Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 04]

by Over the Line

  He’d tell ’em. He’d tell ’em that she was as sweet as her name even though they dressed her up like a slut. He’d tell ’em that she’d grown up without a daddy in a dozen low-rent trailers all up and down the state of Mississippi where her momma drank like a fish and washed other people’s clothes along with doing a little back work to make ends meet—most often they didn’t. He’d tell ’em that Janey was loyal. That she took care of her mom even though she’d never been a mom to her.

  Yeah, he knew everything about her, even before she made it big. And oh, had that little girl made it big. Even bigger than when his high-priced gutless wonder of a lawyer had let the Los Angeles D.A. whip his ass on their defense case three years ago and he’d ended up in San Luis Obispo.

  Yeah, Janey coulda been a runaway. Coulda been a street whore like her bitch of a mother. But she was too good. Too sweet. Too smart. She’d gone to school. She’d worked summers bussing tables until she’d hitched a ride to one of them amusement parks and tried out for a singing job when she was sweet sixteen.

  That was where it all started for her. Singing her little heart out on a stage to entertain snot-nosed brats. One of those brats had been there with her granddaddy. Grand-daddy the record producer.

  Yeah. One mighty smart record producer. Jack Swingle had seen talent. Real talent. And now Janey was a star.

  As big as they got.

  God, he’d missed her. He’d be seeing her again soon, though. Was in the process of clearing the way.

  Edwin imagined Janey riding him hard and finished himself off with a deep, guttural grunt.

  “I’m coming for you, honey,” he whispered, then grinned at his little joke since, technically, he’d already come.

  Oh, he had so much more he wanted to give her. So much he wanted to say to her. So much he had to make up for.

  This time Janey would understand how he felt about her because this time he was going to make sure she knew what he was capable of doing for her.

  He picked up the phone. Made an important call.

  Same night, U.S. Highway 45 truck stop, Tupelo, Mississippi

  “Does it . . . bother you?”

  The voice on the other end of his cell phone was hushed, shaken, and, if Alex didn’t miss his guess, something else. The slight tremor, the rise in pitch, told him there was also some vicarious excitement going on here. A thrill provoked by the kill. No doubt about it: He was dealing with a very sick fuck. But then, most of his clients were.

  He stood in the wide hallway on a cracked gray tile floor between the minimart and the men’s john, glaring at a bank of banged-up metal lockers. “Last I knew, you weren’t paying me to be bothered. You’re paying me to do a job. It’s done and I want the rest of my money.”

  This was the first job Alex had ever done for this client. The cash was good. The method of payment wasn’t. Half up-front, the balance after the completion of the job. But first, the client insisted on this little blow-by-blow account. Alex had to put up with these annoying questions as the scent of diesel, grease, grits, and smoke clung to his shirt like a cheap whore.

  “There has to have been a time . . . a time when it bothered you. Death . . . it’s so final. So . . . irreversible. And yet . . .”

  An outside door opened, letting in a suffocating, muggy heat along with the cush and squeal of air brakes and the grind of shifting gears as an eighteen-wheeler pulled into the truck plaza.

  “And yet what?” Alex growled, way past impatient.

  “You really feel no guilt? No sense of wrong?”

  He grunted out a chuckle. “No pity for someone’s dearly departed?”

  “There’s no need to laugh. This is difficult enough.”

  That did it. “Difficult for who? I was the one who had to wait. Sit in the dark and the rain in this mosquito-infested swamp town. I took the risk. I pulled the trigger.”

  In this case the “trigger” hadn’t been his Sig but a 1979 Pontiac. Had to be a ’79 Pontiac Lemans. Green. His client had even told him where to find one. Like he said. A real sick fuck.

  No one would find the car now. He’d driven it off an embankment. The Lemans was lost somewhere outside of town, stuck at the bottom of the Tombigbee River, sunk hood deep in silt.

