by Chris Rogers
“How did you miss the liquid soap on the floor?” the girl countered.
Dixie glanced at the wet spot she’d avoided.
“You were supposed to slip on the soap, knock the door open on your way down, and release the trap.” The girl stomped across the room and kicked the mass of netting aside, allowing the door to close. “The net would’ve held you long enough for me to grab your gun.”
Dixie wished she could wrap her hands around Belle Richards’ throat right now.
The girl’s thin face was flushed with irritation—or embarrassment—at the failure of her elaborate hoax. Shaggy, collar-length hair framed quick gray eyes, a narrow nose, and an ample mouth. No acne, of course. Rich kids never suffered crooked teeth, pigeon toes, or acne. Above faded black jeans that hugged her thin legs like chimney soot floated an oversized dust-colored shirt. A whiz kid, Belle had called her. Couldn’t tell by looking.
“Why would you do that?” Dixie demanded. “What is going on?”
“I was proving a point.” The girl hopped on a chair and yanked down a wire apparatus that had held the net above the door. “I may be only sixteen—practically seventeen—but I can take care of myself. I don’t need a bodyguard.” She hopped down.
Standing nearly a head taller than Dixie’s five feet two inches, she slid an appraising gaze over Dixie, as if buying a used car. “I especially don’t need a bodyguard who’s not even as big as I am.”
A VIP client. Belle had said. Suppressing the urge to flip the kid over her lap and spank her, Dixie cocked an eye at the failed contraption. A crying dummy to lure her into the room, soap to trip her, a net to capture her—all to prove she doesn’t need a bodyguard? “Fortunately, someone who cares about you feels differently.”
“My mother.” Sarina spotted the cast on Dixie’s left foot. “What is that?”
Dixie shrugged. “Leftover from a previous case. Had to do some serious butt-kicking.”
“Cool.” A trace of a smile threatened to break through. “Outstandingly cool.”
As Sarina tossed the dummy and other items into the bedroom, Dixie sized up the posh suite. Every table held a fat vase of pink flowers—roses, carnations, other varieties Dixie couldn’t name. Pink hearts nestled in some of the arrangements. A TV flickered inside a discreetly camouflaged entertainment console, Bugs Bunny chattering over the hair dryer drone still issuing from the bedroom. Abruptly, the hair dryer stopped.
“Was that the whatchamacallit, Sarina?” A woman’s voice.
“Bodyguard, Mother. All hundred butt-kicking pounds of her.”
“Hundred and twenty pounds,” Dixie muttered.
“Tell her I’ll be right out.” The hair dryer whirred back to life.
“Maybe she thinks you’re deaf.” Sarina pointed to one ear. “But hey—I, on the other hand, am certain you have exceptional hearing, superb eyesight, and the speed of a hummingbird.” Her scathing gaze swept over Dixie again. “Otherwise, I don’t have a prayer in hell of escaping the bad guys.”
Terrific. A whiz-kid, prank-playing smartass. Dixie glared at the telephone, beginning to understand why Belle had been too rushed to give any details. One phone call would get her out of this mistake.
“How many bad guys you figure we’ll have to fight off?”
The girl rubbed at a red spot on her thumb.
“If you listen to my mother, every serial killer in the western hemisphere.” She scooped up a high-tech toy of some sort, a foot-high mass of metal and plastic. When she moved a lever protruding from the top, appendages that appeared to be legs and arms moved in synch.
“And do you?” Dixie asked.
The girl raised an eyebrow.
“Listen to your mother?”
The hair dryer stopped again. “Sarina, does the bodyguard know you have a seven-thirty dentist’s appointment?”
Dentist? Dixie looked at her watch.
“She knows now, Mother.”
The hair dryer droned on.
“It’s seven o’clock,” Dixie said. Driving anywhere in Houston at this time of day took at least half an hour, especially with a new crop of rain clouds rolling in. February in Houston was crazy-weather time. Scrape ice off your windshield in the morning, wear short sleeves that afternoon. Rain was an everyday threat. “Do you know where the dentist’s office is?”
“Not a clue.”
