by Lakes, Lynde
They sat in silence for a few moments, then Razor got up and poured more coffee for them both. “Look, Rusti,” he said. “I’m sorry about the way I treated you at first. I thought you might be a decoy disguised as Majai to trip me up. In my work it’s easy to get jumpy, suspect everyone. Especially when some bastard is killing our agents.”
He sounded so dedicated, so trustworthy. She really didn’t know what to make of Razor, but she’d have to think about him later. Because of the mind-numbing pills, she hadn’t had a chance to call Petra’s parents. She should do that right now, but their phone number was in her address book—in her purse. Where was her purse? Had she taken it with her to the hospital? No. In her fear and haste, she’d left it home. Oh, God, Petra. How can I tell your mom and dad?
“I want to go to René’s. I need some time alone.”
“I have my orders. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.” He gave her a calculating look. “It’s me or one of Baxter’s men. A stranger. It’s your choice.”
It was—and she would darn well make it herself. Still, Razor was right. The killer had found the wrong mark twice. He probably wouldn’t miss again.
Rusti reached for the phone. When Baxter came on the line, she asked if she could have someone stay with her at René’s condo. Again. She didn’t feel the need to mention that she wanted someone who wouldn’t let an intruder slip by this time. Surely, the department couldn’t afford another fatal mistake.
“I thought you had your own bodyguard,” Baxter said. “The guy we picked up last night said he was your P.I.”
“Jerry Nichols was at the condo?” She couldn’t believe it. “How could you think he was the killer?”
“He was in the condo complex—running. We checked him out and had to let him go, but he claims he saw the perp. Thinks he would have caught the guy if one of the officers hadn’t tackled him.”
None of this made sense. “I don’t understand,” Rusti said. “Why was he there?”
“He had a voicemail call on his cell from Petra Morgan. She thought you needed a bodyguard.” Baxter cleared his throat. “My top man will be at your sister’s condo when you arrive.” There was a pause. “And stay away from Razor Jones. Like I told you before, he isn’t fit company for a lady.” Something in Baxter’s tone made her think he knew she was with Razor right now.
She hung up and gathered her things. Razor helped her into her jacket, letting his hands linger on her shoulders. With all that had happened, she felt annoyed with herself when her pulse leapt, and she felt deep stirrings she’d almost forgotten. He isn’t fit company for a lady, echoed in her head.
Two hours later, Rusti lay on René’s living room sofa, staring up at the ceiling, numb with guilt and grief. She had just spoken to Petra’s parents, something she’d been dreading. She’d always remember that call as one of the most heartrending things she ever had to do. When she explained that Petra had died in her place, the anguish became nearly unbearable. She turned off the phone’s ringer and told the guard she didn’t want to see anyone.
She couldn’t understand the why of it. Were the Fates so quirky they allowed chance to dictate who lived and who died? She was the intended victim, not Petra. She wanted to fight back, but she didn’t know whom to fight. Would the killer come back to rectify his mistake? Would she be alive tomorrow?
Evening brought a chill to the house, and Rusti dragged herself up off the sofa and padded aimlessly about in her stocking feet, shivering until she pulled on René’s Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. The police guard was watching a repairman fix the broken window. They nodded.
A little later, Detective Baxter arrived. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “just following a few leads.” When they were seated on the couch, he pulled out a small recorder. “Do you mind?”
Rusti shook her head.
“Did you know your sister had income other than what the Egyptia paid her?”
Rusti stiffened. The FBI must have ways to hide an undercover agent’s pay. Was this a trick question? She darted a glance at the recorder. “No,” she said, relieved to be speaking the truth. “She never mentioned it to me.”
“That’s odd,” Baxter said. “We’ve uncovered a sizable account in Riverside. I assumed you must know about it since you’re listed as your sister’s sole beneficiary.”
Rusti was fully alert now. “I don’t know anything about the account. And I didn’t kill my sister for her money, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything, Ms. Collins. Just trying to put this puzzle together. Any idea why your sister did her banking out of the county?”
Rusti stood. “No,” she said. “What are you driving at? Just say it straight out.”
“Did you know Razor Jones before the shooting?”
She froze. “No. I told you that before.” Her legs felt weak; she sat back down. “What does he have to do with René’s murder? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be investigating?”
Unshaken, Baxter nailed her with his owlish gaze. “It’s strange that a kindergarten teacher has gotten so chummy with a hood like Razor Jones.”
“I’d hardly say we’re chummy. He showed up at the hospital last night and offered to drive me home. That’s all.”
Baxter arched a bushy brow. “To whose home?” he asked in a knowing tone. Her face warmed. Baxter knew where she’d spent the night. “I couldn’t come here after…after what happened…. Razor offered to stay with me, take care of me. He was very kind. And a complete gentleman.”
Baxter shook his head. “Trust me, Ms. Collins, he’s tight with one of the biggest crime kingpins in L.A. Inviting you into his gutter is not an act of kindness. You’d better go back to Pasadena. It’s safer there.”
She would love to. The days she’d spent away from her own home, her own things, seemed like a lifetime. “I will,” she said, “after I bury my sister.”
