“—mostly for the sauna. Which is excellent.” He pushed a brochure across the counter. “Even if you work out at home, you’d want to enroll for the sauna.”
Instead of buying equipment, Edna had taken aerobics with Mike. A supply of his flyers, posted on FAF’s bulletin board, had caught Dixie’s eye on the way in. Had she taken classes with any other instructors? “Do you have a record of Edna’s progress?”
The man shook his head. “We only keep records when you sign with a personal trainer. In fact, if you sign up today—”
“You must have some sort of records. You put Edna’s photograph in your album.”
He stared at Dixie, as if weighing her pain-in-the-ass factor against a possible sale. “All right, I’ll check the computer.” He sat down at the keyboard, and after a few passes with the mouse, reported, “Edna Pine never used a staff trainer, but she did enroll in exercise classes—”
“When?”
“December first. We have a list of classes, if you’re interested—dancercize, yoga—”
“Which ones did Edna take?” Dixie persisted.
He looked back at the monitor. “No list, but the instructor’s noted here. One of our outside consultants, Mike Tesche.”
Which she already knew. “Only one?”
He nodded.
“What about other students in her class?”
“I can’t give you that information.
Must
be some sort of privacy invasion.”
A customer arrived, and the attendant started to rise.
“Wait! Just tell me if Lucy Ames was ever enrolled here.”
With an annoyed huff, he scrolled hastily. “No. No record.”
The elusive Lucy. Which reminded Dixie of someone else she hadn’t heard from in a while. She moved away from the counter and used her cell phone.
Amy picked up on the first ring. “Marty flew back to Dallas.”
“That jerk! He could’ve phoned instead of leaving me hanging.” After receiving his mysterious letter from Edna, Marty’d apparently lost interest in why his mother robbed a bank.
“He seemed upset, Dixie. You’d think the gallery could manage without him for a while. Anyway, he’ll be back tonight.”
A television positioned for easy viewing during workouts started a news update. Dixie watched it as she finished her conversation with Amy. No news on the Harris assassination. Still no sign of the stolen bank money. And blessedly, no more robberies.
Yet.
Perhaps the spree had ended.
Dixie realized she’d been practically holding her breath, imagining the third robber as a brown-haired witch who duped suicidal women into stealing for her and who now sat cackling over her clever plan, counting her quarter million while Aunt Edna lay on a mortician’s slab. Perhaps Lucy and Edna really had cooked up the idea between them.
Nevertheless, Dixie strode into the sunshine, with “Jailhouse Rock” playing a loop in her head, and stopped next door at Unique Boutique. Marty might’ve given up on following his mother’s path from gardening to gunslinging, but Dixie hadn’t.
Eyeing the stunning outfits featured in the display window, she decided a clerk might be more talkative to a potential customer than to a nosy stranger. Yesterday’s black suit was definitely too somber for a happy-hour fiesta—and too drab for the
newly made-over Dixie Flannigan. Sleek new hair, glowing skin, nails magically lengthened and polished.
Had Edna gazed in the same window, having similar thoughts after sweating off those extra pounds?
The store looked new and expensively chic. A brilliant space designer had laid out the interior. Dresses, blouses, skirts, pants—all bearing the store’s private label—occupied every usable inch of the minuscule area, without appearing crowded. As much as Dixie despised shopping, she felt the tug of each rack leading her to the next.
A sign above every section stated
COTTON
,
WOOL
,
SILK
—
NATURAL FIBERS BREATHE
. A space beneath those words bore the size designation for that rack, then,
LIMITED RELEASE DESIGNS FOR THE UNIQUE YOU
.
What did that mean, exactly? Ready-made clothes at custom prices? The styles certainly had a timeless quality and seemed appropriate for a wide age span; the old Edna would’ve laughed, shaken her head, and headed for the wash-and-wear at JCPenney. Yet nearly all the items in her closet now bore the boutique’s pricey label.
Six months ago, in November, Edna had broken out of her mold to visit Club Cato, where she met Lucy Aaron Ames. On December first, she’d started working off the fat at Fit After Fifty. A couple weeks later she’d written her first checks to Artistry Spa and Unique Boutique. Remaking herself.
Shopping for a new life? A new mate? She’d met Terrence Jackson and allowed him to assume control of her investments, a role that Bill Pine had always filled. Interesting.