  Christ. Alex didn’t know why he was wasting his time talking. He’d never have contact with this joker again. Yet . . . something about this particular client provoked a sort of morbid fascination. It took all kinds. But this was a first for Alex.

  Disgusted and feeling mean with it, he decided to employ the old axiom and give the client what they wanted. “You want to hear about the crunch of bones and spray of blood when she hit the windshield?” Alex asked in a hushed voice so no one passing by could hear him. “How her skull cracked like a ripe melon? Want me to tell you how her body crumpled, then slid off the hood before I ran over it?

  “How about her eyes? You want me to describe how they widened in shock, then surprise, just before I plowed into her?”

  “No. Please. That’s . . . not necessary.”

  Alex had figured the gory details would put an end to the questions. He wanted his payment. And he was weary of the chitchat. Patience was a virtue that was far overrated.

  But then, so was virtue as a concept.

  “Just tell me the damn locker number and the combination,” he demanded. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Finally he got what he needed.

  Alex located the locker, spun the dial, and opened it up. It was a damn good thing the envelope was there. After counting out the bills, he pocketed them, wiped the locker clean of prints, and headed outside.

  “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Wait. Don’t hang up. I have another job for you.”

  Alex shoved out the door of the truck stop and walked from stale, poorly conditioned air into what felt like swamp water. Now this was interesting. “Lotta people must have pissed you off, huh?”

  “Do you want the work or not?”

  Head down, he dodged a trucker walking a mongrel dog and headed for his car. “You got the money. I’ve got the means.” He was, after all, a businessman.

  Five minutes later, he had the next target, the details of the job, and a nicely negotiated price. All was well in his world.

  Yet as he drove through the thickness of the southern night, a sharp, unexpected memory of his first kill surfaced with the clarity of a newscast. It had been almost ten years ago now. After the first gulf war. After he’d left the force. Yeah, that first professional job had been a rush, a real power trip. And yeah, he’d felt a trace—but just a trace—of guilt at the time. That was a long time ago.

  Now a kill was a kill. Now there was just power in the process. And in the cat-and-mouse game of evading the law he used to uphold.

  There was one other major perk. The money stockpiling in his Grand Cayman bank account went a long way toward making up for the occasional pang of guilt . . . and the recurring nightmares.

  3

  Tuesday, July 11th, 3:00 p.m. Backstage dressing room, West Palm Beach

  “Ms. Perkins?”

  Janey was perched on the edge of the sofa in her dressing room, studying the blocking for a new number they’d added for tonight’s concert when Jason Wilson poked his head into the room.

  “What’s up?” She glanced up from her notes, trying to mask her impatience. It was almost time for sound check, and she still hadn’t worked this number through in her mind. One look at Wilson’s face, however, had her forgetting all about the concert.

  “Problem?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but the police are here. They need to talk to you.”

  She stood abruptly, tossed her notes aside. “Police?”

  Before she could ask him another question, Wilson opened the door wide, and two uniformed officers entered the room. She was barely aware of Wilson making introductions. All that registered were the dour and grim expressions on both men’s faces.

  “What? What’s happen
ed?” Her heartbeat ricocheted around in her ears as she looked from one to the other. “Oh God. Is it Max? Did something happen to Max?”

  “Max?” The taller of the two shot a glance at Wilson.

  “Max Cogan. Her manager,” Wilson supplied.

  At some point, Wilson had ended up right beside her. Janey wasn’t sure how that had happened, but she was suddenly glad for his steady presence. Max had had a meeting across town this afternoon. All she could think was that he’d had an accident. Or that the recurrent indigestion he’d been fighting had actually been his heart, and he’d had an attack.

  “No. This has nothing to do with your manager.”

  The relief was almost as crushing as her concern. So much so that she must have wobbled. Wilson’s fingers wrapped around her arm and steadied her.

  “Thank God.” She smiled, feeling foolish. “Sorry about that. I’m a little wired. Big show tonight.” She lifted a shoulder. “So, what can I do for you? Oh—hey, this isn’t about the damage the band did to the hotel in Denver a couple of weeks ago, is it? We covered that. At least, we were supposed to.”

