"Did you use your real names when you booked the room?"
"Randall always got the room; I don't know what names he might have used."
"When did you last meet with Mr. Crane?"
"Let's just say I put on those panties this morning."
Walker squirmed, then scribbled something on his pad. "We haven't been able to locate Mrs. Crane."
"That's what I heard."
"Do you have a friend you can stay with tonight?"
"Why? Do you think she'll come after me again?"
"It's a possibility. We have a guard posted at Mr. Crane's hospital room."
She swallowed hard. "I have a state-of-the-art security system." And she had nowhere else to stay, unless she went to a hotel.
"Still, be careful. And you might want to avoid going into your office until we have Mrs. Crane in custody."
"That won't be a problem," she murmured. "I'm taking some time off."
He nodded. "Keep us posted on your whereabouts. Meanwhile, if you see Mrs. Crane, call nine-one-one."
"Sure thing. Can I go home now?"
Lando cleared his throat. "Would you like for us to drop you off?"
She stood. "No, my car is here. Thanks anyway."
"We'll walk you out—there's quite a press mob outside."
The crush of reporters shouldn't have surprised her. In Shively, where the headlines usually consisted of art festivals and school board meetings, a workplace shooting was big honking news. Toss in a disgruntled housewife of a community pillar and heck, a local reporter might land a twenty-second spot on the network evening broadcast.
Justine held up her purse to cover her face until they were clear of the crowd, then used the panic button on her key chain to locate her custom yellow Mercedes in the parking lot. As she walked, her mind raced in conflict to the pleasant July weather, trying to process the day's events and figure out what might happen next.
"Nice ride," Lando said as she opened the door.
"Thanks." She set her briefcase on the floorboard, her purse on the seat, and nodded toward his partner, who stood on the sidewalk talking on a cell phone. "What happened to your other partner?"
"Milken?" Lando worked his mouth side to side. "He and his wife split up, then got back together and decided to move closer to her family for the sake of the kids."
"Oh. That's nice."
He shuffled his feet. "Listen, it's not every day a person gets shot at. Are you going to be okay?"
"Fine."
"A unit will patrol your street. If the Crane woman shows up, we'll know about it."
"Thanks, Lando." She slid behind the driver's wheel.
"Justine?"
"Yeah?"
Lando scratched his head. "I don't get it. You're a great-looking dame with a good job, and you're no slouch in the smarts department. Why do you fool around with married men?"
Molten anger hemorrhaged through her at his self-righteous stance. "Don't you
dare
judge me because the men I sleep with don't have the fortitude to be faithful to their wives. They took vows, not me."
Lando stepped back, and she slammed the door. She turned over the V-8 engine and revved it twice before peeling out. Lando looked after her, shaking his head. She offered him her finger in the rear-view mirror and pulled out of the parking lot onto a side street. When she stopped at an intersection, she lit a cigarette and flipped on the radio.
"—armed and dangerous. Bobbie L. Donetti, the Cocoon employee who subdued the assailant, is recovering from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Doctors report her prognosis is good. No official word on the motivation behind the shooting, but unofficial sources say the Crane woman was distraught over an alleged affair between her husband, who was seriously wounded in an earlier incident, and another Cocoon employee. Lisa Crane was last seen wearing a brown sweater—"
She flipped off the radio and gripped the steering wheel. A cold sweat enveloped her, and her arms shook as the gravity of the situation slowly sank in. She could be dead right now. Or maimed like poor Randall. Dead over an affair whose importance to her fell somewhere between having a pleasant meal and finding the perfect shade of red lipstick.
A beeping horn sent her heart into her throat. Spent ash dropped from the tip of her cigarette and scorched a circle of precious pearl leather next to her thigh. Her gaze shot to the rear-view mirror, her pulse pounding in anticipation of seeing Lisa Crane at the wheel of the car behind her. Instead it was a minivan mom, with kids hanging out the windows. The woman honked more insistently, and Justine pulled through the empty intersection, tingling with new awareness. She drove slowly, glancing back and forth, expecting to see the madwoman leap out behind every tree to gun her down.
