All or Nothing (35 page)

Giraud was first on his feet, kicking his way through the debris, going after her. Marla ran the other way, out the main door, followed by the platinum–haired waiter yelling about their unpaid check.

Outside, Marla scooted around the corner of the building, skidding on the rain–slicked blacktop, heading for the kitchen exit. Just in time to see Laurie, purse grasped in one hand, car keys in the other, running toward the black Ford pickup parked in the back.

“Laurie!” Marla’s voice sounded thin in the wind and rain but Laurie heard, alright. Marla saw her stiffen, lift her head like a hunted animal sniffing the wind for its pursuer.

Giraud was halfway across the parking lot, his favorite old Smith & Wesson .38mm in his right hand. Only now he wasn’t so fast with that right hand because of the shoulder injury. “Stop right there, Laurie,” he yelled, crouching and taking aim.

Laurie turned to look. Eyes narrowed, she took in the two of them and the gun pointed at her. Rain plastered her black hair to her skull.

Later, Marla would swear she saw her eyes gleam red, like hot coals. It was as though the devil himself were looking at her. Chills sent shudders down her spine and she knew she was face–to–face with evil.

Then Laurie’s head drooped, and her body seemed to sag as the fight went out of her. She shrugged, stood head down, defeated.

Giraud walked toward her.

He should have known better, an ex–cop like him. . . .

“Look out,” Marla screamed.

There was a flash of silver, the hot spark of a bullet. Giraud yelled, dropping his gun as blood spurted from his already injured shoulder. Then he was on the ground, rolling into the lee of a parked vehicle.

Laurie was in the pickup and Marla heard her gunning the engine. Swiftly, she darted out and grabbed the Smith & Wesson, took aim and fired.

The back off–side tire exploded like a clap of thunder as Laurie sped for the exit, and the pickup went into a spin.

Marla stood transfixed as the scene evolved in what seemed like slow motion in front of her. She could see Laurie’s furious face, hear her screaming curses. Then the pickup hit the wall and flipped over twice.

The car’s horn beeped into the sudden silence. Its wheels spun slowly and Laurie’s bloody head rested against the shattered windshield. Marla could hear the little dog barking.

“Crime and punishment,” she whispered, shocked by the result of her action.

“I’m hoping she hasn’t gotten off that easy.” Giraud winced with pain as he struggled to his feet. “I want her alive. I want her to face a jury of her peers. I want her inside where she can never harm anyone again.” But even as he said it he knew it was too late for that.

“Isn’t it better this way?” Marla’s eyes were brimming with tears. She was trembling as she turned to him.

People were running toward them now, diners from the restaurant, the chefs, waitresses. A crowd was forming. Somewhere in the background the wail of a police siren rapidly approaching could be heard.

“I keep thinking about Steve and Vickie. That poor family, what she put them through,” Marla murmured, choking up.

“There’s no compensation for that kind of injury, though now no doubt the tabloids will be after them to sell their story.” Al stroked her rain–wet hair soothingly with his good hand.

“They could have lived without all this,” Marla said.

“And they will again. They will pick up their lives, get on with things, the kids will be back in school. Steve Mallard will be a hero now.”

“And Vickie?” Marla thought of the nice young woman whose life had fallen into a black pit for so many long weeks. “How can it ever be the same for her?”

Giraud leaned on her arm, watching the uniformed cops approach them, guns drawn. He thought of the all–or–nothing scenario the Mallards had played out, and he thanked God they had finally won.

“Look at it this way, it’ll be a new beginning.”

He grinned, that old sardonic cocky grin that made her knees tremble. “Better put your hands up, Marla, honey. We’ve got company.”

Al drove his new red Corvette up to the Ivory Tower––as Marla called her domain. He waved hi to the doorman, who looked astonished, but then, finally recognizing him in his Armani finery, waved him into the underground parking.

Marla had two slots. Giraud skirted the silver Mercedes parked in the first one and swung into the second. He stomped on the brakes, cursing loudly. He had almost hit the bike––a red Ducati Monster already parked there, all gleaming paintwork, sparkling chrome and unleashed power sitting prettily next to the Merc.

Grumbling, he backed out again and drove to the visitors’ slots. He had expected Marla to be alone. After all, this was to be their private celebration, not only for tracking down Laurie the Killer, but for surviving the chase. Tonight, Marla had said, they were celebrating just being alive.

So then who was visiting on the brand–new Ducati? It surely couldn’t be her mother––but it could be the thirty–six–year–old unmarried orthodontist. Mr. Right had finally come calling. And on one of the fastest bikes on the planet. This guy was gonna be competition after all, despite the teeth.

He checked his appearance in the elevator mirror as it zoomed silently up to the top floor. The Armani shirt Marla had bought him was a deep blue that she had said matched his eyes. He compared them anxiously, still thinking about the competition. He had taken the strapping off his shoulder because he figured it was tough for a guy to get romantic with his shoulder immobilized, but, for love, he was prepared to suffer some pain. His Levis had benefited from a trip to the cleaners though to his disgust they had put creases in them and he had spent ten minutes walking all over them to try to eliminate that uncool line. He was wearing brown suede Tod’s loafers that he was discovering were even more comfortable than his old Nikes. And that was it, apart from the usual Jockeys. No jacket, no socks, no tie. There was just so far a guy would go to please a woman.

