Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  She reached past him, tapped her nail at the betting form lying on the table. His eyes flickered, mind whizzed, weighing the promised gain against possible loss. Finally, he uncapped a pen and signed. Carlson wrapped her arm through his. “Come, I’ll treat you to a glass of your own champagne. Or something stronger.”

  Rebecca waited for them to pass and blend with the crowd before sneaking a look. She nearly choked on her wine. Her boss had committed to an obscene amount of money. She whistled softly. “There goes a conflicted man.”

  Beside her Evans slugged his drink. “Conflicted, yeah, but gutsy. He’ll be higher than a kite if he pulls it off. He wins that bet and Carlson will match his winnings, plus come in as a silent team partner. Damn. That’s my idea of a perfect woman. Rich and silent.”

  Hagan butted in. “Think your boss’s good fortune will spill over into your lap?”

  “What’s good for him is good for the team. Me included. He’s a prick, but a generous one when he’s feeling flush. Can’t help spending everything he’s got.”

  They left Evans to his dreams and his scotch. In the outer room the ideal woman was leaning on the bar, elbow-to-elbow with Peyton. As they maneuvered past, Peyton asked something about a jealous husband. Elise assured him she didn’t have one, but did have transportation. She’d drive herself. It sounded like the budding partnership might involve more than money.

  After another hour of small talk, Rebecca took Hagan by the hand and led him toward the stairs. His patience had to be stretched thin. Twice in the last half hour he’d reminded her about The Oceanaire, a trendy seafood restaurant within walking distance on South Meridian. Claimed Carlson had raved at length about its food.

  The idea of a sit-down meal, just the two of them, had appeal. She could use something starchy to sop up the champagne. The party was breaking up anyway. Ian had left earlier with two other drivers. Evans was grazing on the remaining steak tips. Whitten was charming the pants off a couple of potential inventors too drunk to be in a hurry.

  Once upstairs she excused herself and found the ladies’ room. Washing up, she noticed the borrowed necklace reflected in the mirror. She should find Elise Carlson and return it, thank her.

  Elise, however, wasn’t on the main floor, nor was she lingering in the dining room or upstairs bar, though Peyton had surfaced and was exchanging words with Hagan near the entrance.

  Rebecca turned and headed back down to the cellar in case Elise had forgotten her purse, or was negotiating for a case of wine. The lower rooms were empty except for two busboys whisking linens from the tables.

  When she reentered the bar, her quarry was disappearing out the front door. Peyton blocked the entrance. He’d stopped for a last poke at Hagan. Uttered something short and emphatic that she couldn’t hear. Evans could and he laughed as he followed his boss out of the restaurant.

  She crossed to Hagan. His jaw was tight enough to reverberate. She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. Not in the mood to discuss it. She persisted. “What? You invited them to join us for dinner and they declined?”

  “Just Mrs. Carlson. You can share a meal with your boss if you want, but don’t include me.”

  “Did you really invite her?”

  “Jealous? Yes, I did. Figured we would be better company than Peyton. She said she had prior plans but was delighted we were going to try her restaurant suggestion.”

  Rebecca pushed open the door and stepped outside, hoping Elise would be lingering on the sidewalk. The night air was dense with humidity. Beads of moisture glistened under the street lamps and on the hood of the Silver Spirit. The driver sat inside, head lolling against the headrest as he listen to something mellow on the sound system.

  There were a few tourists strolling along on the way to their cars. No sign of either Peyton Madison or Elise Carlson. They’d probably gone to fetch her car from the parking garage. Rebecca wondered where her boss was planning to entertain Elise that demanded transportation. Not leading her straight to the bedroom, presumably; his hotel was next door.

  She shrugged, slipped her arm through Hagan’s. If Elise intended to form a partnership with Peyton, she’d be hanging around the pits over the weekend. The necklace could be returned to her later.

