Beware Read online

  Sprawled on the bathroom floor. The rug against her face. Fingers clamping her shoulders. Erection ramming her.

  Hurt by the sudden shock of memory, she opened her eyes, groped inside her handbag, and took out the book. She struggled to read, but her mind soon strayed from the words. She saw herself tied to the bed and she heard the scratchy voice—“I oughta kill you”—and felt him jerk her legs apart, felt his mouth. She shut the book.

  The pool was deserted. The man who’d been swimming lengths now lay on the concrete, dripping, hands folded under his head. Lacey took off her sunglasses. She got up from the lounge and stepped to the pool’s edge.

  She dived in, jerking rigid at the cold blast of water, gliding through its silence and finally curving upward to the surface. She swam to the far end, turned, and swam back with all her might. Then she turned again and raced to the other end and back. She sidestroked two lengths, then breast-stroked two lengths, then climbed exhausted from the pool. She lowered the back of her lounge and flopped on it facedown, gasping.

  She heard the slap of footsteps.

  “You’re quite a swimmer.”

  Raising her head, she looked up at the man—the one who’d been in the pool before her. “Thanks,” she told him.

  “I’m Scott.”

  “Hi.”

  He was slim and muscular and tanned. His tight bikini trunks covered little of him, and concealed less. He sat on the concrete beside Lacey, facing her. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Oooh. Touchy.”

  “Sorry. I’m just not in the mood for company.”

  “That’s the time when you need company the most.”

  “Wrong.” She lowered her head, and shut her eyes.

  “Can’t get rid of me that easily. Nothing I enjoy more than a challenge.”

  “Climb a mountain.”

  “Too rough. I prefer smoother terrain.”

  “Leave me alone, all right?”

  “Your back will burn. Would you like me to apply a dab of oil?”

  “I wouldn’t. I’d like to be left alone. Why don’t you go try someone else?”

  “Because you’re beautiful and lonely.”

  Lacey sighed. “I really don’t need this. If you won’t leave, I will.”

  “Ah, say no more. I can take a hint.”

  She opened one eye enough to see him stand. Scott smiled and waved as he backed away.

  Resting her head on her crossed arms, Lacey tried to sleep. Her mind replayed the encounter. The guy had been arrogant and pushy. But, damn it, she could’ve at least been polite. She’d acted like a bitch. She felt herself blushing at the memory.

  Well, what’s done is done.

  She tried not to think about it.

  She lay motionless, concentrating on the hot pressure of the sun.

  “A libation for the lady.”

  Lifting her head, she saw Scott above her, a Bloody Mary in each hand. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “That’s why I seldom fail.”

  Lacey turned over, stared at the grinning man, and finally sat up. “I’m Lacey,” she said. “And I apologize for acting creepy.”

  “Creepy is a fair first-line of defense,” he said, sitting down on the concrete. “Only fair, though. Total complacency works better. It reduces the woman’s guilt factor. Much more difficult to penetrate.”

  “You’ve studied the subject.”

  “Women fascinate me.” He took the dripping celery stalk from his drink and licked it.

  Intentional symbolism? More than likely. Holding back a smile, Lacey removed her own stalk and tapped off its drops on the rim of her glass. She set it down beside her lounge. Scott placed his beside it.

  “ To our fortunate encounter,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  He clinked his glass against hers, and they both drank. Her Bloody Mary was hot with Tabasco. It made her eyes water, her nose start to run. She sniffed.

  “So tell me, Lacey, what is a lovely young lady doing alone at this fashionable resort hotel?”

  “What makes you think I’m alone?”

  “I have an unerring nose for such things.”

  “Unerring?” she asked, somewhat surprised that he had used the correct pronunciation—err as in purr.

  “Seldom erring. But it’s hit the mark this time, hasn’t it?”

  “Isn’t ‘mark’ a con man term for a sucker?”

  “Do you see yourself as a sucker?”

  “Do you see yourself as a con man?”

  He grinned—a boyish, disarming grin. Lacey wondered how much time he spent at mirrors, practicing it. “A confidence man? Of course. Here I am, trying to win your confidence.”

  “When’s the pitch?”

  “Later. I haven’t won yet, have I?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Are you always this distrustful?”

  “Only of strangers who approach me uninvited.”

  “Ah. You assume I have mischief on my mind.”

  “Do you?”

  “That would be telling.”

  If I told you that, you’d know. The low, rough voice. She suddenly trembled as if a cloud had smothered the sun, an icy wind blown across her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey, I was only joking about the mischief.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I just…what you said, it reminded me of something.”

  “Must’ve been something unpleasant.”

  “It was.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “A chance like this doesn’t come along every day, you know: a friendly, willing ear, the sunlight beating down, a Bloody Mary in your hand. Besides, I might be able to help.”

  “How could you help?”

  “How will I know unless you tell me your problem? Let me guess, though: it involves a man.”

  She took a drink, and stared at the glistening pool.

  “He did something to you.”

