Authors: Lois Greiman
“Do you know of any friends Solberg might be staying with?”
“Friends?” He looked pensive. “No. Not offhand. He works a lot. Probably doesn’t have time for relationships.”
“He had time for the blonde, though.”
“What?”
“The magician’s . . .” I almost said a word that would have gotten my mouth a fresh washing not so many years back. “Uh . . . what exactly did she do in the show?”
“Oh. I think she might have been the lady he sawed in half.”
“Really?” I tightened my grip on the daiquiri glass. “Which half did he leave with?”
Ross laughed, but the sound was a tad jittery. “I admit I’m a little jealous of J.D. I mean, the man’s a frickin’ genius. Took home the Lightbulb Award three years in a row, but I don’t want to cause him any—”
“What’s her name?”
“Pardon—”
“The magician’s half-a-bimbo,” I said, wonderfully controlled. “What’s her name?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t actually meet her. And there were four of them. Besides, it might have been completely innocent.”
I gritted my teeth. “They were probably discussing the theory of relativity.”
He looked sheepish. “J.D. is more into time expansion.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I saw the irony of the situation very clearly, despite the two ounces of rum sloshing around in my system. Here I was with a great-looking guy who wasn’t even gay and we were discussing the Geek God. The idea hurt me somewhere deep inside. Real deep. “How about the magician?”
He looked baffled for a moment, but he had a quick mind and knew where I was heading. He blew out his breath and settled back in the booth. “Something foreign.”
“Like François, or more like Juan?”
“No. Egyptian maybe, or Arabic. I think he wore a turban.”
“You think?”
“I may have been a little drunk when I saw the show.”
I waited.
“The Magical . . .” He shook his head, thinking. “Martini?”
“The Magical Martini?” I repeated, dubious.
He laughed, pushed his salad plate aside, and reached for my hand. His skin felt warm as he clasped my fingers.
“Listen, I didn’t intend to tell you all that. I just . . . I wanted to see you and . . .” He shrugged. “I’m really sorry.”
I looked into his eyes. They were Caribbean blue and honeysuckle earnest.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, finally realizing the truth of it. He was definitely male, but maybe he wasn’t responsible for the faults of the entire gender.
“No,” he said, and rubbed my palm with his thumb, “but I’m afraid it’s going to come around and bite me on the ass. You know what I mean?”
I did. I’d been thinking of doing that very thing only minutes before.
Ross stroked the back of my hand with the tip of his ring finger—which was, by the by, still noticeably bereft of jewelry. “Maybe we could just forget about him for tonight. You know, get to know each other better.”
My hormones sizzled to attention. He was right. There wasn’t anything I could do for Elaine tonight. In fact, if Solberg had screwed up as badly as I thought he had, there wasn’t much I could do for her at all. Except maybe hire a hit man, unless someone had already taken care of that little detail. The thought made me feel a little squeamish inside.
“I have a confession to make.” The corner of Ross’s mouth shifted up a notch, and for a moment, possibly for the first time in my life, I considered skipping dinner and dragging him out to my car. “As soon as I saw you walk into Neo, I told myself I was going to ask you out.”
“You didn’t see me walk in,” I said. “You just caught me when I was about to break into Solberg’s office.”
He laughed and leaned back slightly. The sound was low and lovely and rumbled through my system, revving up rusty hormones as it went. “You were going to break in?”
“Laney’s a good friend.”
“I saw you walk in,” he corrected. “You were wearing a sleeveless blouse and shoes that made your legs . . .” He paused. “Well, I thought ol’ Greg was going to drop his teeth when you smiled at him. I loitered around while you talked to Black, trying to figure out a way to introduce myself.”
He turned my hand over and stroked my knuckles.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to staple my tie to my forehead or anything to get your attention,” he said.
His fingers had moved up my wrist. I swallowed hard and kept my feet firmly planted on the floor. The last time my hormones had been shaken from slumber, I’d found myself straddling a bad-tempered cop like a pit bull on an estrogen drip.
“Is that how you usually go about it?” I asked.
