Running Scared

by Elizabeth Lowell

  November 3

  Early afternoon

  The silence in Miranda Seton’s house was thick enough to walk on. That was what Cherelle was doing, pacing back and forth, back and forth, living room to kitchen, kitchen to living room, a tense ghost wearing lime green silk.

  Tim should have been back by now. If he was coming back.

  If you don’t get that armband, don’t come back. Ever.

  She had meant it then. She meant it now. But she really wanted that armband. The more she thought about giving away any part of the gold, the more she was afraid that there wouldn’t be enough left to get her where she wanted to be in life.

  She didn’t know exactly where that was, but she knew it sure as hell wasn’t here.

  Even dressed in a frayed leopard-patterned tunic over tights and ballet slippers, Miranda Seton was adept at fading into whatever room Cherelle wasn’t occupying. Bit by bit, a few moments at a time, Miranda had managed to do two things since the men left. The first was to put the living room back together. The second was to sip at a teapot full of vodka until the world took on its customary reassuring haze.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough vodka in all of Las Vegas for Tim’s mother to feel good about sharing space with her son’s grim, hard-bitten girlfriend, so Miranda just did her best to be invisible. After a lifetime of practice, she was good at it.

  But it annoyed the hell out of her the way Cherelle scattered her things around like some kind of princess born to be waited on. Car keys, lipstick, a comb, a scarf, shoes, mascara brush, crumpled paper towels she had used for napkins, and God knows what else. It was a wonder the silly bitch ever found anything again unless someone followed her around picking up after her.

  Finding herself back in the kitchen, Miranda took a healthy hit directly from the teapot spout. As she put the chicken-shaped pot down, she spotted yet another piece of Cherelle’s life scattered on the counter just behind the place where the teapot’s “nest” usually was. There was a wad of tissues there, too, as though Cherelle had been pawing through her huge new backpack/purse looking for something, throwing things right and left in her hurry to get to the bottom of the soft leather bag.

  With the vodka streaking courage through her veins, Miranda grabbed the plastic room key and tissues and hurried out to the living room. She nearly ran into Cherelle when the girl turned around with a cat-quickness that startled Miranda. She was used to life lived at a slow and dreamy pace.

  “What,” Cherelle snapped, a demand rather than a question.

  “I’m tired of picking up your stuff, that’s what.” Miranda held out the evidence. “Look what I found in the kitchen.”

  A swipe of Cherelle’s hand sent the electronically coded plastic rectangle and the crushed tissues flying over the back of the couch. The wadded tissues wedged between the wall and the top of the couch. The key kept going to the floor.

  “That was dumb,” Miranda said. “How you going to get into your fancy hotel room now? You damn well aren’t staying here.”

  “I’ll get there just like I did before, in the employee door by the east parking lot, turn left, employee elevator, fourteenth floor, turn right, six doors down on the right.”

  The biting singsong mockery of Cherelle’s voice etched itself on Miranda’s brain. Just like that other voice, the sneering insults that even vodka couldn’t dim, Tim’s father telling her just how worthless she was. Now there would be more words to remember, more echoes of her own uselessness.

  “Oh, aren’t we just soooo smart,” Miranda said with false awe. “Too bad it won’t do you any good without the key.”

  Before Cherelle had a chance to tell Miranda just where she could shove the key she was so worried about, both women heard the bubbling, farting exhaust of Socks’s purple car pulling up along the curb in front of the house. As one, the two women rushed to the front door. Because Cherelle was bigger and quicker, she got there first and flung the door open.

  Socks levered himself out of his low-slung car and swaggered up the walkway to the small house.

  Tim was nowhere in sight.

  “Chickenshit is probably hiding behind the front seat,” Cherelle muttered.

  “What?” Miranda asked.

  Cherelle didn’t answer. She was watching Socks approach, seeing all the small changes in him that warned of an unholy cocktail of drugs, testosterone, and adrenaline. Face both tight and flushed, eyes jumping around like spit in a hot skillet, dark splotches of sweat under his armpits.

