by Jenn Black
SOLE WITNESS
Jenn Black
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
UNMASKING THE SPY
CHAPTER ONE
Florida, Present Day
Monday, March 10, 5:30pm
When Gwen Stefani’s voice blared from the passenger seat, Lori didn’t have to check the display to know it was her best friend calling—Again.
Lori gripped the wheel with one hand and flipped open the phone with the other, tucking it behind one ear so she could keep her hands at 10 and 2. Spring Break traffic was nothing to mess around with.
“Hi, Kimber.”
“Well? Are you there yet?” squealed the familiar voice.
Lori indulged herself with an affectionate eye-roll. “Maybe I’d get there faster if you’d stop calling.”
“I’m just so excited! You’re the best friend ever!” Kimberley shrieked.
Ear ringing, Lori adjusted the speaker volume before she went deaf.
“Kimber, chill out. Autographs aren’t that exciting.”
“Whatever. You’re just jaded because you’re so used to signing them.”
Lori tapped her brakes in warning to an overeager tailgater. “I just don’t understand the attraction.”
“He’s a God!”
Lori snorted. “Are we still talking about T2? From the T2 Crew?”
“He’s hot! I love him!” Kimber bubbled.
“How can you love him? He’s never met you.”
“He’ll come around.” Unparalleled optimism radiated from the receiver.
Before responding, Lori blasted her horn as a dozen teenagers overflowing a convertible sliced into her lane, nearly taking off her front bumper in the process.
“Until then, you’ll fawn over his signed albums?”
“Exactly.”
“I have no idea why I’m enabling this fantasy,” Lori grumbled.
“Because you love me. And because you can. First off, you’re famous.”
Lori changed lanes to let another would-be NASCAR driver rocket past, with his windows down and stereo blaring.
“I’m not famous. Most of the people who recognize my face don’t even know my name.”
“Secondly,” Kimberley continued as if Lori hadn’t spoken, “you’re friends.”
“I’m not his friend, Kimber,” Lori reminded her for the tenth time.
“Come on. You starred in his very first music video to hit number one.”
“I guess.” And Lori would’ve starred in the back of his limo, too, if she’d let him have his way.
Tommy Turner was a conceited lech, and Lori had her doubts about entering his domain, even for Kimberley. But what could she do?
“Come on, Lori,” Kimberley wheedled. “You know you’re gonna do it—you’re probably halfway to the studio by now. If you can surf waves during tropical storms for a photo shoot, then you can get a teensy weensy signature for your best friend.”
Lori stepped on her brakes as traffic slowed for a red light.
This was the happiest Kimberley had sounded in weeks. In fact, this was the first whole day she’d gone without crying since her long-term boyfriend had kicked her out and she’d shown up on Lori’s porch with a cat, a trash bag full of clothes, and two copies of T2’s platinum debut album.
“Yeah, yeah.” But T2 wasn’t there to pinch her rear when she was hanging ten on a surfboard. “I’ll get his autograph if it kills me. In the meantime, relax. I’ll bring home ice cream if you keep that cat out of my– Can you hold on a sec? Someone’s beeping. Be right back.”
Trying to watch the road and her cell phone at the same time, Lori quickly flipped to the other line and slapped the phone back to her ear.
“This is Lori.”
“Lori, baby,” came the voice teenage girls screamed for the world over. “Are you still coming?”
“Tommy.” Great. Why did the world suddenly develop a complex about this autograph? “Yes, I’m almost there. I’ll–”
“Just making sure, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.” As usual, Tommy’s breathy voice gave her the creeps.
“I know. Give me about five minutes or so. This traffic–”
“I knew you wanted me. After waiting two years, what’s five more minutes?” The invitation in his tone dripped with forced sexuality.
Lori gritted her teeth. “Tommy, I told you I was coming for you to autograph–”
“Autographs, etchings, it’s all the same to me, baby. I’m pouring us some champagne. Oh—I hear you at the door. Come on in. You don’t have to knock.”
“No, I’m still–”
Click.
Lori blinked. What a weirdo. If it weren’t her duty as best friend to cheer Kimberley up at all costs, Tommy Turner’s studio was the last place on earth she’d be going.
“Kimber, you still there?”
“Yes. Who was it? Was it T2?”
“Yeah.” What was she, psychic?
“Ohhh,” Kimberley breathed. “He’s amazing. See if he’ll go out with me. If you’ll double with us, I’m sure he’d go.”
“I’m busy that night.”
A squeak of outrage burst from the phone. “Lori…”
“Don’t even think of rebounding with Tommy. He’s a bad idea. Trust me.”
Kimberley’s gasp spoke volumes. “Did you…?”
“No! Absolutely not.” Lori might not be book smart, but she could smell trouble.
“Just checking. Anyways, I think he’d like me if he got to know me.”
“Everybody likes you, Kimber.”
“Not Marco.” Sudden static crackled from the phone. “He practically shoved me out the door.”
“His loss. He’s a loser and he doesn’t count. Don’t you dare cry over him. We’ll celebrate your newfound singleness as soon as I get home. Look on the bright side—now you can be with any man you want.”
“Even T2?”
