Deadly Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  DEADLY PURSUIT

  Michael Prescott

  writing as Brian Harper

  www.michaelprescott.net

  Deadly Pursuit

  By Michael Prescott

  Originally published as Deadly Pursuit by Brian Harper

  Copyright 1995 by Douglas Borton

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  1

  Leaning forward, resting his elbow on the long mahogany bar, he gave the woman a look at his white smile.

  “You don’t mean that?” he asked quietly.

  “But I do. I envy you, living in L.A. That’s a real city. You can do things.”

  “Phoenix isn’t a real city?”

  “Well, sure it is, but ...” She giggled. “You know.”

  He liked her laugh. He liked everything about her. She was exactly his type. Blue eyes, smooth skin lightly dusted with freckles, blond hair. About twenty-seven, he’d guess; eight years younger than himself. The tight blue dress showed a lot of leg and cleavage and, when she bent toward him, offered a glimpse of her white breasts.

  She’d been sitting alone at the bar when he alighted beside her an hour ago. He’d bought her three cocktails so far. She was drinking vodka, straight, and though she held her liquor surprisingly well, the drinks were having an unmistakable effect.

  “Personally,” he said, “I like your town.” He sipped the slush of gin and ice in the bottom of his glass. “Nice and clean. Feels safe.”

  “If you lived here, you’d know different.”

  “It’s not safe?”

  “Not hardly.” Her sudden intensity brought out a Southern dialect only partly scrubbed away by years spent far from home. “Why, my girlfriend Erin, she was out walking two-three weeks ago, just after dark, and these Mexicans—not that I’ve got anything against them in general ...”

  “What did they do to her?”

  “Stole her purse. Yanked it right off her arm and started running.”

  He grunted disapproval.

  “Nobody’s safe anymore.” She tipped her glass to her mouth, and he watched the lazy swallowing motion of her throat. “Here—or anywhere.”

  His gaze drifted away from her to take in the rest of the bar. The place was crowded, doing good business on a Friday night, even at this post-midnight hour. Two overworked waitresses, bearing trays laden with fresh drinks and dirty glasses, maneuvered through the crush of people in the dim ambient light. Cigarette smoke soured the air, diffused by the ceiling fans and the humming air conditioner.

  He returned his eyes to her face. “Sorry to hear about your friend. Even so, Phoenix is considerably safer than L.A.”

  “Safer maybe—but a lot more boring.”

  “I’m sure you know ways to have a good time.”

  A grin flickered at the corner of her mouth. “I might.”

  She studied him. He endured her frank inspection without flinching. He knew he made a good impression, sitting relaxed at the bar in his conservative brown suit and open-collared shirt.

  He pictured himself as she was seeing him: the sharp planes of his face, the crisp white line of a vaguely wolfish smile, hazel eyes that squinted coolly in a way that was both promise and warning.

  These were assets he knew well, assets he’d exploited throughout his life—ever since high school, when in his senior year he had been voted Prom King, Class Stud, and Most Likely to Succeed. He knew the rare secret of appealing to both sexes. Men found him instantly likable and unthreatening; women found him sexy.

  “You planning to be in town long?” she asked, still watching him, appraising his face as he had appraised hers.

  “Only for the weekend.”

  “Business?”

  “Pleasure.”

  She hooted. “Honey, nobody comes to Phoenix in August for fun.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s hotter’n Hades in the daytime. Doesn’t cool down much at night, either.”

  “I like my nights hot.”

  She looked down at her hands, thinking about that. Slowly her gaze traveled up the length of her glass, then higher, and met his eyes. “Sometimes ... so do I.”

  He let her words hang in the space between them, gathering weight.

  “You live around here?” he asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard above the background clamor.

  “Mile away.”

  “Alone?”

  “My roommate’s out of town for the weekend, getting banged by her boyfriend in Santa Fe.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair she should have all the luck.”

  “Maybe she won’t.”

  He touched her hand, let his index finger slide slowly over her knuckles, then gently caressed her thin and delicate wrist. “You’re a very beautiful lady.”

  The compliment, and his slow stroking, lifted a blush to her cheeks. “You L.A. guys ...”

  “What about us?”

  “You know.”

  He traced faint whitish lines in the smooth skin of her forearm, watched them fade like contrails in a cloudless sky. “We’re operators? Hustlers? Is that it?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “Sure.”

  “You’re right.” He teased the sleeve of her blouse. “We have to be. The women there-—they’re jaded. Tough. Not friendly. Not ... trusting.”

  She answered with a soundless laugh.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Like I should trust you?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Mike. Mike Allen. How about you?”

  “Veronica Tyler. Folks call me Ronni.”

  “That’s cute. You’re cute.”

  “Actually ... so are you, Mike.”

  “You don’t want me to be lonely tonight, in a strange city all by myself, do you, Ronni?”

  “If I walked away, you wouldn’t be lonely for long. You’d charm some other sweet young thing.”

