She drove into the parking lot at a strip mall and pulled up the phone-book app on her cell phone, got the number of Riverfront Wholesale and punched it in before she could change her mind.
The phone rang once, twice and then three times, while her nerves faltered and her good sense was telling her to hang the hell up and go straight to the police.
“Riverfront Wholesale. This is Sonya.”
And then it was too late.
“Hi. I have a delivery that needs to be signed for by one of your employees. What time do you close?”
“The drivers clock out once they’ve completed their routes, and the routes are all different. Who’s the delivery for?”
Holly frowned. She hadn’t intended to mention the name, but now she was caught between a rock and a hard place.
“Uh…Harold Mackey,” she muttered.
“Okay, let me check the roster,” Sonya said. There was a pause before she answered. “He should be back in around 6:00 p.m., or you could drop it off here. I’ll sign and see that he gets it.”
“Sorry, but it’s something he needs to sign for himself,” Holly said. “I’ll make other arrangements. Thank you for your help.” She hung up, aware that she’d already made her first mistake. She didn’t know what might happen if the woman mentioned the phone call to Harold, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 3:00 p.m. Three more hours before Harold Mackey’s quitting time. Andrew Slade had raised his girls to face their fears and enemies head-on. Turning her back on this one could be fatal.
Harold Mackey pulled up to the back door of the Green Lantern Café and killed the engine. This was his last stop of the day, and none too soon. Thirty-plus years of getting in and out of this damn delivery truck had been hard on his joints. His left hip was killing him.
He grunted from the pain as his feet hit the ground, then paused a moment to give his body time to catch up with the job at hand. When he was sure he could walk without limping, he headed toward the back of the truck, lowered the lift, then hopped on and rode it back up.
The order was the last invoice on the clipboard, and he been doing this job for so long that he filled it without thinking. His life was simple these days, which was exactly the way he liked it. His mind was already on his easy chair, some take-out food and a couple of cold beers.
As soon as he had filled the cart with the restaurant’s order, he rolled it onto the lift and rode down with it. When he got to the back door, he rang the bell and waited for the back door to open.
Harold eyed the thirtysomething redhead he knew as Lola. She was a first-degree bitch who got on his last nerve. She played on it just to piss him off. What she didn’t know was that when she messed with him, she was playing with fire.
“Oh. It’s you,” she drawled, and ran her gaze up and down Harold Mackey’s body as if big heavyset men with long gray ponytails and bushy brows got her hot. Mackey was one of the few men she knew who had never made a pass at her. It ate at her ego just enough that she felt obligated to bug him whenever she could. She stepped aside just enough for him to get by, but stayed close enough to be able to blow in his ear as he passed.
The hair crawled on the back of his neck as he moved into the kitchen. The urge to purge her from the face of the earth was so strong he could taste it, but he wasn’t playing her games. If the time came that he wanted in on the action she was offering, he would be the one calling the shots. He would wipe that smirk off her face so fast she wouldn’t know what hit her.
“Where’s Danny?” Harold asked.
She pointed, then shouted, “Hey, Danny!”
The chef stuck his head out from behind the stove and started complaining.
“I needed some of this stuff at noon. Why are we always the last delivery on your route?”
“I don’t make the rules. I just drive the truck,” Harold said quietly, and handed Danny the clipboard. “I unload. You check it off.”
The chef muttered beneath his breath as he eyed the boxes being unloaded, then signed off on the invoice and handed the clipboard back to Harold.
Lola blew Harold a kiss as he pocketed his pen, but he ignored her.
“Have a nice day,” he said, and walked out of the kitchen, pushing his empty cart.
Within minutes he was on the way back to the warehouse. He thought of the sleazy redhead he’d just left and smiled, which changed the dour expression on his face to a maniacal grimace. He liked knowing he held the power of life and death in his hands. It was like hunting. Harold believed in culling out the weak and useless, leaving only the strong to survive. It was a simple thing, really—just all in the way you looked at it.
