Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  “Whatever.” Sunny went to work, and hair flew. “You’ve always been a daydreamer, ever since I met you back in ninth grade.”

  “Daydreaming is good. Actually, it’s half of what a writer does. And don’t remind me of high school, please.”

  Sunny grinned. “I’ll try not to, although that skirt you made out of duct tape comes immediately to mind. But I’ll shut up while you try one of those Belgian truffles.”

  Taylor eased her teeth into a decadent treat that left her toes curling and thought about Harris Rains. A simple search on the Internet had revealed that the lab Rains worked for did $12 million a year in recombinant DNA research. No information was available about their specific clients or projects.

  The fact that she’d glimpsed a silver Lexus SUV at a cross street outside her apartment had to be a coincidence. Meanwhile, she had considered the situation from every angle, and sometime near dawn she had come to a conclusion.

  Harris Rains deserved to have a stalker. Nothing overt to make him paranoid, of course. Just enough to find out what he was up to. Taylor had also called a friend and made an appointment to turn over Candace’s climbing gear for his expert assessment. If she hadn’t been facing a book deadline, she would have done more research herself, but such was life.

  She considered her half-eaten truffle and smiled nastily. She was looking forward to some part-time surveillance on Harris Rains. After writing books on the subject, it would be a snap.

  “Stalk who?” Sunny stared at her from behind a pair of styling scissors.

  Taylor realized she’d been muttering. “No one.”

  Her friend took a step back, not fooled for a second. She shoved a hand on her ample hips, a vision in black Lycra and magenta chiffon. The nose ring added the final touch of North Beach hip. “You aren’t going to fight me about the highlights, are you? You need highlights.”

  Like she needed a nose ring. “No highlights, Sunny. Just a cut.”

  Her friend snorted. “Highlights would help, you know.”

  “Help with what?”

  “You’re looking whipped, my dear. Too much running around and not enough Pilates.”

  Taylor turned to glare at her image in the mirror. Sure enough, there were disgusting dark circles under her eyes. Taylor scowled. Book deadlines were hell, as every author knew. It was wonderful to have written, but the actual process unfolding in the real, live present tense usually sucked.

  Especially when the dreaded b word came into play.

  B-l-o-c-k.

  Taylor closed her eyes at the mere thought. Fortunately for the reading public, writing was like childbirth: You forgot all the agony when you held the finished product in your hands, exhausted but radiant with a delirious sense of completion.

  She sighed. Only 427 more pages to go. Meanwhile, she had to do something about her dark circles. “Okay, maybe a facial, but no highlights.” Every time she came here, Sunny talked her into going a shade lighter. Now her hair was right on the edge of strawberry blond, and there was no way Taylor was going any further.

  “Something in a nice ash tone would work.”

  “Absolutely not. Highlights, but no color.”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of nothing.”

  “Fine, then we’ll go for the strawberry.” Sunny gestured to a man behind a cabinet full of bottles. “I need New Passion #54, Jerome.”

  Taylor stood up. “That’s it. I’m gone.”

  “My, but someone’s snippy today. Not enough Vitamin B12, I imagine. What you need is some lovely wheat grass.” Sunny nodded to another ascetic-looking young man working a juicer at the front counter. “One Green Goddess over here, Sanford. Double chlorella.”

  Taylor felt a gag reflex starting. “Scratch the Green Goddess.”

  Sunny waited gravely.

  “Fine, fine. Forget the green slime, and I’ll take the highlights.”

  Sunny smiled benignly. “They always do.” She crooked a finger, leading Taylor to a station with combs, curlers, and twenty sizes of foil. “So what’s happening with your next book? I can’t wait to see how you follow up on The Farewell Code.”

  Taylor hid a grimace. “Oh, the writing’s going great.” All twenty-four pages and two paragraphs of it. “Slow, but great.”

  Sunny frowned. “Isn’t your book due in May?”

  “Hey, everything’s under control,” Taylor lied smoothly.

  “This from the queen of last minute? You know that kind of stress is hell on your system. Let me see your fingernails.”