What if Lisa Crane was lying in wait for her in her driveway? In her garage? In her bedroom? Justine had no illusions about the ability of the police to protect her.
At the next light, she snubbed out her cigarette and turned away from the expressway that led to her zip code. Twenty minutes later, the surroundings had deteriorated considerably. After two more turns her car was starting to attract attention.
She scoured the retail frontage until she spotted a faded sign for a pawnshop. Bars covered the store windows, and a dented Ford Pinto sat in the grubby parking lot. She parked carefully, then set her car alarm. A bell sounded as she entered the shop. A skinny redneck-looking guy gave her the once-over and a curt nod, then turned back to a young man looking at cameras. Justine pretended to browse the jewelry cases until the camera purchase was made and the other customer left.
"Can I help you?" the grungy guy asked. He needed dental work. Badly.
"I'm looking for a handgun."
He made a rueful noise in his throat. "Computer is down, and we can't sell handguns without a background check. System should be up and running tomorrow, though." He thumped on the jewelry case. "Meanwhile, we got some great-looking watches."
She pulled up her jacket sleeve and unhooked her own great-looking watch. "Want another? Solid gold."
His eyebrows went up.
"It's yours for a thirty-eight revolver and a box of shells. No paperwork."
He inspected the watch with a magnifying glass, then weighed it. He looked impressed but concerned. "I could lose my license."
"I can keep a secret."
He squinted. "You a cop?"
"Do I look like a damn cop?"
He looked out the window and considered her ride. "Guess not." He regarded her for a few more seconds, then set the watch aside and disappeared into a back room. Several minutes later he emerged with a zippered handgun case and a box of shells. She removed the revolver from the case, then inspected the cylinder and the sights.
"You know how to use that thing?"
"Uh-huh." She opened the ammo box and loaded six rounds in the cylinder, then clicked it home.
The man was starting to squirm. "You ain't gonna shoot me, are you?"
She eyed him. "Not unless this thing jams on me in a pinch."
He held up one hand. "Nah, it's sweet. Just came in yesterday. Not even on the books yet."
Justine returned the gun to the case and zipped it. "Good. Nice doing business with you."
"Hey, lady."
She stopped at the door and looked back.
He held up her watch. "This is a righteous piece. Is it a family heirloom?"
Justine hesitated, then decided what did it matter if one greasy guy in the world knew the truth? "No. I stole it when I was a teenager." She smiled to herself but didn't stick around for his reaction.
After locking herself in her car, she removed the weapon and placed it on the seat within reaching distance. Her jacket came off and provided adequate coverage. Anger had replaced her fear—nutty Lisa Crane wasn't going to take another undefended shot at her. She had a life to live, even if no one else thought much of what she'd done with it so far.
Despite her response to Lando, his observation about her penchant for married men rankled her. As if to say that she had some deep-seated motivation for pursuing men who were unavailable. She scoffed—married lovers were the best gig going. Romantic getaways, expensive gifts, great sex, and she didn't even have to share her closet. She always knew where she stood with married men, what to expect. It was the women who bought into that "'til death do us part" crap who were fooling themselves. Men were faithful only until something better—or different—came along.
Take Dean Haviland, for instance.
She smoked three cigarettes on the drive home and avoided the news, until she pulled into her gated neighborhood. Two local television vans flanked her driveway, and a knot of people had gathered in the road in front of her two-story white-brick home. She shoved on sunglasses and parted the group with the nose of her car, then reached up to her visor console to touch the button for her garage door opener... except it was gone.
Her gaze flew up to the sunroof that stood open about three inches—fresh air had seemed like a good idea on the way back to the office after meeting Randall. She hadn't imagined that Lisa Crane would see the opening as an invitation to sprawl on top of her car and snatch the garage door opener.
A knock on her window startled her so badly, her hand was halfway to the concealed gun before she realized it was a reporter. She slammed the car into reverse and backed onto the street, scattering onlookers. As she exited the upper-class neighborhood, she called the police department and asked for Lando. After an eternity, the phone clicked.
"Lando here."