On the television, familiar theme music announced a cable rerun of Guerilla Gold, an old series about three young women who started their own investigations firm after being ousted from a chauvinistic police academy. When the sultry lead appeared on screen, Sarina strolled nearer the set.
Dixie wondered what had sparked the girl’s interest. The show had been off the air for at least ten years. By today’s cop show standards, it was as tame as Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
But in the opening scene, the star, Joanna Francis, wore tight black jeans and a loose-fitting gray shirt similar to Sarina s, collar flipped up around a swirl of auburn hair. Sarina flipped up her own shirt collar. She squared her shoulders like the woman on the screen. Then, suddenly aware she was being watched, the kid cut her eyes at Dixie. With an embarrassed grin, she tweaked the collar again. “So … is this totally unchic?”
In the oversized shirt, she brought to mind a lanky Oliver Twist. Or a shaggy stray puppy: lost, underfed, but cute.
“You look great,” Dixie said, meaning it. “Chic is overrated.” Smelling coffee, she spied a service cart laid with fresh fruit, a basket of assorted sweet rolls, and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich.
“Help yourself.” Sarina grabbed the sandwich and flopped on the couch.
Eyeing the chocolate croissants, Dixie merely poured herself a cup of coffee. Black. “What can you tell me about this bad-guy situation?”
Sarina had turned up the TV volume a notch, to conquer the hair dryer noise.
“On the flight from LA, another card showed up,” she said distractedly, eyes glued to the television. “It’s on the desk over there. Weirded Mother out big time.”
Dixie carried her coffee to the desk and set it on a notepad supplied by the hotel. A square envelope addressed in blocky red letters lay beside a commercial valentine. Dixie lifted the card by its edges, careful not to smudge any fingerprints. Inside, following a short love poem, was a personal message printed in the same square letters: YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY, WE WILL FINALLY MEET IN HOUSTON.
“What do you mean, this showed up?” Dixie said.
“Mother found it in her tote bag about twenty minutes before we landed.”
Meaning the stalker was either on the plane, in the airport, or had dropped the card in her mother’s bag somewhere on the way.
“Did you take a cab to the airport?”
“No. Marty drove us.”
Marty? Mercifully, the hair dryer whirred to silence. Now the television seemed to be blasting.
“Turn the TV down,” Dixie said. “So we can talk.”
“What’s to talk about? This nutcase sends notes. That’s all I know.”
“Sarina, turn down the television.”
“I guess good hearing is not one of your qualifications after all.” Tossing Dixie a drop-dead look, the girl lowered the volume. On the screen, the star and her two partners were karate-clobbering a gang of nasty-looking men in leather jackets.
“How long have these notes been arriving?” Dixie asked.
“A month or so, I guess.”
“Sarina!” The voice from the bedroom. “Are you still here? You’ll miss your appointment.”
“We need specifics, Mother. Like who and where”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s right there in my address thingy.” The speaker appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Good God. You’re Dixie Flannigan? From Belle’s description, I expected an Amazon at the very least. How can you be a bodyguard?”
Dixie looked at the woman, and then at the TV screen, just as Sarina switched channels. Oh, shit Sarina Page was the daughter of TV princess J
oanna Francis, the beautiful star of Guerilla Gold and at least one other long-running series. Sarina’s father would be actor John Page, Joanna Francis’ former husband, also a veteran TV star. The only thing in Dixie’s book worse than a mouthy teenager was a mouthy teenage celebrity brat.
Joanna Francis was in town to shoot a cable movie. Dixie had read that somewhere. Maybe she’d have caught on quicker, she consoled herself, if Sarina’s last name had been Francis.
Unlike the understated young star of Guerilla Gold, the veteran actress wore a bright yellow designer suit, an animal print blouse, and tiger-striped fuck-me shoes. Pure Hollywood.
“I can have Belle Richards send someone else,” Dixie offered. “If you’re worried I can’t handle it.”
“No.” Joanna turned to a mirror near the sofa and scrutinized her famous face. “Belle said you’re the best.”
“Then, you want to tell me about these notes you’ve been getting?”