  Taylor grimaced.

  “Just what I suspected. They’re bitten down to stubs. Why don’t you start writing sooner? How much research does one book take?”

  Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “Do I tell you how to cut layers or handle a curling iron?”

  “Try it and die.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “I was just offering a little advice.” Sunny tossed a cover over Taylor’s shoulders and pushed her down for a shampoo. “So what’s your angle this time? Embezzlers, immigration scams? A white slavery ring? You know, my uncle was just telling me yesterday that he couldn’t wait for your next book. He has his whole reading club waiting for it, too.”

  Taylor swallowed. “Your uncle Vinnie has a reading club?”

  “Just a few guys from the old days. You know, back in Little Italy.”

  A transplanted New Yorker, Sunny’s uncle Vinnie was now famous in certain parts of San Francisco, namely police headquarters. He had a rap sheet the size of a city block, and thirty years ago he would have been a dead ringer for Tony Soprano. Even now when he walked into a room, women felt a frisson of excitement—and grown men felt their insides churn. He was as “made” as you could get and not be floating in the Hudson River.

  “Gee, that’s . . . nice. Tell him I said thanks.”

  Sunny stabbed at the air. “You have any trouble with anyone, Uncle Vinnie says to let him know. He’s serious. He has ways to handle problems.” She made two fingers into a gun.

  Taylor squirmed on the imitation velvet chair. “I’ll pass on the hit, Sunny.”

  “Hey, you never know. If Vinnie can’t help you, my cousin Giovanni will. He lives in Vegas, but he’s got business interests all over, if you know what I mean.” Sunny finished the shampoo and tossed a towel around Taylor’s head.

  Taylor squinted around the towel. “Actually, I could use some information on a man who works in a lab in Pacific Heights. He may be in some kind of trouble.”

  “And?”

  Taylor chose her words carefully. “And he may be threatening a friend of mine.” He may also be threatening me.

  Sunny said something in Italian, tossed down her comb, and pulled out a cell phone. Today it was magenta, to match her blouse. “Let Uncle Vinnie handle this. He’s got finesse, you know.”

  As far as Taylor could see, Vinnie de Vito had about as much finesse as Robert de Niro in Raging Bull, but she decided not to mention it when Sunny was being so helpful.

  Her friend punched in some numbers. After preliminary family chitchat and the usual questions about when she was going to give up the beauty business and settle down with a nice Italian man and make a big family, Sunny got down to business. “Taylor’s here, Uncle Vinnie. Yes, of course I gave her your love. Yes, I told her you’re waiting for the new book. The thing is, she needs some help.” Sunny winked at Taylor. “No, not that kind of help, Uncle Vinnie. Just some information. She’s working on her next book, and she needs to check on a local lab.” She gave him Harris Rains’ name and the lab name, listened for a moment, then covered the phone. “He says he’ll mail you a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars if you send him the pages for his reading club as soon as you’re done with the book.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of—”

  Sunny spoke into the phone, then looked up. “He says five thousand.”

  Taylor swallowed. “He’ll have the first copies, no money asked.”


  “You’re on, Uncle Vinnie. No charge for the pages. So, can you make a few calls about Harris Rains and his lab? We’ll be here at the salon while Taylor gets some color. Blonde,” she added firmly.

  Taylor glared.

  Sunny ignored her. “Within the hour? Great. I knew you could do it. We’ll be waiting.” Sunny cut the connection and rolled back her sleeves. “Let’s get to work.”

  Taylor watched foil squares flutter in the air currents, listening to Sunny’s latest gossip about who was getting hair extensions and BOTOX injections. At the same time, another part of her brain was running through plot possibilities.

  The writer’s curse: always being two places at once.

  She sat up tensely when Sunny’s cell phone rang. Sunny made notes on a pad, then hung up. “Harris Rains, this is your life,” she announced. “Vinnie got everything: home address, home phone, cell, and fax numbers. You also have his driving record. My uncle said to tell you this guy could be a little flaky, judging by his credit history.”

  “He got all that?”