Also interesting was the proprietor of Unique Boutique—
JESSICA LOVE
, according to the card Dixie’d plucked from a holder near the register. Between thirty-five and fifty-five, closer to the high end, Dixie judged, Jessica had a medium build and radiant brown hair. Dixie envisioned big sunglasses covering her eyes, a .38 in her hand. Canvas bags stuffed with stolen cash over her shoulder.
The first bank robber’s vague description it thousands of women in the greater Houston area, but the image had plunked into Dixie’s head when Jessica approached wearing a blue dress identical to the one Edna wore during the robbery.
“That must be a popular design,” Dixie commented.
“A classic. Would you like to see one in your size?”
Dixie recalled the blue silk splotched with blood.
Absolutely not.
“I need something for evening … comfortable … not too slinky.”
“I have a beautiful black suit with a beaded jacket.”
No. She’d spent yesterday in funeral black. But Dixie followed the woman to a rack of clothing with as much sparkle as a Christmas tree. Without asking her size, Jessica extracted the black suit, then sorted through the rack and selected a red dress, a cream-white jumpsuit, and a bronze metallic tunic with matching pants.
“A friend recommended this place.” Dixie waited for Jessica to face her before continuing. “Edna Pine.”
The proprietor’s professional smile turned plaster-stiff. She regarded Dixie with cool gray eyes.
“Mrs. Pine was a good customer.” Jessica led the way toward the dressing room.
Dixie followed. “Edna loved this boutique. And she couldn’t say enough about you … the way you helped her.”
“I showed her some flattering colors.”
Jessica opened the dressing-room door and hung the clothes on a wall hook, without once glancing at Dixie. Upset that a former customer had turned bank robber? Or nervous about being identified as Edna’s accomplice? A leap, but why not go with it?
“She said you two shared more than just shopping.” Fumbling … a good fumble often drew unexpected information.
“We both worked out at the gym next door. Is that what you mean?”
“Edna considered you a friend, Jessica. Someone she confided in.”
The woman nodded slowly. “Nice lady, if a little dreamy. We did talk a few times.”
“Dreamy?”
“Like when you plan a big event in your head, and you know it’ll be wonderful? When I saw on TV about the robbery, I wondered if she’d dreamed up the whole thing while trying
on clothes. In a morbid sort of way, it’s like knowing a celebrity—this nice lady who got right in their face. Really awful, those damned cops!”
“Didn’t Lucy Ames shop here, too?”
“The other
robber
?” Jessica’s face remained poker-smooth. “No. Listen, give a holler if you need help.”
The door clicked shut, closing Dixie in the dressing room with four choice outfits and a vague notion that she might’ve just learned something useful. So far, she’d placed Lucy Ames and Aunt Edna together only at Club Cato and Artistry Spa. At neither place had they hooked up with a third woman—unless Jessica was lying about Lucy not being a customer.
Once again, Dixie imagined the brown-haired proprietor wearing face-hiding sunglasses and, this time, shouldering a huge concrete dollar sign. The cost of keeping the doors open on a chic boutique must be incredibly heavy. Dixie was the only customer in the store this afternoon. Businesses failed most often within the first one to three years; this one was new enough that the carpet hadn’t yet lost its surface fuzz. And the store opened each day at eleven
A.M
., allowing plenty of time to pull off an early-morning heist.
As he watched Dietz exit the coffee shop, Ted Tally slipped a ten out of his wallet. He’d forgotten to mention the pin he saw yesterday on a kid’s jacket. Certainly not a local gang symbol, and the kid struck Ted as too clean to be gang-connected. Pulled him over for no brake lights. Wrote out a warning.
The driver had been cool. Too cool. Uptight cool. And way too polite. For grins Ted asked what the pin represented.
“Perseverance.” The boy smiled, big freckles covering his face.
The Cherokee’s plates turned up clean. No reason to rag the driver. No hint of drugs. Nothing visible inside the car—spotless, in fact. Yet, he was definitely uptight.
And Ted had seen that triangular design somewhere before. It would eat at him until he remembered. He’d sketched it, thinking Dietz might recognize it, having been on gang detail up north. They could’ve fed the design into the computer—if Ted hadn’t left the damn sketch at home this morning.