In the mirror, the star’s luminous complexion lightened a shade. “They’re all like that one. Greeting cards. Christmas first, then New Year’s. After that, friendship cards—”
“Where are the others?”
“With my attorney in Los Angeles. Belle didn’t fill you in on all this?”
“She hasn’t had time. Did you alert the LAPD?”
The actress tossed back her auburn hair with a head movement Dixie recognized from every role she’d ever played.
“My attorney advised against it. He said the police can’t keep a secret. They might leak something to the press. And after the incident last year, any suggestion that I might not be able to finish the film could jeopardize my contract with the production company.”
Dixie recalled the “incident.” Joanna had passed out during a press conference, was rushed to a hospital emergency room and treated for drug overdose. Reporters said she was drunk during the interview. It later turned out she’d had an allergic reaction to an antibiotic, but the tabloids preferred their own version of the story.
“Ms. Francis, how do you expect to catch this creep without the police?”
“I don’t care if he’s caught. I just want him stopped.”
The only way to stop him, of course, was to catch him, but Dixie didn’t want to argue the point. Her job was clear and simple: keep Sarina Page unharmed until she boarded a plane back to Los Angeles.
“Did all these cards appear out of nowhere, like this one?”
“The first two came in the mail.” The star ran her tongue across her perfect lips, as if they’d gone dry. “The others showed up at the studio. In my dressing room. On my lunch tray. Under my car’s windshield thingies.”
“Were all the messages this subtle? This one sounds more like a smitten fan than a killer.”
“One of them claimed we were meant for each other. It said I should stop dating. Save my purity”
“Did you stop dating?”
The woman looked down at her daughter sprawled on the sofa.
“I don’t like anyone telling me how to live. Marty said my attorney’s security people would take care of it. Then another message came, threatening Sarina. I haven’t dated since. When I need an escort, Marty Ahrens, my agent—who’s sixty-seven and happily married—takes me. But mostly Sarina and I go as a ‘couple.’” She mussed her daughter’s hair, then smoothed it.
Sarina flinched. “Mother drags me to these boring awards banquets.” She switched the TV channel to the morning news. “Pretends I’m along for her protection.”
Dixie glanced at the desk clock and decided to squeeze more of the details from Belle, who would no doubt be miraculously available now that Dixie knew the worst. She could phone while the dentist performed atrocities on the kid.
“I’ll need the address for Sarina’s appointment,” she said. “We can talk more later.”
Joanna’s spike heels tapped softly across the carpet to the desk. As she dug through a snakeskin handbag and withdrew her address book, Dixie wandered toward the television, now practically silent. Apparently Sarina wasn’t enthralled with local news.
The girl slipped off the couch, opened a closet, and removed a huge black denim bag, along with a gray poncho.
“Sarina, you’re not wearing those clothes.” Joanna jotted an address on the hotel notepad.
Sarina fingered the shirt collar. “I like these clothes.”
On the television, a reporter was broadcasting live from a crime scene that looked like Memorial Park. Too many cops to be a simple mugging. Dixie glanced around for the remote control.
“That color, Sarina. It’s so drab. Can’t you wear something perkier? And your hair—!”
“My hair’s fine.” A catch in the kid’s voice made Dixie look up. Shoulders rigid, mouth tight, Sarina stood facing away from her mother. Moisture glinted in her eyes. “This color is me. Decidedly unperky.”
Joanna opened a bottle of nail polish. “Sarina, you’re not leaving until you put on something less depressing.”
“I like depressing.” The girl stamped across the carpet, jerked open the bedroom door, and closed it behind her, muttering something that sounded like “Codswallop!”
Dixie found the TV remote and punched up the volume.
“—Lawrence Coombs, acquitted yesterday of sexual assault, was discovered early this morning in Memorial Park by a woman walking her dachshunds. Coombs had been sexually assaulted and beaten. Doctors say he is conscious and in fair condition.”
