by Jenn Black
A little creepy.
Carver’s incredulous expression said she was reading the vibes loud and clear.
He glanced back at his notes. “And you just saw him at the bar?”
“No, silly,” Amber said with a coy look, as if he were teasing her. “I went home with him, of course.”
Davis glanced over her shoulder in time to see Carver mouth, “Of course.”
“Did he mention being afraid? That anyone was after him, or angry with him?”
Amber shook her head. “He didn’t mention anything. We didn’t do much talking.”
Nice girl. Carver was now making explicit hand signs and exaggerated ‘orgasm’ faces.
“I see. Did you talk to him since then?”
“No,” Amber answered with a little pout. “And he said he’d call.”
Bet that ticked her off. “Maybe he was going to–”
“–but he ended up dead,” Carver finished. “Will you be around if we need to ask any more questions, Miss Tompkins?”
“Oh yes,” Amber said with a smile. “I live here.”
Before Carver started kicking her in the ribs, too, Davis grabbed her elbow and towed her toward the door, away from Amber.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said through clenched teeth when Carver dug her nails into his arm. “We appreciate your time.”
“Oh, anytime,” Amber answered, waving red-lacquered nails.
She stood at the door while Davis and Carver strode to the elevator and headed for woman number eight out of thirty-two.
So far, they were batting a thousand on crazy.
* * *
As soon as the pigs drove off, Amber slammed the door to her condo and stalked to the ashtray teetering on the cracked linoleum counter. Lipstick-tinged Virginia Slims threatened to burst from their pink plastic stronghold. A thin tendril of smoke rose from the brimming pile.
Amber’s unerring fingers extricated the still-lit remains of her interrupted break. She brought the butt to her lips for one last drag.
Damn damn damn.
If that preggo pig hadn’t been there, the sexy cop would’ve been putty in her hands. Wide shoulders, over six feet tall… he wore that suit like he’d been a born businessman.
Last thing she needed was a cop in her life, but if he had to be there, she’d rather him sweaty and thrusting than quizzing her about Tommy.
Why had they come? How did they find her?
No doubt it had something to do with that big-mouth Lori.
Miss Sassypants strolls into the bank and not three hours later, Abbot and Costello traipse up her drive. Coincidence? Ha. She hadn’t been home long enough to finish a damn cigarette.
Amber lit another.
She yanked out one of the wicker chairs from under the burn-marked card table and flopped onto the seat.
God, she hated this place. Sterile white walls, palmetto bugs the size of her fist, the neighbor’s colicky brat howling through the night. She’d have been out of there if she’d have got Tommy.
If it weren’t for stupid Lori. Today sucked.
Dry lips clung to the cigarette when Amber moved to stub out the butt. She grabbed her purse. Had to be lip-gloss in there somewhere. Any other day, five tubes of the crap would fall out while she was looking for– Oh. She’d almost forgotten.
Amber’s manicured fingers smoothed out the sticky note.
Cypress Circle. Pay dirt.
She pushed herself up from the chair and crossed to the counter, ignoring the teetering pile of unwashed dishes. The window glass might be smudged, but the view told her all she needed to know.
No cops. No movement in the parking lot below whatsoever. And no sun.
The last vestiges of sunset disappeared behind the row of carports facing her. In the dusky twilight, all the cars looked gray.
Beautiful time to pay Little Miss Perfect a visit. No Lori, no witness. No witness, no testimony. No testimony, no problem.
Amber shoved the sticky note back into her purse next to the Glock and headed for her Camry.
Cypress Circle turned out to be just that—a circle. A cul-de-sac of classic Florida homes. Smaller houses than she’d anticipated, sure. But each swam in a large lot, surrounded by reams of well-manicured lawn. Amber checked the number again.
There. Third one on the right.
She drove past and parked on the side of the road, a half-block from the entrance to the circle. No sense broadcasting Miss Model’s last night to live.
