by Smith, Julie
She ignored him. “David, listen.” He noticed for the first time how pale she was, how her hands were flying aimlessly through the air, working off nervous energy. “I need to talk to you.” She closed the door behind her. “Something bad’s going down. Two feds just walked into the station manager’s office.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s all right, it’s all right.” She patted the air in front of his chest, not touching him. “It can’t affect us directly— unless we get fired. The bank must have leaned on somebody. I’ve seen it before. Every time you have a really controversial story, this kind of thing happens.”
Mr. Right was no longer listening. His attention had gone ten minutes into the future. His panic flashed back for a second and then disappeared. One thing about it, panic was an illusion at worst, a warning at best. When the worst had happened, the very worst that could possibly happen, it was replaced almost instantly by an icy calm.
He knew at once that there was no way this could be coincidental. Isaac had awakened and ratted him out. No doubt in his mind. Well, there was his contingency plan. He cracked the door and looked around the corner. Nobody was there.
He said to Tracie, “Well, they’re damn well not going to get away with it. I’m going in there and bust this little party up.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I damn well can, and I will. Stay here, and I’ll let you know what’s going on. Here.” He held out a folder. “Been working on a strategy for next season. Look it over, will you? Be back in a few.” He strode out purposefully, and after a few steps, reversed his direction, slipped out the back door, and drove away. He figured he had about twenty minutes till anyone noticed he was missing. It was still a long way from that to connecting David Wright to Errol Jacomine. His television career might or might not be over, there was still half a chance Tracie was right and the feds were there for some relatively benign shakedown, but he didn’t think so.
He drove to Highland Park Mall, near one of his banks, the one with the Thomas Washington account. He parked his car in the lot, leaving his sports jacket on the seat. He opened the trunk, extracted a baseball cap, shades, and tan windbreaker, all of which he put on, making sure the cap covered his now-famous gray hair. And then he pulled out a canvas briefcase, the kind meant to carry a laptop. This one contained his life— lives, actually. He’d taken the precaution of having a number of documents forged at once. You never knew when one persona was going to have to die and another was going to be needed. There was one other thing in the case— a gun.
He went into the bank, looking warily around. A woman employee caught his eye, and he saw the flash of recognition. She started toward him happily, smiling and waving, and he knew she wanted to tell him what a fan she was, to be the person who helped Mr. Right that fine day. He absolutely could not have that encounter; Mr. Right could not be connected to Thomas Washington. He turned and fled, pretending he hadn’t noticed her.
He walked briskly to the nearest men’s room, which was by no means near, and called a cab. He waited in a stall for fifteen minutes, then slowly, warily, ventured out.
He gave the cab an address a block from Rosemarie Owens’ house and walked blithely up to her door. But on the way he phoned her. “Morning, ma’am. UPS. I’m at the service entrance.”
She had a back door, but not a service entrance. The message was a prearranged signal, in code in case her phone was tapped. It was only to be used in cases of direst emergency.
* * *
Rosemarie was trying to keep it together, just keep her heart inside her chest. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about what to do if this moment came, and she was somewhat prepared: She had a gun. She made her voice casual. “Mr. Right. As I live and breathe.”
“Rosemarie, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She was wearing a pair of flowered capris and a white sleeveless sweater-thing. She was his age, but in her own opinion, she could be thirty years younger.
“How’s your wife?” she said.
“Guess that means you’re not in the mood for a little slap-and-tickle.”
She put her finger to her lips, walked outside and closed the door, took his arm, and began to circle the garden.
“Hubby’s home, I guess? Or hubby-facsimile.”
“Earl, Earl, how the hell am I going to explain you?”
“You had the phones swept lately?”
“Once a week, just like we agreed. Yesterday was the day. On the lam, are you?” She smiled when she said it, letting her surgically enhanced eyes crinkle prettily. The whole thing was to appear cool as a creek bed, as if the entire Dallas police department could descend on her and she’d ask them in for tea.
“Afraid so, old girl.” The “old girl” thing was something he’d learned from his English voice coach. “Possible situation unfolding.”
“Oh?”
“Feds at the office. I went out the back door.”
“Damn! I was so hoping that rotten cable station was finally going to turn a profit.” She sighed. “I guess all good things must come to an end. I’ve got to hand it to you, baby-cakes. Mr. Right was a great idea, and you were the perfect Mr. Right.”
“Rosemarie, if you don’t mind, we’re a little exposed out here.”
Good. He’d blinked first.
“I’m just waiting for the maid to go home. Sistine takes a few minutes to pack up. How do you like that name? Sistine. Too much, isn’t it?”
“Quit trying to distract me, and let’s think.”
The front door thwacked shut. “Ah. She’s left. But Todd’s in there watching TV in his den and getting stoned. With any luck he won’t even come out, but if he does…”
“Ah, yes. The boy toy. Well if he does, I’m the best friend of your late husband. Bit of bad luck— unfortunate investment, wife bankrupting me, little wager that went awry.”
She burst out laughing, ignoring his obvious urgency to get in the house. “Why, Eliza Dolittle, you are a quick study.” When her eyes uncrinkled, she made them hard as marbles. “Is that your little way of asking me for money?”