“Sometimes I knock over the wastebasket.”
I gave him a look. He grinned. I felt the effects down to my bone marrow. “I’m a nerd. I’m lucky I can breathe and operate a joystick at the same time,” he said, and grinned so that the corners of his eyes crinkled endearingly.
I was beginning to salivate. “You sure you’re a nerd?”
“Want to see my pocket penholder?”
“Is that some kind of metaphor?”
“Would I seem too obvious if I said I kept it in my bedroom?”
It was the closest he had come to an out-and-out proposition. I opened my mouth to respond, but just managed to stop the lascivious suggestion that curled my tongue.
Instead, I cleared my throat and straightened a little. “So . . . Emery Black,” I said, knees clamped like a librarian at an auto sales convention. “What’s his story?”
“He’s a zillionaire. Divorced. Runs a tight ship.”
“What does NeoTech produce exactly?”
“You have a long lifeline,” he said, tracing the crease in my palm. I kept myself erect, despite the shivery feelings that threatened to knock me flat on my back. “So maybe I have time to tell you.”
“You guys didn’t create the solar system or anything, did you?”
He grinned. “Everything but. Neo . . .” He shook his head again. “We produce everything. We improve on even more. The little chips for car engines. The material that makes up contact lenses. Products for Homeland Security.”
“Stuff for the government?”
“Yeah.”
“Like . . . weapons?” Maybe Solberg was a gunrunner, I thought wildly, but the idea of him wearing camouflage and delivering AK-47s to grim-faced desperados kind of scrambled my mind.
“More like stealth listening devices, that sort of thing, I think. But that’s really not my area of expertise.”
“Is it Black’s?”
“Black oversees everything. I’m sure he has his hand in that, too.”
I nodded, thinking back to my conversation with him. “Do you know of anything that’s going on at the end of the month?”
“Not specifically. Why?”
“No reason really. It’s just that Black said he was sure Solberg would be back by then.”
“It was probably just an arbitrary date.”
Or some sort of babbled platitude to get me out of his office without involving fisticuffs.
“Are Black and Solberg close?”
“Close?” he repeated.
I shrugged, not quite sure what I was getting at. “Do they like each other?”
He took a sip of his drink. “Solberg makes a lot of money for Neo. Black likes that. But interoffice relationships aren’t my area of expertise, either.”
“What is?”
He winced. “Mice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shrugged. “Some guys try to make a better mousetrap. I try to make a better mouse.”
I blinked at him.
“The kind that directs your cursor.”
“Ohhhh,” I said, and he laughed.
“You don’t have to try to make it sound interesting.”
“I’m not.”
He tilted his head. “I really couldn’t be more boring, could I?”
His eyes twinkled at me. “I’m still awake,” I said.
“Yeah?” He leaned in a little closer and trailed his fingers up my arm. “Would now be a good time to tell you how beautiful you are?”
“No time like the present,” I managed.
He gave me an almost smile. “You’re polished,” he said. “But not cold.”
Nope. In fact, I was feeling downright flushed.
“Almost perfect . . .” He caressed my cheek. “But still touchable.”
Holy crap! I opened my mouth, maybe to say just those words, but at that moment my cell phone rang.
It sounded very distant but finally managed to permeate my lust-induced haze. I rolled my lolling tongue back into my mouth and tugged my hand gently from his. “Ummm, excuse me.” If it was my mother telling me Pete was parked in my front yard, I was going to slit my wrists with a butter knife.
I fumbled around in my purse and came up with my trophy. Giving Ross a smile I hoped wasn’t cannibalistic, I flipped it open.
“Hello?”
“Don’t say anything.” The voice was hissed and desperate.
I almost objected.
“Just listen. You gotta help me.”
“Who—”
“The Oaks. Half an hour. Don’t tell anyone. ’Specially not the cops. And don’t trust nobody. It’s life or death, babe. Life or death.”
The phone went dead. I closed it in numb silence.
“Is something wrong?”
I glanced up. I had actually forgotten Ross existed.