Flicking her cigarette onto the sidewalk, Amber closed the driver door carefully and made her way to Lori’s little house, tugging on some dollar-store gloves and tucking her hair under a ball cap.
No need to spread forensic evidence around like candy.
A Disney-themed welcome mat graced the front doorstep. Wasn’t that cute? Amber gave it a good kick, pleased to see it fly into the bushes.
She decided to circle the perimeter before knocking on the door to put a bullet in Barbie’s brain.
Darling little flowers surrounded the house. Barf. Amber made sure to step on them, enjoying the feel of her stilettos impaling the blossoms and the stems crunching underfoot.
Most of the windows were dark, but one flickered with life. Looked like TV. So much for a model’s exciting life.
And what’s this? Amber halted, standing still in surprise.
A sliding glass door separated Lori’s interior from the exterior. And the door was open wide enough for an elephant to saunter through. Guess fancy schmancy supermodels didn’t have to worry about the cost of air conditioning like the rest of the mortals.
The icy blast hardened her nipples from three feet back. Christ. It’s as if Lori wanted to die tonight.
Amber smiled. She’d be glad to grant that wish.
As she stood, a pale, scraggly cat slunk out the opening and curled around her leg. God, she hated cats. Amber bent, lifted it by the scruff of its ugly neck, and hurled it over her shoulder backward. The satisfying mewl as the critter hit the ground barked loud into the stillness.
How annoying. Amber wiped her hands on her skirt. Fur was so obnoxious.
Before crossing the threshold into Lori’s pristine kitchen, she leaned against the outer wall and slipped off her shoes. No sense alerting the prey to the lion’s presence, after all. And that’s what she felt like.
A hungry lion. A ferocious tiger. A hunter on a mission to kill. Amber Tompkins, huntress.
Amber slung the purse strap over her neck crosswise, and wrapped her eager fingers around the cold metal of the Glock. She drew it out and aimed it straight in front of her chest as she prowled barefoot down the hall.
Soundtrack laughter shattered the stillness. Sitcoms. Amber smirked. As soon as she had a clear shot, she planned to fire.
Laugh it up. Enjoy it. She who laughs last… dies.
The form swathed in homey-looking afghans giggled at the screen. Amber unloaded six bullets in rapid-fire succession. The body twitched. Amber grinned. Mission accomplished.
Before any hoity-toity neighbors got the urge to go all ‘neighborhood watch’ and call the cops, Amber slipped back out the door and into her shoes.
By the time she got the Camry started, a fit of laughter overtook her.
Nothing could stop her now.
* * *
Lori slammed down the lid of her trunk, surprised it could latch with all those shopping bags stuffed inside.
She really should have let Kimber come, too. Now that she’d had a few hours to stew over their conversation, she’d come to a few conclusions.
First, Kimber had a big mouth and little tact.
Lori unlocked the driver door and slid into the seat. On the other hand, her pull-no-punches friend only wanted the best for her. In fact, much as it galled her to admit it, Kimber may have been right.
The Mustang’s engine roared to life.
At least she’d come to her senses while browsing at Tiffany’s. Maybe Kimber would accept a peace offering.
&nbs
p; Lori edged the big pink rig free from the tight space and out of the mall parking lot.
Kimber said it was time to start living again. Easier said than done. She could never forget the witty, brilliant sister she’d always wished she were more like.
And her run-of-the-mill queasiness around heights hadn’t stormed into a full-fledged phobia until Sara had tumbled from her hang-glider right before her eyes—and Lori hadn’t been able to save her. How was she supposed to ‘get over’ something like that?
Belatedly turning on her blinker, Lori merged onto the highway.
Every day, she found herself thinking, “Wait until I call Sara and tell her–” before she remembered she was never going to call her. Never going to hear her sister’s voice again. Ever.
Lori turned on the radio and punched her pre-set buttons. Commercials.