“Rosemarie, for Christ’s sake, I have plenty of money. Can we go inside, please?”
She shrugged. “Come in.” But she spoke coldly, stripping all the amusement, all the welcoming banter from her manner.
He stepped into her restaurant-sized kitchen, and she saw him taking in its polished wood floors and gleaming granite counters, its little lights under the cabinets, its lavish bowl of fruit. Earl said, “In case Todd comes out, let me shave first. My head, I mean. He figures out who I am— I mean, even the Mr. Right part— we’re both going down.”
She sat down on a barstool. “Have it your way, darling. Use the downstairs guest room.”
“Well? Aren’t you going to show me?” She’d forgotten he didn’t know where it was.
“I suppose.” She got up languidly, as if her fate wasn’t inextricably tied to his, and walked him leisurely through the house. She’d taken care to make it look like the manor to which she certainly hadn’t been born. Instead of being lavish, her house was comfortable. It had hardwood floors and good, well-kept furniture with plenty of personal touches, like a piano covered with photographs, and there were books (though she never read) and flowers.
She led Earl into a room with a four-poster bed covered with a red toile print. The wallpaper matched the bed cover. Light streamed in the windows; French doors opened to the backyard they’d just strolled. The pool was steps away. A very soothing room.
“Nice,” he said.
“Last I heard,” Rosemarie remarked, “you were doing pretty well yourself.” She rummaged in the bathroom and handed him an electric razor. “Go to it, kid.”
She thought she was finally freaking him. He was starting to sweat.
He made his voice seductive, clearly trying to match her sangfroid. “Why don’t you do it for me?”
“A bit intimate for a married woman, don’t you think?”
>
“You’re not legally married to that twinky, are you? Even you aren’t that crazy.”
She laughed genuinely again, the way she had when she called him Eliza Dolittle. She was still in the bathroom, where she’d gone to look for the razor. “Of course not, darling. It makes it easier for him socially.” She paused. “Not that he hasn’t asked.”
He stepped close to her, deliberately invading her space. She knew he could feel her breasts, and her breathing. He grabbed the hand that held the razor and lifted it above her head, against the wall, pinning her. “We wouldn’t want to endanger that lovely money, would we?”
“Let me go, Earl.” She made her voice low and threatening.
“That lovely money you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for me. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”
“What the hell do you want?” She couldn’t keep the bite out of her voice.
He shoved her into the wall, stepping back, but retaining a threatening distance. His voice was smooth and uncaring. “How about a shave and a haircut?”
“Sit down,” she said, indicating a little vanity bench.
He sat, staring into the mirror. She stood behind him, also staring at their tableau. They would have made a lovely couple if not for the fury on their faces.
She cooled her face down and saw him see her do it. Not good. She rummaged in a drawer and came up with scissors. “Let’s cut it first.” How about stabbing? she wondered. Could she do it? It might be her best bet. She’d hidden the gun on her way to answer the door, but she needed time to retrieve it.
“Whatever the lady wishes.” The proximity of their bodies, the heat from the mirror lights, maybe even the anger did something that might work well for her. He was starting to get turned on. She could feel his breathing change.
“Take off your shirt,” she said.
Daily workouts had been part of his transformation. She knew how proud he was of his torso. For full dramatic effect he pulled the shirt over his head instead of unbuttoning it.
Rosemarie pretended not to notice. She took it and stomped it under her feet. “To catch the hair,” she explained. And she began cutting his hair with an energetic focus that might also, it occurred to her, be described as violent.
She hadn’t gotten where she was by being a shrinking violet, and nobody knew that better than Earl. She saw a light sweat break out on his upper lip.
She wasn’t quite sure when she’d have a better moment. She had the scissors. All she had to do was… what? Bury the blade in his back? Or maybe his ribs.
“Too warm?” she said. “Let me turn up the AC.”
“Ever the perfect hostess.”
How much pressure would it take to kill him?
“Ow! Do you have to pull it so hard?”
She didn’t answer. Maybe she was hurting him on purpose. She didn’t think she could stab him. Shoot, yes. But thinking of that blade and how it would feel, cutting through him… no. Uh-uh. She couldn’t do it.
His head was now covered with a steel-gray cap of quarter-inch hair. Not a bad look, she thought. But way too Mr. Right for today. She picked up the razor.
He grabbed for it. “Never mind I’ll do this part”
Letting it go, she leaned languidly against a wall. “Oh, really? I thought you were kind of enjoying the attention.”
He threw the razor down and pinned her once again, giving her a whiff of his sweat. Before she could move, he kissed her, and she let herself melt against him, thinking maybe the tiny submission would reassure him. For the moment it seemed to work. He let her go. “Mmm. Yeah.”
She smiled, lifting an eyebrow in a bemused, slightly superior way. “Later, maybe?”
He fired up the razor and buzzed it over his skull. “What about the semi-hubby?”
“He’s probably passed out in front of the TV.”
“What do you see in him, anyway?’
“I never have had good taste in men.”
“Except for that last husband of yours.” The one who’d left her the lovely money. “And of course your first.”