"This is Justine Metcalf. I just arrived home and realized my garage door opener is missing from my car."
"You think Lisa Crane took it?"
"Yes. We have gated security to keep out cars, but she could walk into the neighborhood and get into my house with the garage door opener—I don't lock the door leading in from the garage."
"What about that state-of-the-art security system?"
She sighed. "I didn't set it this morning."
"Ah. Walker and I'll come to check out the house. Will you be there?"
"No, I'm going to a hotel. Then I think I'll head to my parents' for a few days."
"Where's that?"
"Monroeville, North Carolina." She gave him her cell phone number and directions to override the garage door opener.
"I'll let you know what we find."
She disconnected the call with shaking hands, then drove away from her neighborhood, east toward the coast. Dusk was falling; tiny bugs collected on her windshield. The decision to visit her folks had been spontaneous, but somehow it felt right. A few do-nothing days to hide out and make her parents happy at the same time—Cissy was always badgering her about coming to visit. Alone. She'd drive down tomorrow and surprise them, like a good daughter. Get some sun. Fresh air. Besides, Lisa Crane would never find her in Monroeville.
The day's events descended on her and she relived the humiliating incident in the staff meeting in excruciating detail. For years they'd be talking around the watercooler about Justine Metcalf, Miss Unshakable, lifting her skirt at gunpoint. She ground her teeth at the thought of people laughing at her behind her back—she simply had to return to Cocoon and redeem herself, redeem her reputation. Helplessness and rage took hold of her—damn Lisa Crane for destroying her life.
As her anger escalated, so did the need for release. Her throat constricted and her mouth watered for the bitter taste for which she'd acquired an affinity. She wiped her stinging eyes and tried to concentrate on the road. First things first—find a grocery store. A few minutes later, she pulled into a parking lot and gathered herself enough to go in.
"May I help you?" a smocked young woman asked.
"Spices?"
"Aisle Seven."
"And tea?"
"Aisle Eight."
She found the tea first and selected bags for a lemon variety. By the time she reached the spice aisle, she was sweating profusely. She scanned the racks and experienced a rush of relief at the plentiful supply of nutmeg—as if sometime since her last purchase, everyone else in the country had discovered her secret. The store carried her favorite brand and, thinking ahead to her trip to North Carolina, she selected two tins.
To cast off any suspicion at the checkout counter, she selected a box of sugar cubes and, while she waited in the express line, a pack of gum. The checker gave her a curious glance, but Justine realized that she probably looked like hell and wondered if there was a chance that her picture was being shown on television by now. She averted her glance, paid with cash, then drove until she came to a hotel that looked safe.
It was nearly eight, and darkness had overcome Shively. The hotel sign announced a vacancy but no valet parking, so she parked the car herself. A light blinked on in the gauge panel—
low fuel.
She smacked the steering wheel. If a damn cow could have four stomachs, why couldn't luxury cars have four gas tanks? She seemed to forever ride on empty.
The triviality was the final straw, bringing tears to her eyes. She gave in to the tears for a full minute, gulping air and making humiliating little noises. Then she dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, and shoved the gun into her purse. At least she'd have enough toiletries and makeup to get by, she thought as she walked around to the trunk to retrieve her gym bag.
The night breeze whipped around her, delivering the sultry city scent of cooling asphalt and restaurant exhaust. She swept a hank of wayward hair behind her ear and the movement sent a pain through her gouged arm. She winced, suddenly beset by the seriousness, the isolation, of her predicament Shively wasn't a big city, but she'd never felt as completely alone as she did at this moment, standing in a half-empty parking lot, listening to the wind whistling through her half-empty life. And she still wasn't wearing underwear.
Just as she aimed the keyless remote at the trunk, a horrific thought hit her. What if Lisa Crane was lying inside the trunk, poised with her gun, just waiting for Justine to open the lid? It was just the kind of thing the woman might do. Justine looked all around the deserted parking lot, then pulled the revolver from her purse. With heart thrashing in her chest, she aimed the remote with her left hand, the revolver with her right, and took a deep breath.