“No. Well . . .” The voice had been Solberg’s. Hadn’t it? Yes. I was sure it was. Maybe. “Actually, yes, there is,” I said.
He frowned. “Can I help?”
“Thank you,” I said, “but it’s . . .” Holy shit! What had just happened? “Elaine.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s just . . .” I found myself scooting toward the edge of the booth before I could form any kind of rational thought or override the rum messing with my plodding thinking apparatus. “She’s really down.”
“You’re leaving?” he asked, grabbing my hand.
I managed, after some soul searching and a few self-imposed threats, to tug my fingers regretfully from his. “I’m sorry,” I said. And I really was. But some parts of me were sorrier than others.
11
I don’t trust nobody that don’t have my name tattooed on her ass, and then it’s iffy.
—Roger Reed,
Chrissy’s most lucid uncle on her mother’s side
T
HE OAKS. HALF
an hour.”
I knew what he’d meant. The Four Oaks was a restaurant where I’d once squeezed information out of Solberg.
I drove fast, my mind racing along with the Saturn’s little tires in the darkness. What was going on? Had that really been Solberg?
I thought so. Who else could be that melodramatic?
“It’s life or death.”
On the other hand, maybe it really was life or death.
My stomach twisted tight. I swallowed and opened my glove compartment. A can of mace huddled between an under wire bra and a Snickers bar. Good to know my emergency kit was still in place.
Pulling out the mace, I shoved it into my jacket pocket and concentrated on the conversation just past.
“Don’t talk.”
Those had been his first words. Obviously, he didn’t want anyone to know he had called, but why?
Life or death. Whose life? Whose death? If it had to be anyone’s, I rather fervently hoped it wasn’t mine. Lately things hadn’t been working out so well for me in the danger department. But at least the Oaks was in a ritzy part of town. I’d be safe there.
I reached the restaurant in record time. Wouldn’t you know it, just when I really didn’t want to get somewhere, L.A. traffic disappears like a streaker at baccalaureate.
I pulled into the parking lot and found an available spot a couple dozen yards from the door.
My hands were unsteady and my throat felt dry. I turned off the engine and checked my purse again. My phone was still there. Maybe I should call someone. But what would I say?
“Look, I’m meeting someone I don’t know for reasons I can’t explain.”
My limbs felt strangely detached as I pushed my door open and made my way into the restaurant. I passed a couple on my left. They were laughing. I felt sick. I hurried inside, searching. Solberg was nowhere to be seen. The lobby was busy. A woman with a little girl in braids waited by the door. Three men in blazers were sharing a conversation about cumulus clouds.
“Can I help you?” I jerked as if shot. The hostess looked at me with some curiosity. Apparently, I hadn’t been shot.
“Yes.” I tried to calm my breathing. It didn’t go as planned. “I was supposed to meet someone here, but I can’t find him.”
“Can you describe him?”
I did. Worry made me unusually kind.
“I’m sorry. I don’t believe he’s been here, but if you want to have a seat, I’ll let you know as soon as he arrives,” she said, but I was already opening my phone.
I pressed “Redial.” The tone sounded sketchy. I stepped outside to try again, walking as I did so, searching for better reception.
Where was he? Had it even been him? Was—
My thoughts were interrupted by a noise to the left. I jerked toward it. Someone grabbed me.
I tried to scream, but his hand closed over my mouth and suddenly I was being pushed into a car. Another man appeared on my right and slammed the door shut behind him.
I did scream then, but the sound was muffled by a hand slapping across my mouth again.
We squealed out of the parking lot and onto the street.
“What happened?” asked the driver.
“Little bastard got away.” The guy to my right was breathing hard. There was a gun-shaped bulge in the pocket of his windbreaker and his breath smelled like garlic.
I wondered if I was going to faint.
“God damn it! Can’t you do anything right?”
I darted my eyes from one to the other and prayed wildly.
“What we gonna do with her?”
“I don’t know yet.” The driver leaned toward me. I crouched away, recognizing him suddenly—the guy in Solberg’s house. “You gonna be good?”
I nodded woodenly.