick sell it already?”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was all so absurd. So surreal. “Is this some kind of joke?” She looked around. “Are Roseanna and Cecilia in on this?”
“No, it isn’t a joke.” He backed her up against the wall.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry. I don’t even know what a memory key is.”
He studied her, as if debating whether or not to believe her. “Small. Rectangular. About the size of a disposable lighter.”
“A lighter?” She rubbed her temples. “Wait. I found a lighter in my pocket last night in the cab. A little black one. But I couldn’t figure out how to work it.”
Opie looked at her through narrowed eyes.
She said, “Do you think that might have been it?”
“It’s a possibility.” His tone was steeped in sarcasm.
She’d heard that tone a thousand times before, from Tom. Suddenly she wasn’t scared anymore. She was pissed.
“Even if I do have this key thing, why would I give it to you?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Why would you?” He put a hand on the butt of the gun.
Okay. Back to being scared.
Opie ran his hands over her sides and down her legs, so quickly she didn’t have time to react. “You have any weapons?”
“Of course not.”
He searched the pockets of her sweat jacket, coming up only with a single car key attached to a square black remote. “It’s my spare. My other keys are in the handbag.”
“So, where’s the funny little lighter?”
“I don’t have it with me.”
“Where is it?”
She chewed her lip. “I’m not sure. I…I don’t remember much from last night.”
He stroked the pistol. “Try.”
“Oh, God. I really have to pee.” She bobbed from one foot to the other. “Okay. Okay. It was in the pocket of my red jacket.”
“Where is that? At home?”
She felt the blood rush to her head again. Her stomach rolled over, and she sank down to a crouch. “No. It’s at the Goodwill.”
“The Goodwill?”
She nodded. “I put it in the bag I dropped off there this morning.”
“Come on.” He pulled her up by the collar of her sweat jacket. “You’re driving.”
“But I have to pee!”
He blew out a breath and dragged her into the bathroom. “Go ahead.”
“You’re kidding, right? I can’t go with you standing there.”
“Then I guess you’re not going.”
She gave him what she hoped was a pathetic stare.
“Damn. All right.” He collected all sharp objects and threw them into the shaving kit, which he tucked under his arm.
“I’m going to stand out in the hall with my foot in th
e door so you can’t close it. If you try anything funny, I’ll shoot right through the door. Understand?”
“Perfectly.”
She tried, but she couldn’t go. Not with the toe of his big, brown wingtip poking through the crack in the door.
She turned the water on, both for encouragement and to camouflage any sound.
Outside, Opie began to whistle something familiar. What was it? What…?
And suddenly, it struck her.
He was whistling “Somebody’s Watching You.”
Chapter 5.5
Saturday, 1:17 p.m.
Riding Shotgun
Pete kept his coat pocket unbuttoned so he could get to his gun, half expecting Grace to do something stupid.
He couldn’t get a read on her. One minute he’d swear she was playing him, and the next he wasn’t so sure. Was it possible she didn’t know anything about Balboa, or the memory key?
Nope. No way.
She’d been all over Balboa like Cheez Whiz on a steak sandwich. No way she didn’t know him. She had the key to his hotel room.
He had to get the memory key or kick two very long years of work to the can.
He tucked her purse beneath his arm and followed a few steps behind her, appreciating the view as she led him to a dark green BMW sedan. She unlocked the doors with a blip of the remote.
Then suddenly, the car alarm went off, startling the crap out of him.
Christ! She wasn’t as dumb as she pretended to be.
He closed the short distance between them and grabbed her arm. “Turn it off. Now.”
“It was a mistake! I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
She punched a button on the remote and the alarm turned off with a blip. Thank God car alarms had become like political promises. Everybody heard ’em, but nobody paid any attention to them anymore.
He walked her to the passenger side door and opened it. “Get in.”
She sat in the seat. He squeezed in next to her. “Climb over to the driver’s side.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
He admired her flexibility as she swung a leg over the center console. She settled into the driver’s seat and gave him an expectant look.
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