  Sunny shrugged. “Banking records, too. He’s made some bad stock investments, it seems.”

  It had taken him, what, twenty minutes to snare a stranger’s complete life story? So much for the sanctity of banking laws and institutional privacy.

  Taylor frowned, wondering how easy it would be for someone to get all the details of her life, birth records in particular.

  One demon at a time. “Is it accurate?”

  “Trust me, my uncle never gets false information,” Sunny said gravely.

  Taylor could believe that. Giving Vinnie de Vito false information could get you fitted for a cement tuxedo and a nice permanent berth beneath the Oakland Bay Bridge.

  “So how’s Rains’ credit?”

  “Six cards. All maxed out.”

  “No kidding.” So much for Candace’s assurances that Harris was rolling in cash and expecting a huge stock bonus any day. Stocks didn’t always equate to liquid assets, as any survivor of Wall Street’s latest roller-coaster antics could warrant.

  Sunny unfolded the first piece of foil and stared gravely at Taylor’s hair.

  “Well?” Taylor waited anxiously. “Please tell me I’m not going to have hair like Pamela Anderson’s.”

  “Of course not. Her hair’s long, and yours is short.” Sunny opened another foil section. “Interesting.”

  Anxiety skittered into panic. “Interesting as in why-is-she-trying-to-look-like-Pamela-Anderson-but-with-short-hair?”

  Sunny glanced at Taylor’s chest. “Sorry, but you’re out of luck in the breast department, too.” She unfolded another piece of foil. “Stop worrying. When I’m done, you’re going to knock people dead.”

  Taylor closed her eyes. Knocking people dead was exactly what she was afraid of. When she looked up, Sanford of the Green Goddess drink was standing beside Sunny, holding out a large basket lined with green paper. “A messenger just dropped this off up front. He said it was for Taylor O’Toole.”

  “Flowers ’R Us? That means a secret admirer for sure.” Sunny did a snappy high five with Sanford, followed by some sharp finger moves. “I just love stuff like this.”

  “I don’t have any secret admirers. And no one knows I’m here.”

  “Stop being so cynical and open the gift.” Taylor took the basket from Sunny, then tugged at the gaudy metallic bow. “I don’t know about his taste.” She removed the ribbon and dug away three layers of green waxed paper, then stopped cold.

  She swallowed, taking another reluctant look. “Judging by this, I think we can forget about a secret admirer.”

  Chapter Four

  FROM TAYLOR’S BOOK OF RULES:

  Breathe fast. You might not feel it.

  “Let me see.” Sunny shoved her aside. As she did, the basket tipped and half a dozen black blooms spilled onto the floor. “Is this some kind of joke? These are black. For dead people.” Her voice rose shrilly.

  Taylor’s heart hammered as she shoved the fallen flowers back in the basket, where they spilled over an intricate funeral wreath, of black irises, tulips, and lilies. “See if the receptionist got the name of the messenger service.” Taylor stood up awkwardly, half in shock. “But first tell me where your service entrance is.”

  “Past the bathrooms and through the storage area. Be careful.”

  Taylor didn’t need a warning. The situation had turned nasty, and she was taking no chances on a direct confrontation. With any luck she could get a name, description, or a truck number to be traced later. Someone was going to pay for this sick little joke.

  She hit the back door at a run, scanning the sunny parking lot. Two Jaguars. Red Beemer. A young Hispanic man stacking cartons near a Dumpster.

  No floral delivery truck.

  No messenger.

  Taylor felt oddly surreal. Things like this didn’t happen in her safe, ordered world. The Hispanic man, whom she had often seen cleaning up for Sunny, was staring at her, and Taylor realized her whole body was shaking.

  “Hey, lady, you okay?”

  Was she? How were you supposed to feel when someone sent you a funeral arrangement as a demented and very cold-blooded warning?

  “Are you sick or something, lady? You like me to get a doctor?”

  Taylor shook her head. “No—I’m fine.” Not in a million years was she fine. “I just need to . . .” To stop panicking. To stop shaking. “I need to sit down.”