  “Ma’am,” the officer who she thought introduced himself as Richards interrupted. “It’s not about Denver. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

  Again, she was aware on a peripheral level of Wilson’s strong, steady support beside her. And once again, she searched for a plausible reason for their concern.

  Then it came to her. “Grimm? Is this about Edwin Grimm?”

  Officer Richards shook his head. “Your mother,” he said, his eyes kind and sad. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she’s dead.”

  Her mother.

  Dead.

  Janey stared in numb silence. Numb but for the sharp, tight knot twisting in her chest. Numb but for the rush of blood pulsing at her temples, blurring her vision.

  She shook her head. Wilson’s hands on her shoulders now felt strong and warm and real in a moment that had otherwise lost all semblance of reality. “Dead? My mother is . . . dead? Are you . . . sure?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Perkins, but yes. The Tupelo police identified her body. They didn’t want to deliver the news by phone so they contacted us and asked that we inform you.”

  “How?” she finally managed to ask, still caught somewhere between disbelief, denial, and bewilderment.

  “According to the report, she was killed by a hit and run driver. There’s an ongoing investigation, of course, but that’s what appears to have happened, ma’am.”

  “Ms. Perkins.” It was Wilson’s voice that penetrated the fog again. “Come on. Let’s sit you down.”

  She let him lead her to the sofa.

  “I’ll leave a number for the Tupelo police. When you’re up to it, you can call them. They can fill you in on the details.” She heard Officer Richards’s voice as her mind spun back to the phone call she’d just had with her mother.

  “I just talked to her,” she said aloud.

  She was vaguely aware of the shifting of feet. Someone cleared his throat. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Ms. Perkins.”

  She nodded as they left the room, closing the door behind them.

  “I just talked to her,” she repeated, lifting her head and meeting the concern in Jason Wilson’s baby blue eyes.

  “Do you want me to call Max?” he asked gently.

  Already, he knew her so well. Knew that she needed Max. Max who was always there for her. Who she wanted to be here for her now.

  And yet, she shook her head. “No. I don’t . . . um . . . I don’t want Max to know about this. Not yet. He’ll insist we cancel tonight’s concert.”

  Wilson was quiet for a while. “It’s not my place to say so, but if he did cancel, he’d be making the right call.”

  Wilson meant well. But suddenly she couldn’t handle the compassion in his voice, the tenderness in his eyes.

  “Max is not to know about this,” she insisted and dug deep to stiffen her backbone. “Got it?”

  He looked at her long and hard. “You’re the boss.”

  She made herself smile. “Yeah. There is that.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked after several moments passed.

  “Yeah. You can give me a little time alone, okay? I . . . I need to . . .” What did she need to do? She didn’t know. She didn’t have a clue. “I just need to be alone for a while.”

  She figured it went against his better judgment and his macho gene to leave her, but in the end, he nodded. “I’ll be right outside the door. You need something . . . a shoulder maybe . . . just let me know.”

  “Sure.” She compressed her lips. “I will. Thanks.”

  Then she closed her eyes and waited for what seemed like an eternity for the sound of the door to close behind him.

  Only then did she let the tears that had been building fall. Only then, did she give herself permission to mourn for a mother she had never really known.

  Smoke from Max’s cigarette curled up behind Janey’s dressing-table mirror. It made her think of fog rising from a boggy river bottom on a cool October morning. And it made her shiver. She’d seen a lot of foggy mornings from a lot of shabby little Mississippi backwater river towns. As Brenda Jane Perkins she’d known a lot of cold mornings. Scared and hungry mornings. And the news the West Palm PD officers had brought her earlier today made her remember them far too clearly.

  She lifted her chin. Determined to get past it. And to remember that where she was now was a long way from Mississippi. Remember that at twenty-seven, with five platinum CDs and a portfolio that would make Martha Stewart blink, she was a long way from scared and skinny little Brenda Jane.