“The next time you need a ride call your P.I. friend, Jerry Nichols.”
She couldn’t let that pass. “If you don’t have him in jail again, I just might do that.”
“Touché, Ms. Collins.” Baxter almost smiled, but quickly became serious again. “I brought these papers for you to sign, thought you might not be up to meeting me at the morgue.”
Rusti glanced at them. They were forms the coroner needed to release René’s body for burial. Body…burial. Such final, gut-wrenching words. Rusti squeezed her eyes closed for a moment to fight the threat of tears. Then, she lifted her chin and fiercely scribbled her name.
After Baxter left, it took all of Rusti’s strength to pull herself together. Someone had put flowers on the sideboard. Peonies. The card read: Call me, Kiddo. It was unsigned. A knowing smile curved her lips. Jerry. The guard said he’d been by twice. She hadn’t called him before, fearful of revealing something she shouldn’t—he was as sharp as they come. But now she would have to call to thank him for the flowers.
The red light on the phone answering machine blinked fiercely. It hadn’t been blinking when she turned off the ringer. She turned it back on—in case Jerry called again. Or Razor. The message was from a doctor, asking René to call for the results of her examination. But it was too late to even hope to reach the doctor.
The following morning, Rusti called for the results. She wanted every bit of information she could get about René. It helped to think of her alive, going to the doctor for a checkup, stopping for groceries on the way home, petting the neighbor’s puppy. She quickly learned that the exam hadn’t been routine. René had gone in for a breast biopsy. That was what Baxter meant when he said the medical examiner knew where she’d been. René’s tumor had been benign, so she could have expected many happy years ahead. Rusti mumbled a thank you and quickly hung up.
Tears welled in her eyes. René had asked her to dance in her place so she could have that surgery. She must have been so scared, so alone. Why hadn’t she shared her fears? Rusti preferred to think it wasn’t because René had wanted to shut her out
, but only to protect her from worry until the results came back from the lab.
“Oh, René, you didn’t even hear the good news.” Rusti jumped at the jangling phone. She lifted the hand piece, but remembering Baxter’s warning about malicious calls, she didn’t speak.
“Rusti?”
The mere sound of Razor’s voice was like a shot of adrenaline. He would pick her up later this morning. Together they would visit the mortuary, plan the graveside ceremony. The pain in her heart eased. She didn’t have to be alone in this. But she mustn’t misread Razor’s intentions. This wasn’t about his regard for her. He had a personal stake in this. René had been his partner. Even so, Rusti would never forget his thoughtfulness. Once again he was there when she desperately needed someone.
The man was a rock, but there were things no one could help her with. Hard as it was, only she could make arrangements for René to be dressed in her favorite blue silk and her hair restored to its natural color. She wanted to see her twin like that, just once.
The special arrangements delayed the funeral a couple of days, but her patience was rewarded. At the chapel, with Razor at her side, Rusti stared down at her twin. The auburn hair made such a difference. René looked younger. The blue silk dress was a perfect choice. A delicate powder blue shaded her eyelids. Rusti kissed her own finger and pressed it softly to her twin’s lips.
Chapter Thirteen
Razor switched on the headlights and joined the procession of mourners. He couldn’t get his mind off their visit to the mortuary. Standing in the chapel beside Rusti, viewing the body of his late partner, he’d actually felt the blood drain from his face. The switch back to René’s original appearance was a terrible shock. The twins were identical, unbelievably identical. It could’ve been Rusti lying there so still and cold. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t been struck with the same sense of foreboding. If she had, she showed no sign.
God, he hated funerals. They forced him to consider his own mortality. Not that he hadn’t thought a lot about that lately. Especially since he’d met the spunky little schoolteacher sitting beside him.
At a stop sign, Razor glanced over at her. She hadn’t said more than three words since they left the mortuary. Hell, what was there to say? The two people closest to her had been murdered within hours of each other, and now she was on her way to a funeral. Her black dress and jacket accentuated her slim figure. Her coppery hair had been pulled severely back into a knot, and the simple style emphasized her cheekbones, her almost translucent skin, her large cinnamon eyes. She had a tentative quality about her today that worried him. Would she hold up through all this? No sense trying to start a conversation. The only thing she wanted to hear from him was that the sting was over and she was safe. He couldn’t tell her that today. Or even tomorrow.
Theirs was the last car to go through the cemetery gates. Razor parked at the end of the line of cars, under a pepper tree, and sat for a moment assessing the sprinkling of people gathering by the graveside. It was a good showing, considering. Undercover agents had family and they had each other, but that was about it. It was safer that way. It looked like the whole crew from the Egyptia had come. What made Razor uneasy were the people he’d never seen before. Rusti looked questioningly at him.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s go.” But before he could get around the car to help her out, she was already walking toward the canopy. “Wait,” he called, and hurried to catch up with her.
****
Wanting to be alone with her grief, Rusti pretended not to hear, but Razor was soon matching her even strides, and she couldn’t just ignore him. The breeze had tousled his unruly black hair and tossed a few wayward strands onto his forehead. His dark suit and tie were entirely appropriate, yet the air of reckless danger about him fit the Razor Jones image perfectly. He took her arm. “Stay close to me,” he murmured. “Watch for anyone who looks or acts suspicious. And who is that tall, skinny redheaded guy?”