  “I don’t want some other sweet young thing.”

  She took his hand. “That’s good, mister. ’Cause you’re getting me.”

  He paid for the drinks, adding a standard tip. He let Ronni Tyler lead him out of the bar.

  They emerged into the balmy night. Downtown Phoenix rose on their left, bright and stark, the tall buildings aglow. Traffic hissed past on Second Street. Somewhere a car radio howled a Garth Brooks tune.

  “How’d you get here?” Ronni asked.

  “Delta shuttle from LAX.”

  She blinked at the answer until it made sense to her. “No, silly, I mean, how’d you get to the bar?”

  “Took a cab. My motel’s in Scottsdale.”

  “My place is closer.”

  “You’ve got a car?”

  “Heck, yes. I’m a regular career woman, you know?” Unsteadily she guided him down the street. “Eight to four, Monday through Friday, First Interstate Bank.” She pronounced it Innersate. “I’m an assistant manager.”

  “That’s good. Real good.”

  “Oh, yeah, fantastic. What’re you, some hotshot movie exec or something?”

  “Nothing like that. I’m in sales.”

  “Sales?” She made a breathy sound, not quite a hiccup. “Should’ve figured.”
>
  They reached a blue Toyota Paseo parked at the curb. She let him in on the passenger side, then climbed behind the wheel.

  “Sure you’re all right to drive?” he asked.

  “I’m okay. It’s only a mile from here, like I said.”

  She started the engine and eased into traffic. He noted with some relief that she had used her directional signal. Apparently she really was sober enough.

  “You’re not from around here originally,” he observed, just to make conversation.

  “No. From South Carolina. Little town called Bennett.”

  “Nice?”

  “If it was, I guess I wouldn’t be in Phoenix, would I?”

  “Point taken.”

  She turned onto Jefferson Street. “No, honestly, it’s not so bad. Nice country. But there’s no work to find, and no young people. No life, you know? That’s what I’m always looking for. Life.”

  The car hummed a tuneless air, strip malls and billboards swept past, downtown receded.

  After exactly a mile the Paseo hooked left onto a residential street lined with apartment complexes and elm trees. Ronni Tyler swung the Toyota into the parking lot of a five-story building identified by a lighted sign as Saguaro Terraces.

  “Well,” she said, “here we are.”

  “Nice place.”

  She eased into her assigned space in a crowded carport and shut off the engine. “Yeah, I’m pretty happy with it. Everything’s first-class, you know? Pool, spa, clubhouse, the works.” Works came out badly slurred. “Even got a security guard in the lobby.”

  “Security guard? He on duty now?”

  “Always is. I mean, not the same guy all the time ...”

  She was fumbling with the latch on the driver’s-side door. He stopped her. “Wait.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  “Right this second?”

  “I’ve held off long enough.”

  His mouth found hers. He shut his eyes and kissed her hard and thought about the guard.

  It was a problem. An obstacle. He couldn’t be seen entering with her. Leaving the bar together hadn’t worried him too much; the place was crowded, and as best he could tell, no one knew her there. But the security guard, who saw her every night, might very well take note of any new man she was with. Some of these guys were ex-cops; they had a memory for faces.

  She broke away from him with a gasp. “God, you’re really turned on, aren’t you?”

  “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  The words were automatic. He was thinking fast. Take her to his motel? He could get her into his room without being seen. But how to convince her to go there, when they were already parked at her place?

  “Well, in that case”—she reached for the door latch again—“let’s not waste any more time.”

  Her head was turned, the side of her neck exposed, and he knew what he had to do.

  They didn’t need to go to her apartment or to his motel room or anywhere else. Here in the carport would be fine.

  His hand reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a plastic syringe.

  “These seats recline?” he asked softly.

  She popped the latch, and her door swung open. The ceiling light winked on. “Huh?”

  “Do the front seats recline?”

  “Sure, honey.” Another giggle. “But you don’t wanna do it here, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “I do.” He gripped the syringe with four fingers, laid his thumb on the plunger. “Good night, Meredith.”

  Ronni turned toward him, her blue eyes bright and unsuspecting.

  “Meredith? My name’s not—”

  She had time to blink, perhaps to detect a flash of motion on the periphery of her vision, and then the needle punched through the soft skin under her jaw, biting deep and squirting venom, cruel as an adder’s kiss.

  2

  The island bloomed like a second sunrise on the horizon, and Steve Gardner smiled.

  Still looks the same, he thought with a rush of nostalgic yearning. Unspoiled Perfect.

  He turned to Kirstie, standing beside him on the motel balcony, her face colored by the pink blush of morning. Her blond hair, recently permed, was losing its curls in a fresh easterly breeze. The flaps of her blouse collar beat like wings against her smooth, tanned throat.

  “That’s it.” Steve pointed. “Pelican Key.”

  She caught his excitement and reflected it in her smile. “Looks beautiful. Like paradise.”