  The bantering tone was gone from Scott’s voice. Lacey glanced at him. He was staring at his drink, his face solemn.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He didn’t jilt you, nothing like that. What ever he did, you’re frightened of him. He hurt you, didn’t he? Beat you up.”

  “You’re very observant,” Lacey muttered, glancing down at her bruises and scratches.

  “You came here to get away from him. You’re hiding out, probably even registered under a fake name in case he comes looking for you.”

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “I had to use a credit card to get the room.”

  “But the rest is right?”

  “Close enough.” Lacey sipped her drink and set the glass on her belly. Its cold wetness soaked through her damp swimsuit. It felt good.

  “Husband, boyfriend, or stranger?”

  “Stranger.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “He got away.”

  “And you’re afraid he’ll come after you?”

  “He’ll kill me, if he can.”

  “We won’t let him.”

  “We?”

  He winked. “You and me, kid.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want anyone else involved in this. Besides, I don’t think he’ll find me here.”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to find someone hiding out at a major hotel—particularly if she’s using her real name.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “This is the third day. I got in Thursday afternoon.”

  “Then you’ve been here much too long. You’re lucky he hasn’t already shown up.”

  “He doesn’t even know what city I’m in, Scott.”

  “You’re not from Tucson?”

  “No.”

  “But I’ll wager this is the nearest large city, and the pla
ce he’ll look first.”

  “I guess so,” she admitted.

  “If I were you, I’d get out of here today and check into a different hotel. Better still, head for another town.”

  “It’s past checkout time. Besides, I don’t want to. I like this one.”

  Scott shrugged. “In that case, I think you should allow me to act as your escort.”

  “No. Really, Scott…”

  “I’d be happy to do it. After all, you’re a beautiful woman, and we’re both alone in the city. How could I spend my time better than by keeping company with a creature like you?”

  “A creature?” she asked, smiling.

  “A damsel in distress.”

  “It might be dangerous.”

  “I’m good with my dukes. Besides, I pack heat.”

  “A gun?”

  “A Colt.45 automatic. Never go anywhere without it. Except, of course, to the swimming pool.”

  “What are you, a bank robber?”

  “You ever hear of Charlie Dane?”

  “San Francisco Hit, Manhattan Mayhem…?”

  “Tucson Death Squad. That’s to be his latest battle against the forces of evil. The galleys are up in my suite this very moment.”

  Lacey stared at him, frowning. “But those are written by Max Carter.”

  “Otherwise known as Scott Bradley.”

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the gun.”

  “Max keeps the rod at his side when he sits at the old typewriter. It puts him in touch with Charlie Dane.”

  Lacey grinned. “Does Max also wear Charlie’s trench coat?”

  “Too hot. But he does don the battered fedora.”

  “Not while he’s escorting me, I hope.”

  “I’ll leave Max in the room, and borrow his piece.”

  “He won’t mind?”

  “He’s always eager to please.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Carl grabbed the phone before its second ring. “Tri-bune.”

  “Carl?”

  His heart began to hammer. “How’s it going, Lace?”

  “So far, so good. He hasn’t found me yet. Any activity on your end?”

  “Nope. There haven’t been any incidents since you left.”

  “Damn. I almost wish…At least I’d know he’s still there.”

  “Well, maybe he’s just lying low. Or maybe your knife did the trick.”

  “Don’t I wish.”

  “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Scared. Other than that, I guess I’m all right. Recuperating.”

  “That’s good. Look, you’d better let me know where you’re staying. If something breaks, up this way, I’ll want to let you know.”

  “Sure. I’m at the Desert Wind, room three sixtytwo.”

  Carl wrote it down.

  “I meant to call you yesterday, but…couldn’t get myself to do anything. Felt like crawling under a rock.”

  “That’s all right, Lace. Perfectly understandable.”

  “Anyway, I’m better now.”

  “Glad to hear it. Look, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Just keep me posted, is all.”

  “Sure thing. Take care of yourself, now.”

  “I’ll try. So long, Carl.”

  He hung up. Across the room, one of his reporters hunched over a typewriter working on the lead story for tomorrow’s edition. Otherwise, the office was deserted. “Jack?”

  The reporter looked up, raising his eyebrows.

  “See if you can’t hunt down Chief Barrett. Try to talk him into letting us release the details of the Hoffman and Peterson murders.”

  “He’s already refused, Carl.”

  “Try him again. Tell him a blow by blow description would be in the public interest, make them more aware of the danger. Maybe he’ll go for it.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, sounding reluctant. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and stretched. Then he headed for the door.

  The moment he was gone, Carl dialed the telephone.

  “Spiritual Development Foundation.”

  He gave his name, number and level.

  “Very good, Mr. Williams.”

  “Let me talk to Farris. It’s urgent.”

  Farris’s voice came over the phone. “We’ve been waiting for your call,” he said.

  “Sorry. I just received the information. Miss Allen’s at the Desert Wind Hotel in Tucson. Room number three six two.”

  “Excellent. I’ll notify our personnel in the area. Your next step is to join her.”

  “Right.”

  “Do that at once.”

  “I’ll leave right away.”