  She hadn’t spent a whole lot of months trading sex for cash, but she had spent long enough to learn how to judge men. Right now Socks was bad news. The worst kind.

  Without a word she spun away from the door, grabbed her oversized purse, and headed for the door that led to the garage from the kitchen.

  Socks pushed past Miranda so hard she staggered against the couch and went to her knees. He ignored her and lunged after Cherelle. His grasping fingers latched on to her backpack strap. She spun toward him before he could rip the bag out of her hands.

  “Hey, where you going so fast?” he said.

  “Where’s Tim?” she asked.

  Dark eyes jittered. Along with the rank odor of fresh layers of sweat over old, Socks had a feral, jungle smell. It came off him in a wave that made every survival instinct Cherelle had scream at her to get away, get away now!

  But she couldn’t. Not unless she gave up her purse, and with it a few more precious pieces of gold. Tim’s gold, given to her to shut her up.

  “He’ll be along,” Socks said roughly. “Had some business to take care of, you know? Man business.”

  Now she recognized the smell beneath the sweat. Blood. She looked at the broad male hands that were gripping the straps of her new backpack/purse. No blood under the nails or in the creases of his knuckles. But there were smudges halfway up his arm, like he had rubbed an itch with bloody fingers. Or bloody gloves.

  “Man business?” she asked, forcing herself to relax. Or at least to look like it. “You telling me he’s out getting laid?”

  “You told him not to come back.” Socks smiled. “He ain’t.”

  Her stomach sank. Socks was way too certain about Tim staying away. “So you didn’t get the armband back.”

  “What’s the big fuss? You got lots of gold. You got me. Way I figure it, this is your lucky day all around. Where is it?”

  Cherelle knew he meant the gold, just as she knew she would probably have to have sex with him in order to get away without a beating. Seemed like no matter how hard she worked, she always ended up under some sweating, grunting, stupid son of a bitch just to survive. Sure as hell he would ruin her new clothes before he was done.

  “It’s in a safe place,” she said in a low, husky voice. Then she smiled and leaned closer to the man she would rather have knifed. “You sure Tim won’t be coming back?”

  “Yeah, and don’t point the finger at me ‘cuz he’s gone,” Socks said, looking at the lime green button straining between Cherelle’s breasts. “You’re the one who’s so bitchy.”

  She forced a sigh that shifted her cleavage.

  His breathing hitched. Her body made it hard for him to keep his mind on what he really wanted—the gold. Especially when he could see her nipples clear as headlamps beneath the pale silk. How was a man supposed to think when a braless woman with a good pair of tits shoved them under his nose? He swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate on something besides finally getting a little of the great ass that Tim had spent so much time bragging about.

  “So where is it?” Socks asked hoarsely.

  “In my pants, sugah pie, just like always.”

  He dragged his glance down to her crotch. It was covered by thin, pale silk that barely concealed what lay beneath. He saw the cushy dark shadow that told him she wasn’t wearing enough underwear to get in a man’s way. He pushed one hand between her thighs and dug in. Hard. “You got a great pussy, but even you can’t put all the gold in there.”

>   She looked over his thick shoulders to where Miranda stood in the door, watching them with a cynical smile and eyes that were glazed by vodka. As Cherelle undid the button between her breasts, she envied Miranda her drunken haze.

  Reality sucked.

  “Oh, were you talking about gold?” Cherelle asked, tilting her pelvis toward Socks as though she just loved having him grope her like a steel gorilla. Take a good feel, asshole. It will be your first and last. “Like I said, it’s in a safe place.”

  Socks grunted. “How safe?”

  “All the locks and alarms and guards the Golden Fleece can provide, that’s how safe.”

  The sexy purr of her voice and the female heat surrounding his hand made it real hard for Socks to concentrate. Then her nimble fingers had somehow undone his fly and slipped inside to stroke him. Blood rushed from his brain to his crotch. He shook his head like a dog coming out of water.