  “Here, use this box.” The young man frowned, shoving a sturdy box in front of her. “Had a bad day?”

  Taylor sank blindly onto the box. “A bad week, actually.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had plenty of those. What happened? You lose your job or something?”

  “Worse.” Someone had just sent her a death threat, clear and simple.

  It still felt surreal, like a nightmare happening to someone else. She had been followed and warned off in clear terms, and she could think of only one person with a motive.

  Harris Rains. She was involved now—dangerously involved.

  “Have you seen a truck or a deliveryman outside the salon?”

  “Not in the last fifteen minutes. I don’t know about before that.” The young man moved back a step, looking worried. “Maybe you should see the police.”

  He was right, of course. Taylor would have to do that next—as soon as her legs stopped shaking long enough for her to stand up.

  Just then the back door shot open, and Sunny sprinted outside. “Find anything?”

  Taylor shook her head.

  “The receptionist didn’t get his name. He was wearing a blue uniform, but she doesn’t remember the company.”

  “It was probably a phony name anyway.”

  Sunny braced one hand against the wall. “I’m not feeling so good.”

  Taylor took a deep breath. “We don’t have time to be sick. We’ve got to think.”

  “About what, the sleaze that would do something like this?” Sunny’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me—Harris Rains.”

  “Harris Rains is looking very likely.” Taylor had a sudden, horrible thought. She dug in her purse for her cell phone and punched in Candace’s number. “Candace, where are you?”

  “At home. Why—”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  Taylor puffed out a breath in relief. “I just got a little present delivered to me, and I suspect it came from your dear friend Harris.” Taylor heard the words in an echo that seemed very faint, like a television heard from a nearby room.

  “What kind of present?” Candace asked nervously.

  “A funeral arrangement.” Taylor stopped as Sunny shoved something into her hand.

  It was the gift card that had been taped on the outside of the arrangement. “He sent a message, too. ‘In memorium.’ ” Taylor stared at the neatly typed card. No way to trace that. “Your friend Harris is starting to seriously piss me off.”

  “But you can’t be sure that Harris se
nt it. Maybe I should call him and—”

  “I want you to stay away from him,” Taylor said grimly. “If he calls, hang up. If he knocks at your door, throw the bolt and call the police. I’m serious about this.”

  Candace didn’t answer. Taylor had a bad feeling that she wasn’t really listening.

  “Candace?”

  “I hear you, Taylor. I—I appreciate your advice, but I’m confused and I need to think, okay? I’ll call you later. And—and I’m sorry.” There was a click and the line went dead. With a sinking feeling, Taylor realized her friend hadn’t agreed to anything. Candace still loved the scum, even now. Harris had really done a job on her.

  She put away her phone and followed Sunny back inside. The basket was still on Sunny’s chair.

  “I’m taking this to the police.”

  “Wait.” Sunny gripped her hand. “The police won’t do anything except file a long report and make you sign in triplicate. You need help now. Let Uncle Vinnie handle this.”

  “What can he do?”

  Sunny reached for the phone. “Plenty. Trust me.”

  Taylor wanted to argue, but she was starting to feel like throwing up. She realized her hair was still wrapped in dozens of foil rectangles, being stripped of all color even as she spoke. “Okay, call him. Maybe he can ask the right questions in the right places. But if he gets nowhere, I’m going to the police.”

  “Reasonable enough.”

  Taylor stared at the flowers, wondering what she would do next. “Can you finish my hair, Sunny? I’ve got to go.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “First, I’m going to throw up,” Taylor said. “After that, I’m going to dose myself with caffeine, then go stalk Harris Rains.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” Sunny said slowly.

  “Don’t worry, this is strictly a fact-finding mission. The man won’t even know I’m there. But I’m not giving up, Sunny. Not until I find out exactly what’s going on.”

  Cars streamed in a noisy rush down Market Street forty-five minutes later as Taylor sat parked in afternoon traffic, facing a glass-and-chrome skyscraper. Thanks to several comments Candace had made, she knew Rains had worked on the fifteenth floor for the last three years.