It was ten minutes after six when he got back to the warehouse. He grabbed his clipboard, and headed into the office to turn it in and clock out.
Sonya, the dispatcher, was the boss’s niece—a nice enough young woman, which meant she was off his radar. He nodded at her as he dropped off the invoices, then went to clock out.
“Oh. Hey, Harold, I almost forgot. You had a phone call today,” she said.
He ran his card through the time clock, then put it back in the slot and turned around.
“Oh, yeah, who was it?” he asked.
“Some woman from a courier service had something for you. I guess you needed to sign for it personally, because she wouldn’t leave it here.” Then she grinned. “Sounded like one of those people who serve summonses and stuff. Are you in trouble?”
For a fraction of a second the blood roared so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear, and then the moment passed.
“No, I’m not in trouble. What else did she say?”
“Just that she couldn’t get here at six, so she’d make other arrangements,” Sonya said.
Harold frowned. “Yeah, sure.”
He got his car keys out of his pocket as he headed out the door. The pain in his hip was forgotten in his desire to get to his vehicle. He scanned the parking lot as he walked, looking for anything or anyone that was out of place, but nothing he saw set off any alarms. He was about to unlock the door when he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Never a man to ignore his instincts, he lifted his head and then spun toward the street, scanning the far side, beyond the passing traffic. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he was being watched.
Why was this happening, and why now? Even more intriguing, who was this woman and who did she work for? He almost smiled. He wasn’t used to being the one who was stalked. He could admire a worthy adversary, and it had been a while since he’d indulged his passion.
The urge to see if she showed herself was strong. Instead of getting in his car, he started walking toward the street. If he was right and someone was watching him, she would know she’d been made. And if he had become someone’s prey, it was only fair that he see his enemy’s face.
Holly had found a parking place over a block away and then walked down the street to the gas station across the street from the warehouse. She bought a bottle of pop and a bag of chips, and found a place to watch the street from inside the store. She’d been there less than fifteen minutes when a tall, heavyset man with a long gray ponytail came out of the building and headed toward the employee parking lot. There was something about the way he walked that made her stomach knot. She pulled the old photo of her father that Ida Pacino had given her out of her purse and compared it to the man across the street. From this distance, it was hard to tell for sure.
All of a sudden she saw him stop, then scan the area as if he were looking for someone. That was when she knew Sonya had told him about the call. When he started walking toward the street, she panicked. What if he was coming in here? What should she do? She felt cornered. She couldn’t leave. He would see her. What if he recognized her? What the hell had she done? She stepped back away from the window, putting a floor display of fan belts between her and the street, then stared past the edge to see what he was doing.
He stopped at the entrance to the parking lot, looking up and down the street in a slow, methodical manner. His hands were curled into fists, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun…and in that moment she realized that the man across the street
was
the same man as the one in the photo, only older. Her heartbeat was pounding so loud against her eardrums that she didn’t hear the clerk talking to her until he touched her arm.
She spun, her eyes wide with fright.
“What? What’s wrong?”
The clerk frowned. “Nothing, miss. I just asked if you were okay.”
Holly shoved a shaky hand through her hair as she nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She turned back toward the window.
The man—her father—was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, no, oh, my God,” she mumbled, and dumped her snack into the trash can and headed for the ladies’ room.
She flipped on the light as she closed and locked the door, then shuddered as a cockroach crawled out from behind the loose switch plate and headed up the wall. She leaned against the door and made herself calm down.
Footsteps came and went outside the door. The longer she was in there, the more anxious she became. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she knew she couldn’t stay there forever.
Finally she gritted her teeth and walked out. She wouldn’t look across the street as she started up the hill toward her car, but her heart was racing. When her cell phone rang, she answered quickly, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking as much as her legs. “Hello.”
“Hey, Holly. I was taking a break and thought I’d check on you. How’s it going?”
Bud. Just hearing his voice calmed her.
