by Lee Winter
“And you’re right. Why should you run away and make them feel better? This is, like, some awesome long game you’re playing there. I had no clue at all. So like I said, fuck ’em all.” She paused. “Oh, hey, you want the last slice of garlic bread?”
Ayers shook her head; her eyes revealed her surprise.
“Okay,” Lauren said and snagged it. “Can I ask you something about your contact, though? That guy who got us the meeting with Bourke?”
“What about him?”
“Is he one of those friends you mentioned that you secretly have in Washington?”
“He is.”
Lauren chewed on the bread.
“Well?”
“Huh?”
“You have no poker face, King. What is it?”
Lauren swallowed. “I could be outta line, but I think he helps you because he feels shitty that he didn’t openly support you when the crap hit the fan. He’s like a guilt-ally.”
“You know nothing about him. And people do what they have to in order to survive in politics. I get that.”
“You’re still their shameful secret. It’s wrong.”
Ayers angrily folded her napkin and tossed it on her plate. Lauren studied the downward pull of Ayers’s mouth.
“Look, I just meant that the support would count more if it was done in public. It wasn’t fair what they did.”
“Well…” Ayers said. “The world is rarely fair. You finished?”
She looked at her intently. Lauren nodded, and Ayers waved for the bill.
She took out her credit card.
“Thanks,” Lauren told her.
“No need. I’ll charge it to Frank.”
With the bill settled, they headed to the car. The air was cool as they walked back to the car in silence. They’d just passed a nightclub bursting with thudding house music when loud, boozy shouts shattered the night.
Lauren felt a sharp jolt of fear electrify her, and she lengthened her stride as she blindly reached out to pull Ayers closer to her and shield her from the direction of the shouting.
Three drunken men loomed in front of her. She gripped Ayers’s arm tighter as the men staggered past and headed down a side street, yahooing and laughing at the top of their lungs.
They were harmless, she told herself. Harmless. And nothing like the two at that truck stop yesterday.
“You can let go of my wrist now, King. You’re cutting off my circulation.”
Lauren stared in confusion at the forearm she was clenching and let go instantly.
“Shit! Sorry. I thought…” She shook her head. “I…it’s been a long day.”
“Let’s get to our hotel,” Ayers said gently. “I can drive if you’d prefer?”
“No,” Lauren said. “I’m…fine. Let’s get going before…” She gestured to the now-empty alley. “You know.”
“Yes,” Ayers said as they reached the car. “I do. And I appreciate your concern for my safety.”
Lauren glanced up, expecting to see her usual mocking gleam. Instead she saw a steady gaze and a genuine expression. She nodded in relief then bent down to unlock the car. Yeah. Underneath, women all knew that one fear.
The street lights whizzed by in golden blurry strings, and the car radio hummed in the background. Country music? She hadn’t turned that on.
They were only a few minutes from their hotel, but it took that long for Lauren to remember how to breathe normally again.
“You okay?” Ayers asked.
“Yes.” She forced herself to relax her pincer grip on the wheel.
“Still feeling jumpy about those truckers yesterday?”
“What?”
“Eyes on the road, King.”
Lauren snapped her attention back to the asphalt.
“Olencha,” Ayers continued. “The truck stop. In the bathroom, the walls were thin. I heard every word. Every threat made. On both sides.”
“But you never said anything,” Lauren whispered.
“Neither did you. I kept waiting for you to bring it up.”
Lauren shivered. “Why should we both share the nightmare?”
“King?”
“Yes?”
“It’s only been a day. You’re bound to be a bit jumpy. Like at SmartPay when the horn went off. Give it time.”
“Okay.” Lauren stared vacantly at the darkened area.
“You know that was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You confronting those men.”
“Thanks a lot.” Lauren pulled into the Grand Millennium’s parking lot and stopped.
“Also the bravest.”
“Oh.” She took in Ayers’s concerned expression. “Not brave. That’s just what people do for each other.”
Ayers shook her head sharply.
“Not all people. Next time, get some backup. Just—don’t do stupid stuff.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.” Lauren undid her seat belt.
Ayers put a stilling hand on her arm.
“What I mean is—thank you for being there. It was unexpected, given how you feel about me.”
Lauren shrugged in embarrassment. “A friend in need and all that.”
“Indeed.”
“Was that a pun?”
“I don’t pun.”
“But are we friends?”
“Like oil and water.” Ayers smiled.
“Flatterer.” Lauren scowled.
“I will admit that you are refreshingly unpredictable when you’re not trying to annoy me.” Ayers studied her for a moment before she suddenly reached over to tug up the mashed collar of Lauren’s borrowed Kors jacket and straightened it. She stared at Lauren intently. “You know, I think my jacket looks better on you than me. You really do it justice.”
Her fingers rested near Lauren’s throat, softly stroking the fabric. Lauren could feel the warmth from her skin.
Ayers’s fingers slid away from the collar, down her arm, and paused on the sleeve.
She gave Lauren a hint of a smile, then slid away, and exited the car. She looked back through the open door and paused before she closed it. “Good night. Lauren.”
