Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  She’d get the fudge sauce for Carly and let him put it on his own ice cream.

  Oh, being bitchy didn’t solve anything. He was there, he wasn’t going to go away any time soon. One mistake had been made and would never be repeated. She could be nice to him if she felt the need. For her grandmother’s sake and Carly’s, she wouldn’t bite his head off.

  Heat raced up her cheeks as she remembered biting other parts of his body. To her horror, the phantom tingle of memory started down below her belly and warmed its way up her chest. Oh, God, no! She left the ice cream on the counter, gestured to Carly to come get it and left to take a long, cool shower.

  Chapter 21

  John woke up stiff after dreaming about a certain redhead. He groaned softly, smiling into the darkness and willing his body to cooperate. Today was going to be hard enough.

  His knee creaked as he pushed himself to the side of the bed and tried to lever himself upright. Dull pain pinched his cheek. He moved his jaw back and forth, slowly, determining that he might have cracked a tooth somehow.

  Damn it to hell, how did that happen?

  Not today. He had no time for a cracked tooth today. So he slid into a clean pair of boxer shorts, socks and dress slacks and quietly crept through the office toward the bathroom.

  The kid slept curled in a little ball on the sofa bed. Enough light from the street came through the windows and he paused to take a look at her.

  Her thumb pressed against her lower lip.

  She looked like a two-year-old with her shock of blond hair and that thumb.

  Aw, hell.

  Something heavy lurched in his gut. He recognized it for what it was, dismissed it out of hand and continued on to the bathroom. He needed to look reputable for a change.

  This morning he would shave.

  John waited for the entourage to leave the mansion office then followed the Navigator at a discreet distance. A phone call had established her schedule easily enough. All he had to do was find an opportune time to ambush her. The Ladies’ Club luncheon looked good, but the hospital gig looked even better.

  He’d try both.

  She traveled with a secretary and a bodyguard. Why the hell would the wife of a senator need one of those? Hell, he didn’t have to think. The world was a dangerous place. Anyone in any power position, even the wife of a senator, could be snatched and held for ransom. He’d ID’ed the guard as former law enforcement. The crew cut was a dead giveaway. Dress ’em up in suits and ties, they still looked like they were in-between doughnut shops. This one must have some brains, though. He’d been on the job for a couple of years, alternating between the senator himself and Bunny.

  Ahh, there they were. He put away the binos and started up the Jeep, pulling around the corner just as the Navigator left the gates. Jeeps. Wonderful in their innocuousness.

  One of the least glamorous things about being a private investigator was the waiting. It drove him crazy having to sit in his vehicle keeping an eye on doorways or motel rooms or parking lots for long periods of time, so he’d packed a kit of things to do while keeping one eye trained on his prey and the other mindlessly doing something.

  Today it was word search. He had a knack for ferreting out backwards words and diagonal words and bottom to top words, but one could only take so much of this. He switched to his personal CD player, hated the fact that he had forgotten to replace the CDs with new ones and had to listen to the same ’80s tunes he’d heard on the last stakeout.

  Disgusted, he tossed the player and CD into the back seat. A glint of light winked through the birches, like a reflection of sunlight on glass . . . like a door opening or the mirror catching some stray rays. So he sat up and had his hand on the key, ready to roll.

  The bodyguard came out first. He had a habit of rolling his tie and stretching his neck to relieve pressure from a too-tight collar, so John ID’ed him without any trouble. Dead giveaway. Next came the scanning of the immediate area and readjusting the shoulder holster. Cripes, how bloody obvious could the man get?

  John laughed.

  Next came some secretary type followed shortly thereafter by Bunny herself. Looking prim and proper with her hair in a French twist and a suit that boxed her attributes in sedately. Nice tits, as he remembered, but if she’d had any kids, they might be down to her belt line by now. You could never tell with big breasted women. At least he thought she had big breasts.