  “Didn’t I ask you to put that thing out?” She glared into the dressing-table mirror, meeting Max Cogan’s passively curious expression.

  The conversation of the other occupants of the dressing room stalled into shocked silence.

  They didn’t call her Sweet for nothing. She could talk trash with the best of them, belt out a song in what Rolling Stone magazine had labeled a velvet hammer of a voice, but she only played the role of diva for the paparazzi. Never with her inner circle.

  And she’d just snapped at Max.

  After a considering look, Max slowly roused his long, lanky frame from a deep slouch on the cushy red leather sofa.

  “How about you-all give Janey a little room?” Max suggested to the entourage lounging and languishing and helping themselves to the open bar that Janey never touched.

  Nobody questioned Max’s quiet request. Not Neal Sanders, a carryover friend from her summers singing at amusement parks. Not Christine Ramsey, who was still busy videotaping her chronicle of Janey’s Fire and Soul tour for her documentary. Not Derek, who had backed off—at least for tonight if the busty brunette he had in tow was any indication. No one, from the rest of the band members to the backup singers, said a thing for several long seconds.

  Finally, looking uncomfortable, they all mumbled quiet versions of “break a leg” and shuffled out of the room.

  Janey caught a glimpse of Baby Blue—as she’d started thinking of Jason Wilson—standing outside her dressing room as the door closed behind them. Vigilant as hell, she thought sourly.

  Great. Now she was complaining about a man who was just doing his job. It wasn’t his fault she needed a bodyguard. Or that since he’d come on the scene she sometimes found herself thinking about sex—or her lack of it.

  She turned back to the dressing-table mirror—and saw that Max was pointedly meeting her gaze. With a grand flourish he dropped his half-smoked cigarette into a mug of stale, cold coffee.

  “Okay, snooks. It’s out. It’s just you and me now. You wanna tell me what’s got your tail in a knot?”

  Janey went back to work on her stage face, painting on black eyeliner with a heavy hand covered in sheer silver diamond net that crawled up to her elbow. The same glittery mesh matched her thigh-high stockings. And the hand that applied the makeup was shaking.

&n
bsp; The shaking ticked her off. It reminded her of that wretched little girl she used to be. The one who had gotten cross with Max, who didn’t deserve her anger, and added guilt to the mix. The one who still had a need for her mother. A knot of pain twisted in her gut.

  “It’s a big gig,” she hedged, and lined her lips with a fire-red lipstick pencil. “Last I knew, the headliner was allowed to be a little nervous.”

  Max grunted, folded his big, long-fingered hands together between splayed knees, and frowned at her through tired brown eyes. “Look—sweetie, if it’s Grimm, relax. Wilson’s got it covered.”

  “It’s not Grimm.” She’d be damned if she’d let that wacko control her life again.

  Outside the paper-thin walls of the backstage dressing room, she could hear the rumble of the sold-out crowd. The opening band had done a good job warming them up for her. A few would already be stoned. Many were slowly working up a nice buzz on eight-dollar-a-cup beer. Most were here for a good time and a good hard rock concert beneath a blanket of Florida stars. All of them were here to see her—Sweet Baby Jane—Horizon recording label’s top-grossing star for six years running.

  “Janey?”

  She met Max’s concerned gaze in the mirror again, then looked away, pushing herself to her feet. She walked across the dressing room on four-inch silver platform boots that rose to just above her knees and elevated her to a whopping five five. Inspected her stage costume—what there was of it—in the full-length wall mirror.

  Her mother had been right. She looked like a slut. Hell, there was more covering her arms than the rest of her. She was exposed from her shoulders to the top of her breasts, where a black leather band cinched tight, leaving her bare to the micromini leather and white lace skirt riding high on her thighs and low on her hips. So low, she could see the tail of the clef note she’d had tattooed low on the left side of her abdomen right after she’d signed her first recording contract eight years ago.