  Seventeen

  Rebecca swayed to a halt after exiting the elevator. Hagan continued on, turned when she didn’t follow three paces behind. He looked handsome in a rumpled Humphrey Bogart, play-it-Sam kind of way. Rumpled, but still alert. Or maybe not. It was dim in the parking garage. The murky lighting could be coloring her judgment. Or it could be impaired by the champagne consumed at the party, the bottle of Pinot Blanc that accompanied her grilled salmon and the snifter of Remy Martin in lieu of dessert.

  Hagan sagged against the side of someone else’s car and leered at her. Waiting.

  She crossed to the Corvette and pulled out her keys. “I’m driving.”

  “Toss you for it.”

  She agreed. Watched as he flicked a quarter into the air and failed to catch it. It slipped through his fingers, rolled into a drain under the front tire of a Mercedes SUV. Clearly, she’d won the toss. She slid behind the wheel.

  Not that she could navigate any better than Hagan, but she felt responsible for the car. Even inebriated, she figured she’d care more about guiding their borrowed steed back to the barn than Hagan would sober. When she was a kid watching television Westerns she never minded if the cowboys shot the Indians, or vice versa, but she panicked over a stray bullet hitting their mounts. No matter that the horses were card-carrying, stunt professionals paid to fall down on cue. She always worried about the horses.

  They made it to Patricia Street without incident. Without any conversation either, though Hagan’s hand strayed to her thigh more than once, imparting its own form of communication. The message was hard to ignore.

  She parked against the curb, handed Hagan the house key. While he fumbled at the front door, she detoured to the side gate. Inside the enclosed yard, she checked the redwood table for a photograph. There was a sliver of white showing beneath the geranium. She eased it out far enough to make sure it was a snapshot, then left it there, content that her friend had come back despite Hagan’s interference. She’d deal with it in the morning. Right now she had to deal with Hagan.

  She knew he’d entered the house and made his way to the kitchen. She could feel his eyes on her. When she turned from the table, he was standing in the open doorway, backlit by the light over the sink. He beckoned her toward him. She took a small step to the edge of the light.

  He motioned again. She stayed put, her eyes locked on his.

  Was she ready for this?

  Apparently, he was. He moved outside and reached for her, placed a tentative hand on her arm. Slid it upward, wrapped it around her biceps. He repeated the move on her other arm and slowly pulled her close. She could feel his breath.

  A shaft of moonlight peeked through the massing clouds and sparkled off his eyes, alive with mischief. A breeze tossed branches overhead, rustled them against the roof. The night was cooling rapidly. Despite her scanty attire, she was warm. It could have been the alcohol or Hagan’s touch on her skin. Or it could have been the dress. What was it Oscar Wilde had said? “No woman, secure she is in fashion, has ever caught cold.”

  He continued tugging gently on her arms, inching her closer. He was humming a tune from the forties. She rose to her toes but remained rooted. Was she feeling that unsure, or in the mood to tease him? Or did she want the moment of anticipation to last?

  He closed the gap, his feet straddled hers. With a finger he traced her collarbone just below the necklace. His lips were invitingly close but in no hurry.

  Was he nagged by doubts, too? What was he waiting for?

  A blaze of lightning answered. Followed a second later by a crack of thunder. She laughed at the appropriateness of nature’s response. Before she could share the joke, the clouds dumped the rain they’d been collecting all evening.

  Hagan grabbed her
waist and propelled her into the kitchen. With the slider closed and thunder booming, she tried to justify her mirth, to ease the frown from his face. Then she gave up on words.

  Enough anticipation. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him to her.

  The first kiss was deep and long. Tingles went through her body, heating her skin from the inside out. She didn’t care if it was the result of months of pent-up desire or a surfeit of vintage bubbly. It felt wonderful, all-consuming. A path to forgetting all horrors. A chance to feel alive.

  As his tongue began exploring, her arms moved lower, probing taut back muscles through the damp tuxedo. Too much fabric. She insinuated her hands beneath the lapels and eased the jacket up and off his shoulders. Hagan baulked; he didn’t want to stop caressing her spine. She didn’t want him to, but she wanted equal access.