She might have a radio commercial too someday if she ever started that talent agency. Kimber accused her of being all talk and no action. Doubted she’d even picked a name. Lori hated being read so easily.
She flicked off the radio and sighed.
Playboy magazine? Not the end of the world, but also not for Lori.
A centerfold spread might be jumping the shark for some people and jump-starting a flagging career for others, but Lori didn’t want to reclaim her supermodel status.
Lori exited the highway and headed toward the residential neighborhoods.
She wanted to help people, give guidance, be her own woman. She wanted to start over. With her life, with her family, and with Kimber.
Starting now.
Lori pulled onto her street and parked her car across from her house. She unlocked the trunk and withdrew the blue box containing beautiful pearl earrings.
Kimber never stayed angry for long. And even if she still harbored hurt feelings, Kimber was a sucker for earrings.
Lori didn’t mind not playing fair if it meant getting her best friend back.
She jogged up to the door and tried the handle.
Locked. Good girl.
With a smile, Lori retrieved her key and made her way inside. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it on the couch before turning on a light.
The sliding glass door stood wide open.
Kimber– no. She wasn’t even going to mention it. She was here to make up.
If Mr. Giggles had to pee outside like a wild cat, then Mr. Giggles had to pee outside like a wild cat.
From the back bedroom, a game show audience cheered.
She grinned. Kimberley claimed to hate game shows—claimed she only watched situational comedies. Lori would have to tease her about this one.
“Kimber? I’m home. I brought you something.”
No response.
Had she fallen asleep?
Lori stepped into the room. TV images fluttered eerily across the bed, and at first Lori didn’t recognize what she was seeing. When reality permeated her horror-struck brain, she dropped the box of earrings and started screaming.
Blood covered the bed. Slime covered the pillows. Kimber wasn’t moving.
Half her face was gone.
Lungs seizing, Lori fumbled for the cell phone at her waist. It clattered to the hardwood floor. She crumpled and slapped her hands around to find it, terrified to turn on the light.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. Where was the stupid thing? Okay. Here. Lori flipped it open and blinked at the bright display. 911. Ringing… come on. Answer.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
For a horrible moment, Lori couldn’t speak. She didn’t have an emergency—she had a tragedy. Kimber, dead. It was too late. She was too late. Again. How could this be happening?
“Are you there, ma’am? Do you have an emergency?”
“I– yes. This is Lor– I’m– My best friend is dead. I can’t think. I don’t know what happened. Her face– Kimber’s face– no. I can’t. Send someone. Please.”
Somehow she made it through the rest of the conversation.
She picked herself up off the floor and forced her shaking limbs to stumble out of the bedroom and down the hall without looking back. As if the flickering image of Kimber’s shattered skull wasn’t indelibly stamped on her brain.
Oh no. No no no.
Lori stepped outside, leaving the front door wide open and no longer caring. What did it matter? What did anything matter without Kimber?
Kimber had come to Lori for unconditional love. And what had Lori done? Argued with her and stormed out of the house. That’s right. What a good friend. Kimber needed her to protect her broken heart, and Lori had left her alone to die.
To die!
Lori collapsed in the middle of her walkway, half on a stepping-stone and half in the wet grass.
Kimberley. Without her, Lori would never have made it through geometry. Through life.
No.
Lori stared straight in front of her, eyes open but unseeing. Nobody knew Kimber was here—not even Marco. Someone had killed Kimber because they wanted to kill Lori. Someone was after her. Tommy might have been shot for the same reason! Lori’s head reeled.
Everybody around her died.
Her dad. Her sister. Her best friend. Even Tommy. She barely had anyone left. All she had to do was reach out, and bang. Loved ones dropped like flies.
She was a black widow. She was cursed. And there was nothing she could do.
Lori heard the sirens before the first of the flashing lights careened around the corner. Police cars. An ambulance. A fire truck. A fire truck? Lori twisted around to glance at her house. Not on fire. That’s the one calamity she hadn’t yet caused.