Rusti stared up into Razor’s serious blue eyes. Did he actually think the killer might attack in broad daylight? With all these people around? Her skin prickled. “That’s just René’s hairdresser,” she said. “He fixed her hair for me.” But Razor was right to be suspicious; the hairdresser fit the killer’s long, lean profile.
Razor tightened his grip and propelled her forward. Her gratitude for his help had almost made her forget how annoying his forceful, take-charge ways could be. Perhaps her reliance on Razor the past couple of days had misled him. “Please,” she said, retrieving her arm. “I’m all right. I don’t need any help.”
He darted a sharp glance at her. As though he’d forgotten that she held him responsible for René’s death. But she didn’t want to offend him. In a way, she’d taken René’s place, become his partner. They both wanted to find the killer—before he found them. And she wasn’t fooling herself. She couldn’t do that alone. She needed Razor Jones.
The casket was covered with flowers. Someone had sent an enormous blanket arrangement. Maybe the whole Egyptia crew. It dwarfed her little bouquet of gardenias. Rusti stepped forward and added the single white rose she carried. When she stepped back, Razor put his arm gently around her. She felt his warm breath against her hair. But she didn’t pull away. Her twin, her other self, was in that casket. Rusti’s throat ached. The minister droned on. Razor’s closeness gave her comfort. She leaned against him, a bit reluctant, but realizing that he alone, among all those who’d gathered here, knew her sister’s true character.
He drew her close. “Look at each face carefully,” he whispered. “Someone here is probably the killer.”
Rusti shivered as she scanned the faces of the mourners. Only a few were strangers to her. She would like to speak to them, find out who they were, how they knew René. Across the grave, the Egyptia employees were gathered together. Mike and Kirby both wore solemn expressions. Maria dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Bob Cane, the bouncer, stood a bit apart, his expression hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. Even Zena had come. Mike’s arm was around her waist, his hand resting low on her hip. Rusti watched it slip even lower. Zena was clearly indifferent to the proceedings, and to Mike’s possessive gesture as well. René had thought Zena only pretended affection for Mike in order to advance her career. She was probably right.
Mike stared straight ahead, until he noticed Rusti. A cloud of disapproval darkened his face. He had warned her about Razor Jones, and here she was with his arm around her. She wished she could tell Mike that Razor wasn’t really a gangster. A few minutes later Jerry Nichols arrived. He gave Razor a calculating once over, and stood across from them, a little apart from the Egyptia crew.
Detective Baxter and two other plainclothes men had pulled up in an unmarked car and now stood under a tree nearby. They didn’t approach, just watched from a distance—close enough that Baxter could see she was with Razor Jones. Rusti shifted uneasily; he wouldn’t like that any better than the others. Obviously, like Razor, Baxter thought the killer might show up at the victim’s funeral. She wasn’t surprised. According to TV crime shows, it was a common thing.
Several people fit the killer’s general body type. Okay, she thought straightening her shoulders, if you’re here, watch us in our grief, enjoy it while you can, because one way or another you’re going down.
At the end of the ceremony, Rusti stepped up to the casket and placed René’s shiny brass zills among the cluster of gardenias. Her throat tightened. Her sister’s little finger-cymbals would be silent forever.
A cloud obscured the sun. The sky darkened. The lifeless air was pungent with the smell of freshly turned earth. Tears rolled down Rusti’s cheeks as the casket was lowered slowly into its dark resting place. Razor gave her a tight squeeze. She felt his warmth, sensed his sadness.
Rusti spoke briefly to the minister, then glanced around for the suspicious-looking Latino gentleman she’d notice earlier, but he’d disappeared. Along with a couple of the plainclothes officers.
The others were beginning to drif
t toward their cars. She didn’t get the chance to speak to those she didn’t know, learn what they knew about her sister, but perhaps it was just as well. Razor had made her promise not to mingle. It was too dangerous. And he hadn’t left her side for even a second.
Zena was the first from the Egyptia group to leave. As she strode past them, she paused briefly and glared at Razor. Then she gave her midnight-black hair a haughty toss and walked on, hips undulating. Mike made no effort to interfere with Zena’s dramatic exit.
“What was that all about?” Rusti asked.
Razor just shrugged. And once again Rusti doubted the wisdom of trusting this virtual stranger she really knew so little about—trusted even more than Jerry, who was standing by, waiting patiently to speak to her. It was the first time she’d seen him since meeting René in his office. She would have to talk to him, make everything seem as normal as anything could be in this insane situation.
But before she could signal to Jerry, Mike waved and called out, “Hey, Rusti, I want to speak to you. Privately.”
“He must be nuts,” Razor said. “I’m not leaving you alone with that guy.”
“It’s okay,” Rusti said. “I want to talk to him. Please?” She paused and then added, “That’s Jerry over there by him—my P.I. I want to talk to him too.”
Razor hesitated a moment, glanced at Jerry, then nodded. “I’ll be right over here by the car.” His words were agreeable enough, but his tone and dour expression spoke volumes.