The door to Marla’s apartment stood open. He took in the firelight, the flowers, the scented candles, the Barry White and the small round table with a cream–tassled silk skirt set with silver and crystal, the champagne waiting in the ice bucket. . . . Marla had gone for the works this time. It promised to be a good night.

He wandered in, called, “Hi, honey, I’m home,” and took the weight off his feet. His shoulder hurt like hell and he still didn’t have the mobility he would have wished for on a romantic occasion such as this, though he was glad that at least the bullet had exited on the other side without doing too much damage, and that the surgeon hadn’t had to dig it out. “A clean wound,” they had said and he thanked God for that. It could all have been much worse.

Meanwhile, where was the orthodontist with the Ducati? He glowered at Marla’s closed bedroom door. Jesus, he couldn’t be where he was thinking he might be.
Could he?

Just then Marla poked her head around the door. “Be right there, sweetheart. Make yourself at home,” she said smiling sweetly. And then she closed the door again.

Giraud drummed his fingers on the chenille sofa arm, frowning. But, nah, she couldn’t be in there with another guy. Not Marla. At least not when she was expecting him. Could she?

He got up, opened the champagne, poured himself a glass and took a sip. The bass on the speaker vibrated as Barry got deeper into the mood, singing about his sugar and hold me baby and do it to me honey . . . the guy was sex on vinyl. . . .

“Be right there.” Marla peeked around the bedroom door again. “Just one more minute. Oh, and pour me a glass too, would you, darling?”

Darling?
Well, he guessed it made a change from “sweetheart.” Kinda upmarket for him, though. He was definitely not a darling man . . . not when honey would do, or even as Barry put it, “sugar. . . .” Yeah, he liked his women––
woman,
he corrected himself––sweet.

“Badah!”
Marla posed in the doorway, one foot in front of the other, right knee slightly bent in the traditional Miss America pose. Except she didn’t look like any Miss America Giraud had ever seen. She looked like the Stripper Bride.

She was wearing a strapless satin bustier that indented where it mattered and overflowed where it really counted. Between her breasts––which looked, he thought, even more satiny than the bustier but of an infinitely more sensual texture––nestled a long strand of pearls. There were more pearls woven into her upswept blond hair and embroidered down the length of the lavish tulle veil that flowed behind her like a train. Her eyes were dark with excitement, glowing greener than any emerald in the candlelight, and her pouty mouth was smiling oh so prettily at him.

That was the top half of her. The bride half.

Giraud’s eyes traveled the supple length of her body, lingering on the tiny white lace thong, the garter belt that left a luscious section of creamy thigh between the lacy–topped stockings, the long legs, the white stilettos. . . . Oh, and she was carrying a bouquet of what smelled like gardenias.

That was the bottom half. Marla.

“I think you forgot your skirt, honey,” he said with that grin that quirked the corner of his mouth and lifted his left eyebrow, making her heart flutter.

“This is what I bought in San Francisco,” she explained. “They rescued it from the Corvette. I wanted to be a bride,” she said, still posing, still smiling. “But I thought you might miss the other part of me.”

“You bet I would.” They stood there, looking at each other. He guessed there was more to her plan than what immediately met the eye.

“You’re wearing the shirt I bought you,” she said. “I knew it would bring out the blue of your eyes.”

“And white becomes you, as do the pearls. Makes you look like a lady.”

“That’s only one aspect of my character.”

He suddenly remembered. The orthodontist might still be lurking in Marla’s bedroom. . . . “Whose is the red Ducati parked in your slot?” He tried his best to sound casual.

“All Ducatis are red, Giraud.”

“Yeah. So whose is it?”

She threw him a triumphant smile. “I thought I needed the proper wheels for a P.I. Something with a bit more pizzazz than the legal–eagle Merc. Y’know what I’m sayin’?”

He was laughing as he walked toward her and took her in his arms. “I know what you’re saying, honey.” And then he was kissing her as though there were no tomorrow, and they were molten with heat and love.

“Tell me something, Giraud,” she murmured, lying beneath him on the taupe chenille sectional, her veil askew and the scent of crushed gardenias almost overpowering them. Barry droned on in the background and the firelight flickered becomingly on her creamy flesh. “Tell me, if you were to ask me to marry you, exactly which aspect of my character would it be that you wanted?”

He looked up at her and that grin curved his mouth again. “Marla,” he said, “I want them all.”

And he did.

One of Elizabeth Adler’s greatest romantic thrillers, this best seller talks about the trail of a serial killer by Hollywood Hills private investigator Al Giraud and his lawyer cum lover Marla Cwitowitz. Real estate agent Laurie martin’s sudden dissappearance compels detective Lionel Bulworth and his assistant into believing that her client Steve Mallard was guilty of the crime. But Al and Maria think otherwise. Read on to find the killer, as the suspense filled melodrama takes an abrupt twist.