She did her best to answer questions, but the faceless officers and nameless technicians seemed to be speaking from the other side of a deep void. One by one, they left her alone and went inside.
Another car screeched around the corner and pulled in front of her house.
The passenger door flung wide and a hugely pregnant woman struggled out of the seat. Lori hoped she didn’t give birth on her lawn, just in case her death-curse now encompassed people she barely knew.
The driver door opened and a tall form loped around the rear. Even with the sirens blaring and the red-and-blue lights blinding her, Lori recognized the masculine, take-charge silhouette.
He was probably here to arrest her.
* * *
“Jesus,” Carver said with a disgusted sigh. “They left her in the grass.”
Throat suddenly clogged, Davis couldn’t speak.
Lori sat unmoving, her long skirt riding up and a lost expression on her face. Pale knees jutted forward, leaving her legs tucked underneath. Head down, shoulders bent, her arms lay limp in her lap.
He was by her side in less than a second, kneeling.
“Lori.”
Her eyes were the only movement. Huge and glassy, they peered at him as if he had all the answers. He had nothing.
“Lori, listen,” he tried again and faltered. He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. She didn’t react. “What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Carver tried to kneel down and almost toppled over. Giving up, she straightened and said, “Try. Start from the beginning.”
Lori jerked her head up as if startled to hear Carver’s voice. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“Do you want to stand?” Davis asked. If only he could touch her.
She nodded.
He looped his arms under hers and drew her closer. She shivered, her skin damp. Cold. Davis hugged her to his chest as he pulled her to her feet, then stepped away.
She still stared at Carver.
Carver glanced at Davis. He shrugged. No doubt Lori was still in shock.
“Did you just get home?” he asked Lori as she clutched her arms around her middle.
Still looking like a small, lost child, her head dipped in a slow nod.
“Where were you before?”
“At the mall,” she answered. Her once-spiky hair la
y plastered to her head.
“By yourself?” he asked.
She nodded again. “I bought earrings for– for Kimber.”
Carver’s voice turned gentle. “And you came home…”
“I came home and went inside.”
“Was the door locked?”
“Yes. No. The front door was locked, but the sliding door was open for Mr. Giggles.”
Carver glanced at Davis again. He met her blank gaze with one of his own.
“Who is Mr. Giggles, Lori?” he asked her.
“A cat.” Lori jerked toward him and tugged the front of his suit. “You have to find him! Cripes. I didn’t see him. Where is he? The door was open… I left the other door open, too… if anything happened to Mr. Giggles, I’ll… I’ll…”
Davis covered her freezing hands with his hot, dry palms. “I will.” He returned her arms to her sides and turned toward Carver. “Will you stay here with her?”
Carver shot him a scathing look. “Of course.” She wrapped an arm around Lori’s trembling shoulders.
A cat. Shows how flaky memory could be. He’d have sworn she was allergic to cats.
Davis made his way to the front door and stepped into the house. Technicians and uniforms swarmed everywhere. He recognized Bock across the room and motioned him over.
“First to the scene?” Davis asked.
Bock looked slightly ill, his young features twisted into a grimace. “Yeah.”
“The vic?”
“Dead female. Purse on the dresser ID’s her as Kimberley Jackson, twenty-eight, local resident.”
Davis nodded. “Wound?”
Sweat tinged Bock’s brow and he swallowed. “Wounds, plural. Shot several times, they said probably from down the hall.”
Interesting. The killer was close, but not too close. Why not? Would Kimberley have recognized him? Been suspicious? Fought back?
“Where?” Davis asked.
Bock wiped his nose with the sleeve of his uniform. “Everywhere. Two to the face, one to the neck, three to the chest. Cause of death could be any of ’em. All of ’em. Hard to say.”
“Ammo?”
“9mm.”
Same as the Turner case. Maybe coincidental, maybe not, but Davis was a cop. Cops don’t believe in coincidence.