CHAPTER 8
In the Crosshairs
Lauren woke early the next day. Between having the crap scared out of her by drunken revellers and Ayers’s strangely tactile moves in the car, she’d tossed and turned for about five hours as her brain churned and tried to make sense of things.
She could have done without her own embarrassing meltdown. But Ayers’s response had been unexpected and perplexing.
But then that was Ayers. Lauren rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.
Warm water coursed down her body, and she let her forehead rest against the cool, frosted glass.
Lauren considered what she’d learned over dinner. Ayers had been prepared to endure the most vapid job in newspapers just to flip the bird to the publisher who wanted her gone but was too cowardly to fire her.
Ayers’s sheer ballsiness was breathtaking. So was the deep well of anger that had to fuel it. She clearly hid her true feelings well.
Everyone knew about her snarky side. But her rage? Was her anger at her demotion the reason for her vicious tongue? Or had she always been this way? Lauren wondered who’d know. Maybe Mariella?
She scrubbed some shampoo through her hair as her thoughts drifted.
Soon Ayers would move on from the Daily Sentinel. She had, what? A month? Maybe two left to serve of her contract? What then?
Despite her fall from grace, she had an impressive resume and experience a number of editors would value. She’d find a new job, a fresh purpose. Maybe not in DC, but far away from LA, probably.
An unexpected pang struck, and she paused her vigorous rinsing. Underneath all the barbs, their one-upmanship had made her crappy job a lot more entertaining. She’d miss that if she was being completely honest.
The thought of Ayers’s burning gaze in the car the previous night flashed into mind. The hand against her collar, stro
king it. Calling her by her first name for the first time. That strange smile on her lips. What the hell?
Lauren squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her head forward against the glass again. Jesus. Some days were just too hard.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Lauren was dried, dressed, and still confused. Ayers knocked and poked her head around the adjoining door. “Breakfast,” she announced. “It’s just arrived.”
She turned, not catching Lauren’s nod, clearly assuming she would be right behind her.
Lauren picked up the Kors jacket she’d borrowed yesterday and followed. She placed it carefully on the back of a chair in Ayers’s room.
“Thanks,” Lauren said and gave it a pat.
Ayers offered a nod and reached for her coffee.
Lauren dropped beside her onto the sofa in front of the coffee table laden with food and plucked a slice of toast.
Ayers cleared her throat. “This came with breakfast.” She pushed a piece of paper toward Lauren. “It’s as expected.” She forked an orange segment from her fruit salad and watched.
Lauren unfolded what appeared to be a fax, with a logo from the Office of the Governor of Nevada prominently on the left hand corner. She read to herself.
An internal investigation is underway into the apparent theft of $100,000 from a Nevada Legislature account. Governor Freeman and his office are co-operating fully to bring the matter, which they had no prior knowledge of, to a swift conclusion. No further comment will be made at this time.
Lauren placed the press release on the coffee table.
“Butt covering,” Ayers noted. “Putting it on the record that they knew nothing. You see they haven’t once mentioned the police? Or how the funds somehow just walked, bypassing bank security?”
“Who are they co-operating fully with then if not the police?” Lauren asked.
“Their internal investigators.”
Lauren shook her head. “I thought they were the blameless victims in all this? But no cops? Really?”
“They probably will go to the police once they’ve worked out what damage minimization strategies to put in place. They’re still getting ready. And I’m sure they’re praying we won’t publish our story until they know exactly how to spin this in a way to leave them fallout free.”
“So why send out a media statement at all?” Lauren asked. “Isn’t that only alerting everyone? Have we just lost our exclusive?”
Ayers smiled.
“Bottom of the page, in five-point type.” She tapped a line. “It’s just for us. See? DSentl.doc? As in Daily Sentinel. And the time stamp on the fax shows this was put together after we met Bourke. This is a personalized press release for a party of two.”
Lauren exhaled in relief.
“Well, I suppose we’re doing something right if we merit an official comment—even a crappy one like this. But where does this leave us?” she asked, spreading her toast with peanut butter.
“We have a confirmation now of the amount stolen,” Ayers said. “And they’ve confirmed they also suspect it came from Nevada government money. I’m sure they’d love to have dodged that admission, but you were so adamant to Bourke about seeing government documents they must have decided not to risk an outright denial.”
“You know,” Lauren said, “I think if we just find the account the money came from, we may work out what the hell is going on.” She bit into her toast and began to chew thoughtfully.
“Perhaps,” Ayers said. “But we’re still in the dark until someone decodes those account numbers on that champagne order. We need Sands’s help.”
“On it,” Lauren said, dropped her toast to her plate, and dug out her cell phone.
She called the state of California switchboard, and asked for Jonathan Sands. His phone rang and rang. Just as she was about to hang up, the line clicked, rang once more, and was answered.
“Payroll Department. Mr. Rondell’s office, Kaye speaking.”
Lauren shot a surprised look at Ayers.
“Uh, hi. Kaye? Not sure how I got you. I’m looking for Jonathan Sands?”
“You and everyone else,” the woman said tartly.
“I’m sorry?”
“You one of that Nevada crowd?”