  He held his arms down, the jacket slid free and landed on the linoleum. He back-kicked it across the floor. His lips clung to hers as he reclaimed her body. Then he released her mouth to let his fingers skim the rise of her breasts, tease her nipples through the thin cloth while he hunted madly for the zipper. She could sense his smile when he discovered it sewn into the left seam.

  Nibbing at her shoulder, he eased the zipper downward. With his free hand he cupped her backside and pressed her body against the length of his. She sighed, circled his back with her arms, fused the two of them together. The zipper slid lower. Through the opening, the tips of his fingers whispered against her flesh. She moaned. His mouth was back. Tenderly, she bit his lower lip. She wanted—

  The front door opened.

  She froze, teeth clutching his lip. “Sssh.”

  Hagan came alert.

  Muffled footsteps padded across the living room carpet coming closer. Paused. Keys clanked in the brass bowl on the bookshelf.

  Damn it—Ian.

  She tried to pull away from Hagan as the kitchen light snapped on.

  “Oh, dear. Sorry.”

  Ian didn’t look sorry. He looked mildly amused and disheveled by the downpour. He brushed water from his tux. “Went for a bite. When they dropped me back at the track, I was locked out of the motor home. Damn door’s bolted from the inside. Had to phone Evans. He gave me a lift here. Didn’t know where else to go. He didn’t want me at his place. Guess you don’t either. Tant pis. I’m not going back out in the rain.”

  He smiled impishly. “Mind if I fetch a chaser?” He squelched across the room, pushed the fallen jacket aside and reached into the fridge. He came out with a soda. Eyed them naughtily and muttered, “Carry on,” on his way through.

  Hagan sagged against the counter, raked his fingers through his hair. “What is it with us, Moore? Think the gods are conspiring against us for our own good? Are we just too stupid to know we’re a lethal combination?”

  “Compelling question. Are you really in the mood for a philosophical debate?”

  “Maybe.”

  She tugged the zipper closed then melted into a chair at the kitchen table. Maybe they should talk. Maybe they had put it off for too long. She assumed that when, if, the physical side was consummated, it would answer most of the questions. Weak-kneed as she was feeling, maybe tonight was as good a—

  A burst of thunder jerked her out of her seat.

  “The photograph.”

  She raced for the sliding door, shoved it open, dashed to the table. Pushing the plant pot out of the way, she picked at the corner of the photo with her nail. Rain had wicked under the pot. Nine-tenths of the picture was saturated through. She gently peeled it loose from the redwood surface. Gripping her soggy prize by the corner, she sprinted back into the kitchen.

  Hagan held out a square of paper towel to receive the photo. Most of the image had been obliterated by the rain, dissolved into a rainbow-colored blur. She dabbed at it with a second sheet of toweling. That made it worse. She turned it over. There on the backside, still visible in crayon were two words, “Gun? Jasmine.”

  She sank onto the chair. Jasmine. Her admirer had a name. Hagan hadn’t been lying; she was a girl. “Did you notice the photograph before we left for the party?”

  He shook his head. Imitating Ian, he rummaged in the refrigerator, came out with the champagne they hadn’t opened before the party. “Your admirer must have showed after we left. You may not have a picture, but you’ve got a name: Jasmine. Sounds like a flowery tea. Girly, like the barrettes.”

  Rebecca blotted the photograph again. Held it to the light before Hagan’s words penetrated. “Barrettes?” She was up and in his face. “The other night it was too dark. You couldn’t tell she was female much less wearing hair clips, which means you saw her today, in daylight. I should have realized it sooner. Did you talk to her?”

  He sat down with two bubbling glasses and admitted that he’d seen the girl lying in the stands with her camera focused on the historic car pits. He’d spooked her and she’d run, a lot faster than he could. “I would have told you sooner, but you went on your errands without me.”