  “Whoa. We got—” The words became a sucked-in rasp of air as she ran her fingernails around him, digging lightly into each dip and crease. “Business,” he finished in a strangled voice.

  “Sugah, I’ve got the only business that matters right here in my little ol’ hand.”

  Socks gave up trying to think. A hand job was his idea of foreplay. Then, when he was really ready, he would yank off her fancy green pants and hammer in.

  Cherelle measured his surrender in the glaze of his eyes and the quickness of his breathing. She judged her moment with all the care and coldness of the sex worker she once had been. Without warning, she dug her nails deep into his dick, twisted, jerked as hard as she could, and slammed her knee up into his crotch.

  He managed to deflect most of the knee shot, but not all of it. Whooping for air, staggering, retching, he went to his hands and knees. He wasn’t in any shape to hang on when she yanked her fancy purse free of his fingers and ran out of the house.

  Thanks to Miranda the Mouse, Cherelle found that her car keys were handy for once. She grabbed them out of her purse, flung herself into the front seat of her car, and jammed in the ignition key.

  By the time Socks pulled himself to his feet, she would be long gone.

  Ignored by both the fleeing Cherelle and the wretched Socks, Miranda waited through the man’s cursing and retching by retreating to the living room and watching warily. When the color of his skin was closer to white than green, and sweat no longer stood out on his forehead, she figured that Socks wouldn’t belt her just because she was there and he was hurting. She reached down behind the couch and walked over to him, or at least as close as the kitchen door. If she was wrong about his state of mind, she wanted a head start.

  “I’ll kill her,” Socks gasped, leaning against the counter.

  Miranda sincerely hoped so. Cherelle was the first woman Tim had stayed with for more than a few months. Her boy deserved better than a hard-edged whore.

  “You’ll have to catch her first,” Miranda pointed out. “I can help with that.”

  Socks straightened some, winced, and straightened some more. It would be a few days before a woody felt good, but he’d been through worse and still beaten the hell out of the guy who kicked him. “Yeah? How?”

  Miranda held out the plastic coded key and recited Cherelle’s mocking description of just how to get to her room at the Golden Fleece.

  By the time Socks left, he could recite it too.

  Chapter 29

  Las Vegas

  November 3

  Early afternoon

  The sound of groaning woke Tim up. Vaguely he realized that he was the one making the low, ragged sounds. He opened his eyes and tried to focus. It didn’t work. All he saw was a big gray stripe with light kind of shining down either side.

  And he hurt. God, he hurt.

  Memory slashed at him like knives. A glass case full of gold and jewelry. Greasy gun rags. A spitting sound and Joey flopping around on the floor. Socks kicking him. Handing Tim a gun.

  “Oh, shit,” Tim groaned. “I killed him.”

  Then Socks shooting Tim.

  His old jailhouse buddy.

  He tried to kill me.

  Spinning and falling and grabbing at the file cabinet.

  Jesus, that’s what’s in my face.

  With a shove and a twist of his lean body, Tim slithered out from under the metal file. He would have worried about the crashing and scraping noises, but his chest was a pulsing fire that shot waves of agony and nausea through him. If he hadn’t already been on the floor, he would have fallen there.

  Joey lay less than six feet away. Mouth slack, blind eyes open, skin white as only the dead can be, stinking of death.

  And Tim had killed him.

  Gotta get out of here.

  After a struggle he got to his hands and knees and from there to his feet. The pain made him whine like a whipped puppy, but there was no one to comfort him. He staggered toward the back door, the one that led to an alley. From there it was just a few more alleys over, and he would be home.

  It felt like miles of walking naked over burning coals, only the fire was in his chest rather than his feet. All that kept him going was the same animal will to survive that had made him team up with Socks in the first place. In jail, if you didn’t have a strong buddy, you were everybody’s bitch.

  It was pretty much the same on the outside.