Lori grimaced. “Except him. I want someone with charm. Maybe even a brain. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m pulling in now. See you in a little bit?”
“Good luck!”
Snapping the cell phone closed, Lori tossed it back on the passenger seat. It was going to take both hands and all her concentration to parallel-park her big boat anywhere—if she could even find a space.
Lori cruised around the block three times before an old lady in her station wagon pulled away from her spot by the corner. Perfect. She wouldn’t even have to back in.
After parking, she glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She’d been hasty with the mascara and now clumpy brown eyelashes framed her trademark green eyes. She bared her teeth. At least she didn’t have lipstick marks. Or parsley. Who invented parsley?
Time had run out on the meter, so Lori fished in her jean pockets for a quarter. Hopefully she wouldn’t need all twelve minutes.
Taking a last fond look at her bubblegum-pink 1971 Mustang, she jogged the short distance to the studio. Wearing a halter-top and tennis shoes had been smart. Running in the Florida heat was not. Note to self—leave the exercise for the nice, air-conditioned gym.
By the time she got to the door, Lori’s entire body was encased in a fine sheen of sweat. Oh well. No one to impress here.
She raised her hand to jab at the doorbell before she remembered Tommy asked her to come right in
without knocking. Maybe he was still in the back, recording music with the guys. Or, knowing him, making music with one of his groupies.
Opening the door, she called out his name just as two deafening blasts echoed through the building. What the heck was that? Gunshots?
Without thinking, Lori turned on her toes and ran back to her car, leaving the studio door to slam shut on its own. She slid behind the wheel in record time, peeling away from the curb and barreling down the road for several blocks.
Once her racing heart slowed down enough to let her think, Lori pulled over to the side of the street and peeled her white fingers from the wheel.
The silent cell phone seemed to stare at her from the passenger seat. She snatched it up, flipped it open, and dialed.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
The words tumbled from her mouth. “I heard loud noises at Tommy Turner’s studio on 6th Avenue. Maybe gunshots.”
“Is anyone injured?”
Lori closed her eyes. She was a supermodel, not a superhero. She hadn’t stuck around to deflect any bullets or interview any gun-wielding assailants.
Hopefully she wouldn’t live to regret it.
* * *
Listen to them.
The two college-age girls trailing Amber to the parking lot were twittering birds, their high-pitched laughter scraping at her ears for the hundredth time that day. If she were Bank Manager instead of Account Manager, she'd fire them, just so she wouldn't have to hear their stupid stories and wild cackling.
She’d be tempted to put them out of her misery if she hadn't left her Glock in the trunk of her car.
“Buh-bye,” called the newest teller, the one with the fake tan and the giant rock of an engagement ring she forced under customers’ noses at every opportunity. Amber had forgotten her name on purpose.
“Yeah, Amber. ’Bye,” shrilled the teller’s hyper sidekick, Judy. That one stuffed herself into her oversized sorority sweatshirt every day. Not because of the typical “Frozen Tundra” setting on Florida air conditioning units, but because she thought it made her look cool. In reality, she just looked red-faced and sweaty, and had to spend the first on-the-clock hour in the bathroom fixing her makeup.
Amber turned just in time to see her shake a fat little finger.
“Drive safe,” Judy called out as she struggled out of her sweater.
Moron. “You, too,” Amber muttered and schooled her features into her well-practiced ‘smiling kindly’ face. She retrieved her crumpled pack of Virginia Slims from the bottom of her purse and knocked out one wrinkled cigarette.
“See you in the morning,” they chorused.
Since it was only Monday, she’d see them the next four mornings. Joy.
The giggling girls flopped into a turquoise Dodge Neon, slammed the doors, and waved wildly as they drove off. They’d asked more than once if Amber wanted to ‘ride share’ with them.
Over her dead body.
Amber lit her cigarette and dropped the pack and the lighter back into her purse. She couldn’t wait until her days of languishing behind a computer-topped desk were over.
In fact, she hated the Isla Concha Savings & Loan, hated the idiots whose accounts she had to look up because they forgot to bring their checkbooks or weren’t smart enough to operate an ATM. She also hated being trapped in a building with hundreds of thousands of dollars and being unable to stuff any in her pockets to make up for the joke of a paycheck they doled out every fifteen days.
If there were some way to sneak into the vault undetected, she’d have done it by now.
Her heels clicked on the steamy black asphalt as she strode to her car.
Yeah, it was new, it was red, and it was freshly waxed—but it was a Camry sedan, not a racy, convertible Spyder. If all went well, her Spyder days were close at hand. Amber popped the trunk. If all went well, she’d soon be a kept woman. She deserved to be spoiled.
Trapping her cigarette between her teeth, she emptied her purse of the candies and random office supplies she’d stuffed it with before leaving. She didn’t need most of that crap, but who cared? The bank could afford it.
With her first real smile of the day, Amber fished her gun out from under a fleece blanket and tucked it into her purse between her wallet and makeup. Since the hyper-friendly tellers had left, she no longer felt like killing anyone… but one never knew what the day might bring.
Before slamming the lid, she shrugged out of her black suit jacket and tossed it in the back. Layers should be outlawed in Florida. Even March steamed like a broiler.