  She reclaimed her seat and stared at the indecipherable mess. Had it once been a picture of the shooter? Had the child seen the person taking aim at the team and snapped his photograph? It made her queasy to think of a kid being in proximity to someone wielding a loaded gun. What were her parents thinking? How could they let her hide out at the Speedway with a stalker on the loose?

  “This raises the stakes, Hagan. She saw the gun, she could have seen the shooter. And he could have seen her. What if he’s afraid she’ll talk? Peyton has to report the incident to security now. Alert them to be on the lookout for the gunman.”

  “Fat chance. He’s too concerned about financing his hobby to risk getting bad press. He went green around the gills when Elise forced him into the wager.”

  “Elise? You’re on a first-name basis with her? Or didn’t you two just meet? Did you bump into her earlier at the track as well?”

  Hagan pulled back. “Actually, I did.” He went on quickly. “But I didn’t know who she was until the party, honest. She, however, seemed to have done her homework on the guest list.”

  “You noticed.” She aligned a salt and a pepper shaker side-by-side, moving them fractionally until they were centered on the table. “It made me uneasy that she knew so much. I put it down to my nagging shadow called paranoia.” She bit at her lip, leaned forward, knocking over the shakers. “When I ran into her at Nordstrom’s she already knew I was Peyton’s mechanic. Revealed that he likes to gamble before she met him. She identified you as a cop. I overheard her discussing art with Ian, something about the current market for postimpressionists. I work with him, room with him, but hadn’t pegged him for an art collector. She did.”

  Hagan scraped the chair closer. “Relax.” He lightly touched her face, ran a finger over her shoulder, continued down her arm, pushing the sleeve lower. “Maybe she’s an investigative reporter like you were. You busybodies know everything about everybody. You should check her out. In the morning.”

  “An investigator would please me more than a gold digger after what there is of Peyton’s money.”

  “Are you worried that he’s not good for your salary? Be a shame if you spent a month here for no pay.”

  She smoothed the soggy bodice into place. “He’d better be good for my salary, considering what I spent on this.”

  Hagan toyed with her hand, slipping between each finger. “For me?”

  She hesitated. “For us.”

  “In that case, let’s hang it up before it’s ruined.”

  Saturday—Standing Start

  Eighteen

  Rebecca was conscious before the birds. She listened as they came awake, scratching in the shrubs, chirping in the branches. A squirrel pounded across the roof overhead, claws scraping on the gutter. She forced her eyes open. Light leaked in between drapes sagged into scallops from too many years of hanging.

  The shaft of brightness brought back the dream. In it she had been the only living thing afloat in a vast sea. A speck. Then
a shadow descended and plucked her out of the water like a crab clutched in a gull’s beak. It soared upward in silence. The sea disappeared. She looked down, frantic, searching for land. Water sheeted off her back in layers, each layer a different color, falling downward, growing in intensity until it shattered. The shards blended into a rainbow puddle, muddied like the dissolved photograph. When she twisted her head to ask the gull what it meant, the bird squawked, “You know the answer, Rebecca.” The face metamorphosed into that of Jo Delacroix.

  She rolled onto her side. Hagan was not lying in bed next to her. She wasn’t exactly sure why not. Despite his romantic suggestion, he had not helped her out of the limp designer dress. Granted, Ian’s interruption had deflated a passionate moment, but it could have been restoked. Instead, they’d both backed off, slipped into the more comfortable role of colleagues. They’d sat up for another hour, draining the champagne, speculating on questions like who locked Ian out of the mobile home, and whether Jasmine would risk introducing herself after Hagan’s attempt to snag her at the track.

  “I told Carlson the kid was my daughter.”

  “You what?”

  “It was the first thing that came into my mind. Probably because I’ve been thinking about my father lately, which is mostly your doing.”

  Following that announcement, Hagan had become atypically open, which was far more startling than sex would have been. He talked about growing up without a father, rebelling against overbearing grandparents, taking up smoking cigarettes and becoming a cop. He’d given up smoking when his mother remarried, to a man who was asthmatic. His mother’s second union edged perilously close to the subject of David Semple—one subject neither wanted to discuss.