  He fell on his hands and knees again when he reached his mama’s back door. Opening it, he went full length onto her kitchen floor.

  Miranda shrieked before she realized that the intruder was her son. “Timmy! Oh, my God! What happened?”

  “Shot.” He flopped over on his back and passed out.

  Even Tim’s wild Hawaiian shirt couldn’t entirely hide the spreading patch of blood. With a sobbing prayer, Miranda went to her knees. The one joy of her life was lying bleeding on her kitchen floor.

  “Timmy?” she cried.

  He didn’t answer. His breathing was hoarse.

  The world went cold and very clear around her. Without hesitation she went to the phone and dialed the number she never wanted to remember and never could forget. When someone answered, she didn’t waste any words.

  Very quickly she was put through to the man at the top. She didn’t waste any words with him either.

  “Your son has been shot. Send help to my house now.”

  Chapter 30

  Las Vegas

  November 3

  Afternoon

  Almost reluctantly Risa watched her office door close behind the smiling Smith-White. With quick, ripping motions she stripped off her exam gloves and fired them into the nearest wastebasket. She wasn’t looking forward to what was coming next, but it had to be done.

  “You do realize that you have just spent two-point-four-seven million dollars on goods you can’t exhibit?” she asked Shane.

  “Plus the ten thousand no-questions-asked reward, and who says I can’t exhibit them?”

  “I do.” She held a palm out as though pushing him away. “No. Don’t interrupt. You hired me to advise you, and now you’ll damn well listen to what I say. The provenance Smith-White offered is a joke. A bad one.”

  Expressionless, Shane looked at the provenance Smith-White had provided for the incredible gold artifacts. “Purchased from an unnamed South African private collector during World War I by another private collector, James Madison, an American on a world tour. Said transaction not validated by paper but by recollection of Madison’s great-grandson, who sold the gold to J. E. Shapiro last week to cover a gambling debt. Shapiro sold it to William Covington, who sold it to Smith-White. All three recent transactions duly recorded.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I want an answer!”

  Shane smiled slightly. “I’m sure you do. So do I. Until we find out who is going to answer first, plan for a trip to Rarities ASAP. I want these artifacts put through every scientific wringer they have. I’ll leave it to you to sort out what we can of the
ir stylistic history. Tell Dana that we want special care with the photos they take. One of them is likely to be the cover for the Druid Gold exhibit catalog.”

  “You call Dana.” Risa’s eyes were narrowed, furious. “I quit.”

  Shane’s dark brows lifted. “Everybody will assume you slept with me.”

  “So my reputation as Ice Goddess takes a hit. So what? Better that than being linked in print with stolen goods.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I will, just as soon as I can afford a full Rarities search on the objects.”

  “You’ll have to be working for me for that to happen,” Shane pointed out with a thin smile. “Rarities won’t look at shit for you unless you own said shit and request its examination by them.”

  Risa wanted to scream. He was right. Damn him.

  “However,” he added, throwing Smith-White’s record of past sales on her desk, “if you’re still working for me, you won’t have to pay for a thing. And you can always quit later, when you have the very proof that I will have thoughtfully, and at great expense, gathered for you.”

  Risa had the uneasy feeling that Shane was both laughing at her and pleased that she was willing to quit over provenance. “I don’t get it.”

  “You will. That’s a promise.”

  “If I don’t, my resignation will be retroactive to this moment.”

  “Agreed. Now, call Dana.”

  Risa was reaching for the phone when it rang. She picked it up and said curtly, “Sheridan.”

  “This is security at the front desk. Ms. Cherelle Faulkner would like us to make another key for her. Apparently she lost hers.”

  “Some things never change,” Risa muttered, thinking of her friend’s lifelong lack of interest in keeping track of keys and other small things. “Make her another key.”

  “Should I change the electronic combination?”

  “Hell,” Risa said through her teeth. The last thing she needed right now was to be running around getting new keys for her own apartment every time Cherelle lost another one. “No. Same combination.”