A relieved sigh escaped her. She hated the feeling of someone following her, watching her. It left her exhausted and perpetually afraid. Only a few days more, she thought. What might happen at the end of those days frightened her more.
Going into the bathroom, she studied the mirror. Her reflection said it all. Dark circles rimmed blood-shot eyes and the few wrinkles edging her face appeared to deepen overnight.
How the hell could the man find her attractive? His actions the night before told her he had, but why? Thinking about his kisses and the feel of his bare skin pressed against hers brought a blush to her pale cheeks. Turning on the faucet, she splashed cold water on her hot face hoping to cool her ardor. It didn’t.
When the bedroom phone rang, she jumped. Running into the room, she noted that Clancy’s cage wasn’t there. “Thank you, Rita,” she mumbled. She answered the phone praying it wouldn’t be the kidnapper. Instead, Rita’s cheerful voice greeted her.
“Hey, girlfriend,” she announced.
“Hi,” she replied. “Thanks for taking Clancy.”
“No problem. I didn’t know you’re a psychic.”
“How did you learn that?”
“Brian’s article.”
Had he written another piece about her? Damn him! “I didn’t get today’s paper.”
“It’s not in today’s paper. It’s from the other day. I’ve been busy learning new dance routines for our next show. I had little time to do much except dance, soak my aching feet, and sleep. What’s with this psychic stuff? How cool is that?”
“I don’t do horoscopes,” she snapped, instantly regretting yelling at her friend.
“Okay, I hear you. No crystal balls, no séances, but I want you to tell me all about it. And what’s with you and Brian? You spent last night with him, didn’t you?”
Leave it to Rita to start putting two and two together when two and two didn’t exist. Her neighbor possessed a long history of failed relationships, but remained a hopeless romantic.
“If you want, I can take care of Clancy for awhile,” Rita said. “We’ve become buddies. He even lets me scratch his head.”
She couldn’t help smiling at that image. “I’m not in the mood for chitchat right now, but I can come and get him.”
“Oh no, you’re not getting off the hook that easy. I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee and I have the morning off. It’s time to talk.”
“All right.” She’d never been able to say no to her bubbly friend. Beneath all the flamboyancy lived a woman with a heart of gold. “Give me a minute to change and I’ll be over.”
She thought about taking a brief shower to wash off the chlorine, but changed her mind. Stripping off the wrinkled clothes she’d slept in, she put on a fresh T-shirt and shorts, brushed her hair into a ponytail, and padded barefoot next door. Although still early, the outside temperature felt like the inside of an oven. Thankfully, Rita’s air conditioner was cranked up to full blast.
Her neighbor sat on the couch, her calloused feet propped on the coffee table. Cotton balls protruded from between freshly painted toenails. She waved Angie over to a chair. Clancy, sitting on a nearby table, whistled and Angie whistled back. She’d never been much of a pet person, but this little guy was growing on her.
“Coffee’s nearly ready.” She studied her. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“You know me, I never mince words.” Putting her feet down, Rita gently tested her big toe with an index finger. Satisfied the nail polish was dry, she pulled the cotton balls out, wadded them up, and tossed them on top of the pile of fashion magazines already gracing the coffee table.
“After a night with your newspaper lover boy, you should be glowing. Instead, you look like a truck ran over you.” Rita continued to look at her. “Did the strenuous lovemaking exhaust you? Tell me, is he good in bed? He’s handsome enough. I bet he has a great body.”
Yup, Rita never minced words. Thinking of Brian in his snug-fitting swim trunks, she blushed. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t think so,” Rita said, grinning. “I saw that blush.”
The fact that the kidnapper had observed Brian and her turned amorous thoughts into fearful ones.
“I also noticed the way he looked at you the day I met him. And I didn’t miss the jealous glare you threw me when I flirted with him. You’re as smitten with him as he is with you.”
“No, I’m not. That’s ridiculous.”
“Outsiders see things more clearly than those involved in a relationship.”
“As I said, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“No, I don’t.” Rita jumped up and started for the kitchen. “Time for that coffee. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to.”
“There’s nothing to hear about.” Except the kidnapper showing up out of nowhere with another damn empty shoe, she thought.
She followed Rita into the small kitchen. “There’s nothing between us, Rita. I don’t want him writing articles about me, but he does,” she said pointing to the newspaper on the table. “How can I get involved with a man who won’t honor my wishes?”
“So you get some publicity. He’s doing his job.”
She groaned. “Not you, too.”
“Remember Lisa?” Rita asked pouring them both coffee and setting the bright pink mugs down on the small kitchen table.
“Yeah, one of the girls you dance with.”
“Well, her no-good ex-husband took their kid awhile back. Thanks to an ambitious newspaper reporter and the article he wrote, someone spotted the ex with the child before he could skip town. So you see, publicity can be a good thing.”
“Not always. Many people think those with psychic abilities are freaks.”
Rita shook her head. “You’re not a freak. I’ve met my share of nut cases in this town and you aren’t one of them.”