  She paused at the door to wave to a throng of Ladies’ Clubbers or whatever at the restaurant door before sliding into the back seat and disappearing from his view. The big-ass SUV rolled away slowly from the restaurant and pulled onto the highway.

  John followed. He had checked out the hospital where she would be doing some sort of fund-raising thing, going up the elevator with her entourage.

  He’d get her there.

  What he hadn’t counted on in advance was the lack of parking spaces. Of course Bunny managed to leave the Navigator at the front door, but John ended up coiling the Jeep up to the third level of the parking deck before finding a space. He cursed as he ran to the deck elevator for entry to the hospital itself. His chest squeezed and he fought for breath . . . Jesus! How long since he’d worked out at all? How out of shape was he?

  A little b-ball, some weights, maybe. Soon. Yeah, real soon.

  But he managed to get through the security in time to see Bunny step into the elevator. He slipped unnoticed around the huge columns of the entry, thanking the architect for providing him with such good cover.

  The bodyguard, sunglasses still in place, checked out the elevator while Bunny’s aide held the door.

  John elbowed a potted palm off its stand, sending it rolling and crashing while Bunny’s entourage froze in place. The guard reached for his piece, turning away from the door while hospital personnel gathered around the mess. John casually stepped inside the elevator and palmed the door shut.

  Slick. Very slick, Preshin.

  Behind him, Bunny Evans gasped.

  John turned to her, flashing his killer grin.

  Bunny’s hand went to her throat. Her eyes widened. John knew the exact moment she recognized him.

  “Hiya, Bunny.”

  Chapter 22

  Flo fingered the envelope with nervous hands. Addressed to her granddaughter, it had come to New Jersey from California, receipt requested. The old lady had signed for it, hoping she’d done the right thing. In her heart, she doubted it.

  Last time something had come from the lawyer, Liz had left the luncheonette and walked the streets of Asbury Park for hours, at least that was what she’d told Flo. Then she’d disappeared altogether for nearly the rest of the night. She’d come back the next morning looking like a beaten dog with red-rimmed eyes and splotchy skin and what appeared to be a rash on her neck and face. When asked what had happened, she said nothing.

  They’d always had a better relationship than that. They’d always talked things out before, but not this time.

  Throwing away the letter might be the right thing to do for both of them. Liz had been through enough hell in her lifetime. Flo knew some of it and still couldn’t believe what that rat bastard husband of hers had done to nearly destroy Liz.

  She never talked about the details and as much as Flo wanted to know what had happened, she hadn’t the heart to ask. Bringing up pain never helped someone get over it. And Liz needed to get over it in order to get on with her life.

  Flo tucked the envelope into her apron pocket and went back to work.

  “Who was that, Grandma?” Liz stopped polishing the chrome on the soda dispenser. Her hair peeked out of the kerchief in damp coils and the rosiness in her face came from all the hard work she’d been doing readying the fountain.

  “Huh?” Flo came out of her deep thoughts with a start. “Who was . . . oh, that? Just the mail. Something for John that had to be signed for.”

  Liz shook her head slowly. “You do so much for that man, you treat him as if he were your grandson. And what does he do
for you?”

  Flo’s temper flared. “John Preshin has saved my life on two occasions, I’ll have you know. Twice he found me when I’d fallen and he called the ambulance after picking me up and carrying me into the apartment. Twice! He treats me with respect, he pays his rent exactly on time and he isn’t a pain in the ass most of the time. Knowing he’s upstairs is a relief to me, and it should be to you, too, because this is a rough neighborhood. Nobody, and I mean nobody, messes with John Preshin. Everybody around here knows him, knows about the FBI, knows he’s a man of his word. If they don’t like him, they respect him. Or fear him.”

  With her hands on her hips, Flo faced down her granddaughter and knew she’d won when Liz apologized.

  “Grandma, I didn’t mean to get you aggravated.”