  As he hung up, a voice from behind asked, “What was that all about?”

  Carl swiveled around. Alfred, standing in front of the restroom door, looked at him with suspicion. “You told where Lacey is. Who’d you tell?”

  “Chief Barrett.”

  “What’d you want to do that for?”

  “She asked me to.” Turning back to his desk, Carl pulled open the top drawer and removed a letter opener. “Bring me Jack’s story,” he said.

  Alfred walked toward Jack’s desk, his head low and shaking. “I don’t think you should’ve done that,” he said.

  “You’re not paid to think.”

  “Well…” He gathered two pages from the desktop, and walked slowly back toward Carl.

  Carl got up from his chair. With the letter opener behind his back, he reached out his left hand for the papers.

  “Here they…”

  Carl grabbed Alfred’s wrist, jerked him forward, and plunged the slim blade into his belly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A strolling guitarist stopped at their table. “A song?” Scott nodded. “How about ‘Cielito Lindo’?” he asked Lacey.

  She dipped a tortilla chip into hot sauce. “Fine.” With a smile, the white-clothed Mexican began to strum chords and sing. Lacey sat back, munching her chip and sipping her margarita as she watched him. He stood with his back arched, his head thrown back, his dark face writhing as if the song called up unbearable sorrow. His plaintive voice pushed Lacey’s mind back to a strolling minstrel in Nogales, only a few days before her break up with Brian. One of their last good times together. The next week, back in Oasis, he brought a man to the house and insisted the three of them go at each other. Lacey refused, and he beat her. No more Brian. No more men, at all, after that.

  For a moment, she felt the void and sank into it. No man, no love, no babies, only empty darkness. She was cut loose and drifting. Starting to panic.

  She took a long drink from her margarita, and managed a smile for Scott.

  Get off it, kiddo, she told herself. A hell of a time to worry about becoming an old maid. You should live so long.

  The singer finished his song, and Scott handed him a dollar.

  “Gracias,” the man said. With a slight bow, he turned away.

  “Are you all right?” Scott asked.

  “Just beweeping my outcast state.”

  Scott raised an eyebrow. “Troubling deaf heaven with your bootless cries?”

  Lacey grinned. “Yup.”

  The waitress set down plates in front of them. They had both ordered Dinner #6: a chimichanga, refried beans, rice, and a taco. Lacey took a deep breath of the steam rising from her meal. Her mouth watered.

  “Plates are hot,” warned the waitress. “Will there be anything else for you?”

  “Want a beer?” Scott asked.

  “I’ll stick with margaritas.”

  “That’ll be it for now,” he told the waitress, and she left.

  Across the candle lit room, the singer began “The Rose of San Antone” for two lean men in business suits. One of them saw Lacey watching. He met her gaze, looked her over, then turned away and spoke to his friend. The other man glanced at her. She looked away, embarrassed, certain they were wondering about her appearance. In her plaid blouse
and corduroys, she felt shabby: all right for McDonald’s, but barely good enough for a restaurant of Carmen’s quality.

  She should’ve found time to buy a dress. When Scott escorted her back to her suite that afternoon, though, he gave her strict orders not to leave it without calling him. She hadn’t wanted to drag him around Tucson in search of eve ning wear, so she’d simply stayed in her room until he picked her up for dinner. Now, she regretted it.

  She swallowed a mouthful of rice, and said, “What’s next?”

  “Find a good piano bar…”

  “I mean, tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.”

  “Depends on you.”

  “Are we just going to wait? I mean, I could stay at the hotel for two weeks, as I planned, and nothing happen, and the minute I step in to my house back in Oasis, wham.”

  “You think he’s at your house?”

  “He could be anywhere: in my house, at the hotel, even here. He might even be dead, but I think that’s too good to hope for.”

  “So you don’t want to wait around? You’d rather go on the offensive? Good. That’s just what Charlie Dane would suggest.”

  “Are you willing?” she asked.

  “I was planning to suggest it, myself.”

  She cut into the chimichanga with her fork, and scooped a bite into her mouth. The fried tortilla crunched. She chewed slowly, savoring its spicy meat and cheese.

  “So tomorrow, we’ll go to your house.”

  “That’d be great.” Lacey took another bite. Then she picked up her handbag and set it on her lap. She opened it. She took out the can.

  “What’s that, paint?”

  “There’s something you have to know. You may decide I’m crazy and call the whole thing off, but I have to tell you the truth. This afternoon, when I explained the whole situation to you, I left something out. It’s why I have this paint. I told you the man was wearing a mask. That’s my story for public consumption, but it’s not quite the truth. I told the truth to the police and my editor, and they didn’t believe me. I don’t really expect you to believe me, either. But here goes. The man who killed Elsie Hoffman and Red Peterson, the man who attacked me—he’s invisible.”

  Scott stared at his plate. He forked a huge bite of chimichanga into his mouth, and chewed slowly, frowning. He swallowed. He finished his margarita and refilled the glass and took another sip. “Invisible?” he asked, as if he thought he’d misunderstood.