“There are those who believe psychics are possessed by demons,” she said, sinking onto a kitchen chair. “Brian wrote an article about me during the San Diego case. After the boy was killed, a woman showed up at my apartment and blamed me for the youngster’s death. She said it was God’s punishment for my involvement in the case.”
“That’s horrible.” Rita stared at her for a long minute. “There’s something else, isn’t there? What’s really going on?”
Angie buried her head in her hands. “I shouldn’t be called a psychic. I’m no good at it.”
“It’s obvious from his article that he believes you are. If he thinks you can help find that kidnapped child, so do I.”
“How? I don’t see complete pictures and what I do see is fleeting. Glimpses of things that make no sense.”
Rita sat down across from her and reached for a box of donuts. “Have one. It will make you feel better. Chocolate always does.”
She refused. “How do you keep that showgirl figure of yours?”
“I’ve got a high metabolism,” she said from around a mouthful of donut. She wiped the chocolate icing from the corner of her mouth. “Most show girls perpetually diet. I guess I’m lucky.”
She took another bite. “Enough about my eating habits. Let’s return to this psychic thing. It’s so cool that you can see things the rest of us don’t. Can you read people’s minds?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can you read mine?” Rita stared intently into Angie’s eyes expecting her to extract Rita’s thoughts.
“No, Rita,” she replied, chuckling. In the past people avoided her because they feared she could read their minds. She liked that it didn’t bother Rita.
“Can you see into the kidnapper’s mind?”
“No. I could in the San Diego case, but not this time.”
“That’s not good,” Rita said.
“No. It’s not.”
Rita reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. The little girl will be found alive. I know it.”
She could no longer fig
ht the tears. She swiped at them with the back of her hand.
“You can’t fall apart, honey,” Rita cautioned, handing her a paper napkin. “That abducted child needs you.”
“That’s what Brian keeps saying.” She sniffed, wiping at her eyes. “My mind’s such a tangle. I can’t concentrate, and when I do nothing comes. I’ll never be able to save my grandchild.”
“Whoa,” Rita exclaimed, setting down her coffee mug with a thud. “Did you just say grandchild?”
She gulped. “No.” She shook her head. “I meant I want to help save that poor woman’s child.”
“That’s not what I heard. You said grandchild. Come clean, girlfriend.”
She took a deep breath. This was only the second time she’d revealed the truth about having a daughter and granddaughter to anyone. The first time she’d told her San Diego neighbor, Sally. Angie, trying to find the courage to contact her daughter, had sought advice from her friend. Sally, not one to keep a secret, later confessed that she’d told her husband and Tucker about Angie’s daughter and grandchild during one of Tucker’s visits to their apartment.
She sighed. “Yes, you heard right. The kidnapped child is my granddaughter.”
“So the girl’s mother, the one recently interviewed on television, is your daughter?”
“Yes. Susan’s the baby I gave up for adoption at birth.”
“She doesn’t look like you.”
“She’s got my nose and brown eyes, but other than that she resembles her birth father.” She filled Rita in on the story of her teenage summer fling and the resulting baby. Even now she felt the pain of the guy’s betrayal after he dumped her.
“It must have been hard to give up your baby.”
She nodded and mopped at more tears.
”I don’t think I could do it,” Rita said. “Your daughter doesn’t know you’re her mother?”
“No.”
“And Brian knows nothing about the relationship either.”
“No. And don’t you be telling him. Susan shouldn’t learn about me through one of his damn articles.”
“Are you planning on telling her?”
“Not now. She’s dealing with enough.”
“Are you sure you shouldn’t tell her?” Rita asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Yes. It’s important to keep my distance. Not get any more personally involved than I already am. Most psychics won’t work directly with a missing person’s family because of the powerful emotions emitted. Emotions that can affect their psychic capabilities.” She thought for a minute. Was she having so much trouble with this case because of that?
“That’s a hell of a problem.” Getting the coffee pot, Rita poured herself more and offered some to Angie. She refused it.
“When I saw my daughter being interviewed in front of that casino, her pain and grief overwhelmed me,” she said.
She stood. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Maybe I’ll be able to think more clearly later. Right now I’m a mess.”
Standing, Rita gave Angie a brief hug. “I’ll keep Clancy for now. You’re dealing with enough.”
“You’re right. I might forget to feed him.”
“I doubt that, but I’ll take good care of him,” Rita said. “Hang in there, girlfriend. Since you’re already emotionally involved, I think it’s time you introduce yourself to your daughter.”
“I don’t think I can. What if she rejects me?”
“She won’t.”
She hugged Rita. “You’re always the cockeyed optimist.”
“Yep, the gal with the glass half full.” Rita hesitated. “Brian might already sense a connection between you and your daughter. Newspaper reporters are perceptive. He’s going to figure it out eventually. I think its best you tell him before he does.”
“No way.”
“Suit yourself, but you’re making a mistake.”
****
Dawn painted the desert sky in delicate shades of coral and pastel pink as he pulled the white van into the driveway. Checking to make sure no one loitered nearby, he climbed out and unlocked the wrought iron gate. Driving into the high-walled compound, he locked the gate behind him. Tires crunched on desert sand as he maneuvered the vehicle up the driveway slowing for a covey of quail crossing the roadway en route. He parked in the carport and grabbed the plastic bag from the passenger’s seat. He couldn’t believe he’d lost his scissors. He wasn’t a careless man.