  “I’m not aggravated. I just wanted to set you straight about John. He’s a good man, through and through. Sure he’s got his secrets and quirks. But there’s a reason for that.” Knowing she’d said a little too much, Flo set to work stacking the glassware, the sundae glasses, sherbet sets, and the banana split boats into the glass cabinets behind the counter.

  Liz tested the syrup containers, squirting a bit from each into a cup.

  Going to the freezer, she grabbed the frozen fruit toppings and stocked the refrigerated containers then wiped down the counter.

  “So, tell me, Grandma,” she said with no special emphasis, “just what do you know about his secrets?”

  Carly’s day progressed steadily downhill. On the way to her next class, she bumped into the same guy she’d bumped into once before. He laughed, she blushed and ended up sitting at her desk just as the bell rang.

  Sister Mary Ella’s eyebrows nearly touched as she watched Carly walk to her desk and sit down, but said nothing. The whole room buzzed until Sister cleared her throat and started the lesson. Soon she lost herself in the tapping of the keys and the occasional question from a raised hand. Carly let go of her breath, relaxing to the rhythm of the keys.

  The kid behind her poked her shoulder. She turned halfway around and removed the folded paper from the guy’s outstretched hand.

  Carly slipped the note into her blazer pocket to read later. Sister would read it to the entire class if she got her hands on it.

  Class over, Carly followed the other students into the hall and opened the note.

  Hands off him or you’ll die.

  She looked around, saw hundreds of uniform-clad students hurrying through the halls, but saw no one watching to see her reaction to the note. She stuffed it back in her pocket and took off for her next class, wondering as she went who had just threatened her life.

  At lunch, she confided in her friend Bridget, showing her the note with its threat.

  “Geez, Carly. This is pretty bad. You know all about the zero tolerance thing at our school, don’t you? This could get somebody kicked out permanently.” For emphasis, she rolled her eyes.

  “So you have no idea what’s going on?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Carly turned her face to the window, still thinking.

  To break the silence, Bridget asked, “Hey, want to come over after school?”

  Carly wished she could. “I promised to help finish up the sandwich shop today. It’s opening real soon. Liz asked me if you’d like to sign up to work weekends and over the summer, maybe.”

  Bridget’s face lit. “We’d work together? That would be great!”

  Carly shook her head. “I’d really like that, but I may be with my father by then. I can’t promise anybody anything, you know that, Bridgey, even though we’d have a great time. I know it.”

  The other girl looked disappointed but nodded her head. “I know how important that is to you, Carly. It’s your reason to live.”

  It was more than that, she thought. Way more.

  Maybe more than anyone could ever know.

  Chapter 23

  Her eyes gave her away . . . they widened as she recognized him, then went dull as soon as it clicked in that he knew who she was and he’d hijacked the elevator. He watched closely as a pink flush crept up her elegant, pale neck.

  She still had white blond hair, only now it didn’t bear the streaks of a summer in the Jersey shore sun. Now it definitely came from a bottle, but caught up in the French twist as it was, John couldn’t tell if it was soft or coarse. The color matched Carly’s, but then any blonde would match Carly’s hair. Something about the eyebrows struck a chord, too. He’d seen them recently . . . in his own office.

  “John . . . John Preshin? Is that you?” She kept her cool, aloof expression, but a trace of fear made her lips tremble just a bit. Just enough for a trained detective to notice.

  He beamed at her, guaranteed to lull her into a false sense of security, or so he hoped. In the past, it had seldom failed him. That smile, combined with a twinkling eye, usually put people at ease.

  “Bunny Adams . . . Mrs. Roland Evans, now, isn’t it? You’re lookin’ good, Bunny.”

  Her hand went to the base of her throat, barely touching the pink silk scarf tucked discreetly into the V of her suit jacket. Rather charming, he thought. And practiced.

  She looked down, her eyelashes brushing the tops of her model-perfect cheekbones. “How kind of you to say so. But, tell me, why have you stopped the elevator between floors and left me stranded without my bodyguard?” A note of steel crept into her soft, cultured voice. She moved against the railing in the back of the small space.