“Not everybody marries Mr. Right the first time around.”
“Including you, baby. We’ve come a long way since then.”
He put the razor down and turned to her. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re about to go a lot farther.” She wasn’t sure what she meant by it, just hoped it would give him the idea to get the hell out of her life.
He said, “I meant the look.”
“Very hip. Come on out where I can see you.” She led him into the guest room proper, lounged on the bed, and gave him the onceover. “Too bad there’s no time to grow a goatee or something.”
He shrugged. “I’ll be okay with shades and a cap. I need clothes.”
She nodded, licking her lips. Good. Maybe an excuse to get the gun. Todd’s clothes wouldn’t fit him, but she didn’t have to mention that.
“And money,” he said.
“Oh?”
There it was. Finally on the table. “Look, I’ve got plenty under another name. But I can’t go in the bank. I mean I did, and someone recognized me; so I split and came here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“For Christ’s sake, Rosemarie, give me the phone and the number of your bank account. I’ll have it transferred right now. I need cash; Mr. Right’s dead. I’ve got to get the hell out of here or I am too.”
“What about Karen?”
“Karen.” He stood stock-still, as if he hadn’t even thought of her. Finally, he said, “Don’t you get it Rosemarie? I’m Number Two on the FBI’S Most Wanted list. I’ve got to get out of the country. Today.”
“That’s all Karen means to you? What about if it were us?” She stretched back on the pillows. He sat down on the bed and caressed her cheek. She curled her body close to him.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Where?”
“Wherever you like. I have passports to burn— that’s one little precaution I took. What I don’t have is cash.”
“Neither do I.” She snuggled closer.
He swung a leg over, straddling her, and pinned her shoulders. “Goddammit, find some,” he shouted.
Almost instantly, Rosemarie heard running. Todd. He must have heard the shout. Damn. He didn’t know where the gun was and wouldn’t think to bring it if he did. He was bigger than most men in Texas; he didn’t think in terms of guns.
Earl rolled off Rosemarie, grabbed for his briefcase, un-snapped the outer pocket and extracted his own gun. She tried to stand, but he grabbed her arm. When Todd came into the room, at a dead trot, Earl was holding Rosemarie’s elbow with one hand and the gun with the other, pointing at the door. “Whoa, boy. Slow down,” he said.
That was the last thing Todd was about to do. Poor Earl didn’t know him at all. One reason she’d picked him was that he was part bodyguard. He was about six-five, had shoulders like a table, and the long hair of a blue-collar worker. Earl rolled off the bed; Todd crashed onto it.
Earl rocked back, training the gun on the big man. “Take it easy, now. Let’s all just catch our breath here.”
Todd said, “What the hell is going on here?” He pronounced it “hay-ull.” “You okay, darlin’?”
Rosemarie stood up and smoothed down her flowered capris. “He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you mean.”
She realized Todd didn’t recognize him. Maybe the shaved head worked better than she thought.
Earl was swiveling his head, looking at Rosemarie, then Todd, then back again. She could tell he was getting furious, the way he always had when he didn’t get his way. “Rosemarie, you whore!” he shouted.
Okay, it was now or never. She looked at Todd, caught his eye, and inclined her chin very, very slightly, giving the go-ahead sign. Todd turned to Earl, but he wasn’t quick enough. As if in a dream, she saw her ex-husband steadying his weapon. Todd leapt on him. Earl fired.
Todd fell backward, blood spurting. Rosemarie screame
d.
Earl fired again and then he seized her and pounded her face with the butt of the gun.
She screamed again, knowing it was over, the game she was playing, unable to feel a thing for Todd, even to worry about her face; just terrified, knowing Earl was going to kill her. But he pulled back before be hurt her too badly. Why, she didn’t know. Maybe he needed her for something. With Earl, it was always that. She had to convince him she was his devoted slave in about a millisecond. But she knew he’d seen her signal Todd.
“You killed him,” she said, putting all the shock she could muster into her voice.
“Oh, come on, Dragon Lady. One of us was going to die; you set it up like that, didn’t you? Only the plan was, it was going to be me.”
“Earl, look at me.” He obeyed, as she knew he would. “Earl, I love you, baby. You were my first love. And my only love…” She was pleading for her life.
“And your best love, kid. Because I got rid of that surplus husband of yours that time, enabling us both to be rich for the rest of our lives.” In spite of herself, she felt something like hatred cross her face. “Yeah, baby.” he said. “We’ve been over this territory. What’s yours is mine.”
She looked at Todd’s body lying on her bed, blood seeping into the mattress, the carpet, the pretty, red-figured cover. Jail looked kind of attractive at the moment; she could easily end up like he had.
She said, “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s get out of the country.”
Perhaps he’d try to use her as a hostage. That might be good; if she got out alive, she’d be a victim. The whole thing was to buy time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
After her husband had left for work (quite a long while after) Karen got up and dressed for the first time in two days— in black pants and white T-shirt— and moved out to the garden to think.
She sat in an Adirondack chair, staring at the annuals she’d so laboriously and lovingly planted that spring. The jasmine was just starting to bloom. The smell of it was slightly nauseating.