  Padding at their feet, Anastasia let out a soft whine. Steve scratched the borzoi’s angular snout.

  “That’s how I always thought of it,” he said softly. “Paradise. The kind of place that never changes. The rest of the world can go downhill, straight to hell—but there’ll always be Pelican Key, pristine and uncorrupted.”

  “I don’t think there’s too much corruption in Danbury.”

  She made an effort at levity, but he caught the familiar undertone of irritation in her voice.

  “No,” he said briskly. “Of course not.”

  Conversation ended then, leaving a silence between them. There had been too many silences in recent months.

  My fault, Steve told himself. Always is, right? My fault—and my guilt.

  The thought was a clinging cobweb. He brushed it away.

  He knew he couldn’t make his wife see what the island meant to him. Whenever he tried, the words came out sounding like a criticism of their home, their marriage, all the pieces of the life they’d built together. Better, safer, to say nothing at all.

  Back inside the room, he repacked his razor, toothbrush, comb, and the few other items he’d used that morning, then methodically checked the nightstand and bureau drawers, though he knew neither he nor Kirstie had even opened them. They had spent less than ten hours in the motel, just enough time to grab some desperately needed sleep after the thirty-six-hour drive from Danbury, Connecticut, to Upper Matecumbe Key.

  Kirstie used the john, and Steve did the same, and Anastasia barked and they both silenced her, fearful of disturbing the neighbors at this early hour, and finally they were ready to check out.

  Trundling and lugging suitcases, they made their way down to their Grand Am and loaded the trunk. Steve wandered over to the office and paid the bill. The off-season rate was pleasingly low.

  Not that the place was likely to win four diamonds in the AAA guidebook anytime soon. There were better motels on the key, but two people who meant to keep a Russian wolfhound in the room with them could hardly insist on elegance.

  On his way back to the car, Steve took a short detour to look at the saltwater swimming pool—shallow now, at low tide—and beyond it, the tiny square of pitiful manmade beach that was the establishment’s pride. Sand beaches were rare in the Keys. The coral reef that paralleled the chain of islands on their seaward side, all the way from Key Largo to Key West, stopped the wave action that normally deposited drifts of sand on coastal platforms. For the most part the shoreline consisted of coral and limestone ledges, mangrove forest, and mud flats.

  He had no real interest in the pool or the trucked-in sand, of course. What he wanted was one more sight of Pelican Key. Shielding his face to cut the glare on his eyeglasses, he stared out to sea.

  There it was—a faint green line on the blue waters, tremulous as a daydream, elusive as hope.

  He and Kirstie ate breakfast at a fast-food place, buying an extra sausage-and-egg sandwich for Anastasia to consume in the car. After that, a trip to a local market, where they stocked up on groceries and other supplies.

  He paid for the items and wheeled the cart outside. Kirstie was waiting for him near a pair of vending machines, a newspaper in her hand. “Got you a Miami Herald.”

  Steve’s heart constricted with a brief squeeze of fear. “I don’t want it.”

  “You always read the paper. Two or three of them a day, lately.”

  “Not today. Not on this trip. We�
��re on vacation, remember?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “We’re taking a break from ... from the world.”

  A frown briefly clouded her face. Then she shrugged. “Well, okay. But since I already bought this one, we might as well take it with us.” She placed it in the cart. “I can do the crossword—”

  “I said, I don’t want the goddamn thing.” He grabbed the paper and wedged it roughly in the mouth of a trash can.

  She stared at him, eyes narrowed, then turned and walked quickly through the parking lot, toward Anastasia yelping in the car. The cart wheels squeaked as he followed.

  Hell. He shouldn’t have done that. But he had to establish the trip’s ground rules sometime. For the next two weeks, no newspapers, no TV, no radio. No contact with anything outside Pelican Key.

  The island was his haven. He meant to keep it secure.

  At eight o’clock, precisely on schedule, the Grand Am eased to a stop outside the gated entrance to a marina in Islamorada. Steve leaned out the window, and the security guard swung down from his seat in the guardhouse.

  “We’re here to meet a captain named Pice,” Steve said.

  The guard grinned. “Going to Pelican Key, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bring mosquito spray?”

  “Sure did.”

  “You’ll be okay, then.” The guard thumbed the button to lift the gate. “Captain Pice is on his boat—that’s the Black Caesar, a thirty-foot sportfisher moored in Basin C.”

  “Mosquitoes,” Kirstie said flatly as Steve drove through. “I don’t recall any mention of that particular selling point in the brochure.”

  Steve forced a smile. “They won’t bother you as long as you make them keep their distance.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Beats me.”

  The joke registered. She rewarded him with a brief softening of her features.

  They found Pice on the deck of the Black Caesar, fussing with the contents of a stowage cabinet. He greeted them in a booming voice like a cannon shot.

  “You must be the Gardners. Right on time, too.”

  Steve shook the captain’s hand. Creased and leathery, like a well-worn glove.