“Pretty good, actually.” There was no need to tell him what she’d learned or where she was, at least not today. “What’s been going on at home?” she asked with forced brightness. “How’s your hand? Is it healing okay?”
Bud frowned. He knew Holly as well as he knew himself, and she was sounding far too animated for his peace of mind.
“My hand is fine. What the hell’s going on?”
Holly frowned. He knew something was up. How did he do that?
“Nothing’s going on.” Her voice was sharp, her words abrupt. “I’m a little breathless because I’m walking uphill to where my car is parked, that’s all.”
“Oh. Well.”
She snorted softly. “Well, indeed. For Pete’s sake, I’m twenty-five years old, not five. I do not need a keeper.”
“Look. I didn’t call to insult you,” Bud said. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll talk to you again when you’re in a better frame of mind.”
The click in her ear was startling. Irked with herself for letting her stupidity color her behavior, she got in the car and drove away.
Harold Mackey had taken a back route out of the parking lot and circled the block, looking for vehicles that seemed out of place. The first thing he noticed was the rental car. It was parked up the hill from the warehouse, and with no residential houses nearby, he decided to wait and see who claimed it.
Almost thirty minutes passed before he noticed a young woman walking up the hill toward it. Like nearly everyone else he saw, she had a cell phone glued to her ear and was talking in an animated fashion. Something about her seemed familiar, although he was pretty sure he’d never seen her before.
To his surprise, she got in the rental car and drove away. The first thought that went through his mind was, if she had needed to stop at the gas station, then why the hell park a full block away? His curiosity piqued, he put his car in gear and eased back into traffic, taking care to keep some distance between them, and followed her all the way back to the Jameson Hotel.
He watched her stop at valet parking. Who the hell was she? The only living female who could ever cause him trouble was his daughter. The irony of it was, he wouldn’t know her if saw her. The only way to get the answer he needed now was to ask.
He thought for a minute, then pulled out his wallet and palmed a hundred-dollar bill. As soon as the woman went inside, he pulled up to the valet stand and jumped out. He was still in his work clothes, with his ID clipped to his shirt, and hoped that would give credence to the lie he was about to tell.
“Hey, you…that young woman who just valet parked her car…was her name Harriet Mackey?”
“We don’t give out the names of guests,” the man said, while eyeing the hundred-dollar bill that was now openly held in Harold’s hand.
“Look, I’m an employee of Riverfront Wholesale—see?” Harold pointed to his ID. “A woman dropped a hundred-dollar bill at my last stop—the Buffalo Grill, over on Locust Street. The maitre d’ told me her name, and I tried to catch her, but I couldn’t. After I left work, I thought I saw her again and followed her here. But if she’s not Harriet Mackey, then I had the wrong car and the wrong woman. Can’t you at least check that much for me?”
Harold suspected that the thought of losing a hundred dollars, along with the fact that someone was honest enough to try to return it, was what sold his story.
“Hang on,” the attendant said, eyeing the parking stub Holly had given him. “I need to check the computer. It won’t take long.”
“Thanks, man,” Harold said, and followed him over so he could surreptitiously keep an eye on the screen. When he saw the man type in a room number and the name “Holly Slade” popped up, he looked away as the attendant stepped back.
“Sorry to tell you, but you must have followed the wrong car. No Harriet Mackey registered here.”
“Damn,” Harold said, and stuffed the bill back in his pocket. “Thanks for checking anyway,” he said, and got back into his SUV and drove away.
He’d seen everything he needed to. He knew the woman’s name now.
Holly Slade.
Although he’d never heard the name before, he needed to think about this. No need to pull some knee-jerk move that might get him in trouble. He hadn’t gotten away with things and still stayed under the radar this long by being careless. It was probably nothing and he was just overreacting, but it never hurt to play it safe.
Six
H
olly’s evening was uneventful. Bothered about how her phone call with Bud had ended, and rather than face another meal alone in the hotel restaurant, she’d ordered room service. But when it finally came, all she’d done was shove her food around on the plate before putting the tray out into the hall.