  He tried his best Jimmy Stewart humble. “I just wanted to talk to you without all those people around. I’m not after any political favors and I’m certainly not out to cause you any harm.” He stepped back, putting his hands behind him.

  Bunny’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, then once again the expression disappeared behind the cloak of non-emotion she must be used to displaying at all times.

  “Pretty soon my bodyguard will get this thing going and you’ll be in big trouble with him, John, so you’d better talk fast.” A certain haughtiness colored this, but he’d expected it.

  Spreading his hands open in front of him, he smiled again, toned down somewhat. This wasn’t a joke to him any more, but he knew her prediction to be correct.

  “All I wanted to ask you was if the date February 12, 1987, meant anything to you.” He waited for a sign, any reaction on her part.

  She didn’t let him down. The color drained from her face, though he had to give her credit for not revealing anything more than a palsied tic in her right cheek. Immediately her hand went up to hide it. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on him and, like magic, went blank.

  “Lincoln’s birthday?” If she thought she could get away with apparent disinterest, she was wrong. Though her tone remained cool and unflustered, her color heightened and the tic jerked the side of her face faster than before.

  He shook his head slowly. “No, Bunny. Not Lincoln’s, but somebody’s. A sixteen-year-old girl with blue eyes and white blond hair, raised in the convent at St. Hedwig’s by a bunch of old nuns.”

  She sniffed at how much this did not concern her, but her eyes refused to meet John’s.

  Bingo!

  He pressed on, fixing her with an intent stare. “Come on, Bunny. You must remember that date. It must be burned into your conscience, if you have one, which I am beginning to doubt.”

  She turned on him, her face suffused with blood, her eyes snapping with anger intended to hide the guilt she had to be feeling. “Nice. Nice! How dare you suggest . . . whatever it is you think I’ve done.... You’re wrong. Very, very wrong.”

  “And why would that make you so upset, Bunny? Why won’t you give me a straight answer? The truth must be in there somewhere. Tell me something . . . anything to put my curious mind and my nasty suppositions to rest.”

  Putting her hand on one hip, her expression defensive, she snarled, “One night with me a long time ago in another life doesn’t entitle you to anything—do you hear? Not a damn thing.”

  Holy Christ!
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  She got him. She got him, all right. Reached into him and raked his soul. But he fought against this blow as he’d fought so many other things in his life. Weak-kneed, he let it slide over him, just as careful as Bunny Adams to hide his reaction.

  With a brief blink, he took one small step closer to her in what had become a very tiny space. There was a clunk and a hum and the elevator started moving. He’d run out of time.

  “She’s beautiful, you know. Kid hired me to find her father. She thinks her mother is dead, but she’s determined to find her father. But that wouldn’t interest you, Mrs. Evans, would it?”

  With a slight bounce the elevator settled to a stop. John pressed the closed door button, knowing it wouldn’t last long.

  Bunny’s chin went up. “You’re right, Mr. Preshin. It doesn’t interest me in the least. Now, step aside and let me out of here. I’ll tell Bruno not to kill you if you open the door immediately.”

  He pulled away from the door as it opened. He barely saw the arm reach in and grab his jacket, but he felt the fist as it made contact with his jaw.

  Bunny exited, unharmed, while John slammed against the steel railing and slid into unconsciousness.

  Mr. Savelli droned on about solving the problem she’d finished fifteen minutes ago. His voice had a soporific effect on her, lulling her into a contented daze. Somebody walking down the aisle bumped into her desk, rousing her from the stupor. Some girl. Somebody she didn’t know. Big deal. If the teacher didn’t move on to another problem soon, Carly knew she’d fall asleep in class—something she’d never done in her entire life.

  “Miss Williams, can you come up here and help out this poor soul at the blackboard?” Mr. Savelli tapped a piece of chalk against his palm.