“Well yes, I’m in Nevada and…”
“I thought as much. Listen, ma’am, can you tell the rest of his friends that I can barely get any work done with you all calling now that I’m stuck answering his phone as well as my boss’s.”
“Uh, but I’m not—”
“Ma’am, to be really plain, for the hundredth time, we don’t know where he is or why he ran off. And, no, we have no idea when he’ll be back. All right? Because of the break-in Detective Rankin is making further enquiries. Why don’t you talk to him?”
“Wait, Sands is missing? What break-in?”
Ayers froze and stared at Lauren curiously.
“Who is this?” Kaye’s tone shifted to suspicious. “You don’t know he disappeared a week ago?”
“I’m a journalist with the Daily Sentinel. Lauren King.”
“A journalist?” the secretary repeated. Sounds of scribbling could be heard. “Ms. King, we have no comment about any of this.”
“Okay, but someone broke into his place?”
“Take that up with Detective Rankin from LAPD’s Adult Missing Persons Unit,” Kaye said curtly. “Or talk to his wife, Della. Okay? Leave me out of it.”
Lauren caught voices in the background, and the sharp authoritative whip of a masculine voice.
“If that’s all?” Kaye said. “I have work, and my boss has arrived.”
Before she could reply, the phone went dead.
“Now it’s two down.” Lauren said, pocketing her cell.
Ayers’s eyebrows rose.
“First Fels, now Sands,” Lauren continued. “Gone. He’s left behind a burgled apartment and a wife named Della.”
“What is going on?” Ayers murmured.
“Beats me,” Lauren said. “But I’m guessing he didn’t suddenly up and leave for a change of scenery.”
“I suppose we should consider all possibilities.” Ayers reached for her notepad. “This could be unrelated to the bus driver running. And it may be unrelated to the SmartPay party fiasco, too. For all we know he had debts and someone after him.”
“Not this guy. No tawdry dirty messes for him, no way. Sands is far too anal for that.”
“I see.” Ayers found her cell phone and tapped away at it. “Okay,” she said after a few minutes.
Lauren watched her and chewed her toast. Ayers continued, “There’s only one ‘Sands’ in the WhitePages in Carson City under J and D. I think we should pay the wife a visit.”
* * *
Della Sands peered at the reporters’ press passes through her screen door with blood-shot eyes. Ayers held them up after Mrs. Sands demanded proof they were who they claimed.
She was a tall blonde wearing a threadbare Nevada craft beer T-shirt and old jeans. Her shoulder-length hair was held together in a rough ponytail.
“What’s this about?” she asked suspiciously.
“Your husband,” Lauren said.
“What about him? What do you know?”
Her eagerness battered Lauren with guilt. “Sorry, Mrs. Sands,” she said. “All we know is that he’s missing.”
Della’s shoulders slumped. “That’s it? You’re as bad as the police.”
“They’re not being helpful?”
“You could say that,” she said darkly. “Do you know they wanted to know if he had a mistress! It was practically their first question. I swear they don’t listen.”
“We could listen. We’re here for the truth. Whatever it is,” Lauren said earnestly.
Della sized the women up. She sighed and reached for the screen door handle. “Well you at least have an honest face,” she told Lauren. Her eyes shifted to Ayers. “You look like one of those one percenters.”
Oh shit. Lauren stifled a nervous gi
ggle. Not very well.
“I see you agree,” Della observed.
Ayers narrowed her eyes at Lauren who gazed back helplessly. Oh come on. It was funny. She felt guilty for the second time in as many minutes.
“Well…you’d better come in.” Della opened the door. “Excuse the mess. I have a four-year-old, and I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”
It was a comfortable suburban home, dotted with pictures of a little girl, and a few framed black-and-white photographs of a man in an Army uniform. Ayers examined one photo in a set of three on the way past.
“Our daughter Fiona,” Della said over her shoulder. Her gaze fell to the image Ayers was inspecting. “And Jon’s father. He fought in Vietnam. This way. It’s just through here.”
Della pointed to a wide, brown-striped sofa, and Ayers sat on one end, Lauren at the other. Something dug into her hip, and she winced. She pulled out a nude plastic Barbie doll with matted blonde hair. She smiled as she placed it carefully on a coffee table loaded up with neat piles of magazines.
She glanced up to find herself at eye level with a bookcase on the facing wall. Everything from computer technical magazines and reference manuals to racy novels stared back at her. All arranged—not by size or type or author, but by color.
Reds to the left. Purples to the right.
She stared. She’d seen a similar color scheme in Sands’s office. Although, she noted absently, there was nothing black, nothing white.
Della followed her curious gaze. “Blacks and whites are not on the light spectrum.” She smiled at some fond memory. “As I am often reminded by my stickler of a husband.”
Lauren gazed at the literal rainbow of spines, unsettled.
“Tell us about Jonathan.” She switched her focus to Della. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” she said and dug her fingers into the foam armrest of her chair. “Early last week, he Skyped our daughter for their daily catch-up. He talked with me at the end of the call. He told me that his job in California would be wrapping up really soon—in a month or so. He added he loved us, like he always did, and that was it. I never heard from him again.”