Sonofabitch! Dixie barely suppressed a Texas cheer—and instantly felt mortified at her elation. Vigilante justice was not a good thing. Still, if more rapists had to endure the sort of pain they dealt out—
Then she recalled the two women arguing at the Suds Club. Could there be a connection? Regan had been scared, Clarissa plenty angry. And at least one of the pair had a strong, protective man who might believe the jury let the rapist off way too easy.
The newscaster cut to a rerun of Lawrence Coombs strolling from the courtroom yesterday. Recalling what he’d said to Brenda, Dixie couldn’t muster any sympathy for him.
The bedroom door new open. Sarina flounced out.
“We’ll be late,” she told Dixie. “No time to say hello/good-bye. We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.”
The girl had slicked down her hair with gel until it snugged wetly around her head and had pulled a red sequin beret over it. A bright purple boa, draped over the gray poncho, hung to her knees. Multicolored bracelets laced up both arms. She strode to the front door, swung it wide, tossed her head with that same theatrical movement her mother used, and swept into the hall.
She slid a glance back at Dixie. “I can do perky.”
Joanna, studying her own fingernails, hadn’t noticed.
Chapter Thirteen
The whole idea of a sports car with automatic transmission seemed ludicrous, but Dixie was glad for it, since her clutch foot was still not completely dependable. She liked the feel of the Porsche, the leather seats and snazzy curved dash—like sitting in the cockpit of the single-engine airplane Parker had taken her family flying in. With her clumsy cast, Dixie managed to weasel out of the flight without coming off a wimp in front of Ryan. She’d sat in a plane’s cockpit before, though. As a kid, she’d dreamed of being another Amelia Earhart—free, adventurous, daring. That was before she learned how much she hated flying.
She did like driving, though, and the Porsche Targa was a honey. Sliding into the early morning traffic from the hotel parking lot, she eyed Sarina.
Slouched low in the passenger seat, the girl screwed an intricate bit of plastic to her odd high-tech toy. The thing looked like a Star Wars alien, all teeth and scales. The sequin beret and feather boa lay at the kid’s feet, along with her denim bag. A scowl hardened her mouth.
“Toothache can be miserable,” Dixie said.
“I don’t have a toothache.”
“You’re going to the dentist?”
The girl squinted at her. “Totally unnecessary. My mother thi
nks if I miss my six-month cleaning by even a week, all my teeth will rot and fall out. Our regular guy referred us to someone here.”
Dixie supposed stars were allowed to be eccentric. Or maybe mom just wanted the kid to stay busy. As Dixie left the hotel room, Joanna had handed her a long list of local attractions to visit during the week—Museum of Fine Arts, Johnson Space Center, IMAX—and seemed to expect the list to be punched like a dance card.
Sarina fished a square of thin, rubbery material out of her bag and began molding it to the creature.
“What’s that you’re working on? Some kind of model?”
“Fire Dweller. An original, one-of-a-kind rod puppet.” She turned it so Dixie could see. “My design.”
Rotating a lever, she caused the creature’s head to swivel, following Dixie’s movements.
Impressive. The thing was incredibly detailed. She could almost imagine it shuddering to life and charging across the car to bite off her nose.
“My nephew would love that.”
“You think this is some kind of toy?” Sarina flicked the lever again and the creature’s eyes sparked briefly as if lighted from inside. “It’s for miniature work. On professional film.” Insulted, she turned her shoulder to Dixie, shutting off conversation.
Fine. As Dixie maneuvered the Porsche toward the address Joanna had given her, she used her cell phone to call a friend at HPD’s Sex Crimes and ask about Lawrence Coombs.
A gray late-model Camry had slipped in behind the Porsche when they left the hotel. Dixie noticed it still back there, not quite close enough to see a license number. She watched for it to follow them onto the freeway, but in the heavy traffic every third car seemed to be a gray Camry. Popular model. There were two in the medical tower parking lot when she pulled in.
In the dentist’s waiting room, she found a guest telephone positioned so she could watch for Sarina to emerge from the hygienist’s cubicle and at the same time keep an eye on the parking lot. The phone weighed about two ounces; it kept trying to creep over the edge of the glass table as Dixie talked to Belle. But the call was free.