He checked the lunch tab against his ten and shot a glance at Sarah, the green-eyed goddess behind the counter. For three weeks he’d been hinting for a date with her. He dropped the money beside the cash register.
“How about tomorrow night, Sarah?”
Her eyes sparkled, flirting, but she shook her head, ringing up the total.
“Come on, nobody works
all
the time. Even cops take a day off now and then.”
“If I were a cop, maybe I’d get a day off, too. Maybe we’d get the
same
day off and spend it together. But I work every Saturday night. Sorry.”
Was that a nibble?
“Saturday’s only a suggestion. I’m on day shift, so my time’s yours after three o’clock. How about let’s take out my wave runner, catch some sun before sundown?”
“My shift isn’t over until six.”
Tally felt his grin broaden. More than a nibble, a big-mouthed bite.
“Where do I pick you up?” He handed her a pen and slid a napkin over to write on.
She hesitated. “Maybe we should meet somewhere.”
Then they’d have two cars. Couldn’t take her home. “Hey, if you can’t trust a cop, who can you trust?”
She smiled, shrugged, then wrote down her address.
“Six o’clock?”
“Seven. I have to change clothes.”
“Seven it is.” Outside, he whistled as he strolled to his squad car. Three weeks, about ten days longer than he’d ever dangled a hook. Was he dreaming, or was she worth the extra wait?
Better than nine days with Dietz in the woods, for sure—
Then it hit him, where he’d seen that red-blue-and-gold symbol. The day Chief Wanamaker took office, Ted had been fishing and almost missed the big deal at Wortham Center, an auditorium full of cops, plus City Council, Mayor Banning—and a couple of kids wearing that same pin. Hell, maybe it did stand for “perseverance.” Took plenty to become Chief.
Ted reached for the door handle—
The force of the bullet slammed him against the car, lifting his feet off the asphalt, and sprayed bits of bone and tissue over blue-and-white paint. For the space of a millisecond, Ted saw his world explode in brilliant color.
Sunset played a color symphony in the western sky as Dixie raised a sleeve of her new tunic to glance at her watch. Diaphanous bronze silk, virtually weightless, the fabric sparkled in the light and moved against her skin like a feather.
“That pantsuit is
you,”
Jessica Love had assured her. “You look fabulous.” And there, in the cozy boutique, just the two of them, Dixie believed her. The sheer silk had felt sexy and exotic and fun. Now it felt brazen. She’d never worn a thing that so clearly shouted “Look at me!” Three months of Parker’s “Let’s just be pals” had turned her into a hormone harlot.
FIESTA NIGHT
$10
HAPPY-HOUR PRICES
Punctual Parker would be inside the club already.
Dixie fluffed her hair and commanded her galloping pulse to slow down. The party atmosphere—certainly more intimate than their usual Friday-night restaurant—along with her new duds, new face, new hair … did she expect these to jolt Parker out of his stubborn hands-off attitude? Well,
yes
, dammit.
But she also had a job to do here. According to Terrence Jackson, members of Fortyniners formed relationships. What
better place for Edna to’ve hooked up with Ms. Mysterious Moneybags, who, so far, remained the only successful Granny Bandit?
“One happy hour a week,” Jackson’d said. And this was it. Dixie had three, maybe four hours to gather all the information to be gained from this bunch, or wait for their next event.
She swept past the sign and entered.
City Streets, a property manager, had taken over a number of small defunct retail stores in a shopping mall. Wide doorways connected the spaces, encouraged mingling, yet divided the huge area into cozy sections. Fortyniners occupied one section; similar organizations met in the other rooms. And farther back, the on-site nightclub beckoned loners to drop in.
What had brought Aunt Edna here? Lucy Ames? Another friend? Or had she stopped for a drink after shopping in a still vital part of the retail mall? At the fringe of the Galleria area, City Streets sat twenty-seven miles from Edna’s home in Richmond, but only blocks from Terrence Jackson’s office, Artistry Spa, Fit After Fifty, and Unique Boutique.
At the registration table, a man who must’ve turned forty-nine three decades ago took Dixie’s ten bucks in exchange for a cheerful, leering grin, a drink ticket, and a name tag. His orange jacket would’ve been loud even without the melon-pink tie. He plastered the name tag to her right shoulder.