She unlocked the doors with the remote and slid inside the car—no easy feat in four-inch heels and a black skirt so tight her legs squeezed together. That’s what Tommy liked, though, so that’s what Tommy would get.
Amber turned on the car so the A/C would start kicking, and undid buttons on her white silk shirt to bare her cleavage.
Sweaty. Damn.
She snatched a Kleenex from her center console and dried off the dampness as best she could. The air blasting from the vents finally turned chilly, blowing her blonde hair from her face and hardening her nipples. Amber smirked. Tommy’d appreciate that.
Re-applying lipstick with one hand and steering with the other, she drove to his studio in record time. Going home with him from the bar on Saturday had been such a bonus. He was rich and about to get richer, just as soon as he finished his new album. It was crap, of course. White men shouldn’t be allowed to rap. But who cared?
The richer he got, the richer she’d get. Or at least, she would, once she ramped up her status from one-night-stand to permanent girlfriend. And once she was rich enough, she’d find someone even richer, and she wouldn’t be stuck with Tommy ‘T2’ Turner anymore.
Life would be sweet.
What the hell were all these cars doing on his street? Tommy better have sent his band members and groupies home, like he promised. Amber swore and circled the block again. Stupid studio didn’t even have a parking lot—she’d have to talk to him about that, too.
A pickup truck slathered in racing decals pulled away from the curb and she slipped in the empty space.
Almost an hour remaining on the meter. More than enough for a bounce on the couch. Contrary to his lyrics, Tommy was an incompetent lover. But she’d put up with almost anything to trade her bare-bones condo for his high-priced gulf-side mansion and to spend her days in indolent luxury rather than trapped in that box of a bank and smiling kindly at morons.
Amber stepped out of the car and smoothed her hands over her clothes.
Slinging her purse over one shoulder, she closed the car door and walked up the sidewalk to the recording studio, careful to sway her hips and thrust out her chest. Never know when Tommy might be peering out the door in anticipation.
What a loser.
He’d latched onto her like he’d never had a woman before. He’d been almost too easy. Men were such pigs. Too bad she was forced to interact with them—corralling a moneyed playboy was the next step up the ladder of success.
Without bothering to knock, she swung open the studio door and sashayed inside. Giant photos of Tommy adorned the wide, spacious antechamber, and overstuffed chairs and cigarette-burned loveseats filled the interior.
Tommy leaned over a coffee table pouring champagne into two fluted glasses. Short but muscular, he wore his standard ripped blue jeans and bleach-bright white tank top, his shaggy black hair tamed by a folded blue bandana and his tanned skin covered in naked-women tattoos. What a prize.
Glancing up at the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor, his eyes met hers.
“You.”
Amber sculpted her lips into her sultriest pout.
“Who did you expect, honey? You asked me to come by after work. And I… came.”
She fluttered her eyelashes with mock coyness and assumed a provocative pose. To keep from smacking him, Amber kept reminding herself he was her ticket to a better life.
Tommy’s face cleared. “I forgot.�
�
Idiot. “You forgot, silly? Then why are you pouring champagne?”
He shrugged. “Someone else is coming over. You have to leave.”
The first tendril of ice snaked down her spine. “Who?”
Tommy flashed a mean smile. “Lori Summers.”
Amber raised an eyebrow. “Lori Summers? The swimsuit model?”
Please.
Granted, she was as surprised as the next person when the blonde bombshell stopped touring the world’s waves in brand-name bikinis to settle down here in Isla Concha, half a mile off Florida’s gulf coast and forty miles south of the nearest big city—if Tampa could be considered a big city.
But no way did Lori Summers trade a life of gracing glossy magazine covers for hooking up with squinty-eyed Tommy Turner, white-boy rapper.
He topped off the glasses without responding, so Amber stepped close enough to lay a hand on his bicep.
“You’re just mad at me for being late, aren’t you?” she asked in a teasing voice. “You missed me, poor baby. You missed… this.” She licked the edge of his ear and almost fell onto the coffee table when he shoved her.
“I said get lost, Amber.”
She blinked. “You’re not serious.”
Tommy crossed his arms. “As a heart attack. Why would I want to screw you again,” he said, raking his eyes over her body, “when I could be screwing Lori Summers?”
Heat raced up Amber’s neck. “Lori Summers may be an empty-headed fashion slave, but I doubt she wants to screw you, Tommy.”
“She’s a high-class model.” His tone was amused, condescending.
Amber’s eyelid twitched. “You mean high-class whore.”
Tommy smirked. “Saturday night I got laid for the price of a vodka tonic. Guess that makes you a low-class whore.”
Snarling, she pivoted on one shaky stiletto and marched toward the open studio door, her clicking heels echoing her anger.
“Don’t call me—I’ll call you,” Tommy sing-songed.
Amber’s fingers convulsed on her purse and she halted mid-step.
Nobody mocked Amber Tompkins. Nobody. She slid her hand in her purse and clenched her fingers around the barrel of her gun. The cold metal relaxed her muscles and twitched her lips into a Cheshire smile. Tommy didn’t know her well enough yet to realize he’d made a very, very bad mistake.