But he wasn’t a voyeur either. Yet, the night before he’d played peeping Tom when he’d observed the sex-charged scene in the rooftop swimming pool. From what he’d seen she’d been enjoying herself far too much. That’s why he’d made a second, more noisy entrance. He wanted her shocked and scared when she found the empty shoe.
He loved her blood-curdling scream when she saw the shoe. She needed to suffer emotionally now. Later she’d experience the physical pain.
He thought for a moment, a twisted smile edging his unshaven face. Maybe he should have allowed the sexual foreplay to develop into something more. After all, it would be the last time she’d enjoy that kind of pleasure.
He yanked the scissors from the bag. The long blades glimmered silver in the kitchen’s fluorescent light. Clutching them in his large, beefy hand, he headed in search of the kid.
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday afternoon
Following the directions Rita gave her, Angie maneuvered the casino’s labyrinth of backstage corridors in search of the women’s dressing room. She passed maids pushing carts piled with dirty towels and waiters carrying room service trays. A covey of showgirls whisked by in a flurry of feathers and giggles. The topless trio sported purple and lavender ostrich feather headdresses towering at least two feet above their heads. No wonder Rita continually complained about her aching back and neck.
Reaching the dressing room door, she approached a bruiser of a man standing guard.
“I need to see Rita,” she said.
“No one goes in without a pass,” he gruffly replied. Moving closer, he glared at her. “Understand, nobody.”
“Bruno,” Rita called out, rushing up behind him. “Let the lady in. She’s a friend.”
He continued glaring at Angie, but stepped back. “She needs a pass.”
“I know, I know. But it’s an emergency.”
“Make sure she’s got one next time.”
“I apologize for Bruno,” Rita said, glaring at him. “He keeps the stage-door-Johnnys away, but he can be a pain.”
She’d never seen Rita dressed for a performance. Sparkling rhinestones trimmed a brief bikini top and an even briefer bikini bottom. Black fishnet stockings, a beaded headdress with a cascade of yellow feathers, and silver high-heeled shoes completed the costume.
“What are you staring at, girlfriend?”
“You’re a knockout.”
She grinned. “Thank you, but wait until you see the others. At twenty-six I’m one of the older dancers. Most are eighteen with faces and figures to die for.”
Rita grabbed her hand and led her into the dressing room area. The place smelled of makeup, hairspray, and flowers. Fragrant floral arrangements graced many of the brightly lit dressing tables. Peering into mirrors, several showgirls dabbed finishing touches to their makeup and applied long fake eyelashes. Others secured headdresses topped with colorful feathers in shocking shades of yellow, orange, and red.
“Many Las Vegas reviews shun the traditional showgirl costume for more modern attire,” Rita said. “However, at this casino we stick to what the audience expects from a Las Vegas showgirl, rhinestones, feathers, and all. Some of the shows are topless, but that’s not for me. I figure that what you don’t see is far more alluring than baring it all.” She grinned. “Sorry, I’m babbling. First night jitters for a new show.
“I’m about to go on, but you needed to see this.” She pointed at a green glass vase filled with red roses.
“That’s one hell of an admirer. Roses aren’t cheap,” she said, think
ing of the dead ones in her car. She no longer liked roses.
“They aren’t for me.”
“The envelope says Rita…”
“What’s inside is for you.” She stopped talking.
“What?”
“You’re not going to like what came in that envelope. The bastard is one sick nutcase.”
“What?”
Rita handed her the envelope. “See for yourself.”
Looking inside, she sucked in a breath. Sick wasn’t the half of it. She gingerly pulled out a baggie containing a lock of golden blonde hair.
“Your grandchild’s?”
She nodded, too shaken to speak. She’d heard of perverted abductors sending fingers and even earlobes as threats to an abducted victim’s family. But this lock of an innocent child’s hair proved equally unsettling. Not caring if she tampered with this bit of evidence, she opened the baggie and stroked the soft curl inside. Tears welled up along with another vision. She collapsed into a chair, her eyes closed.
“You aren’t going to tell me you’ve had a vision, are you?” Dunning stood right behind her. When she opened her eyes she noted his partner wasn’t with him. She looked at Rita.
“I called him after I called you.”
She nodded.
“So what did you see, Ms. Martin,” he said.
“I don’t appreciate your sarcastic tone, Agent Dunning.” She closed her eyes willing the vision back. “I saw the outline of a house. Something loomed in front of it, blocking much of my view. All I could see was the roofline.”
“Go on,” Rita said, trying to encourage her.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s all.”
Scowling, the man studied the baggie Angie clutched in her hand. “You’ve messed with evidence again, once more contaminating it.”
Her hand shook as she held up the bag. “This isn’t just evidence, it’s a youngster’s hair. She’s not just a victim, she’s a woman’s daughter, someone’s grandchild.” She choked on these last words. “They didn’t teach you compassion in that academy you attended, did they? You might know about firearms and investigating crime, but you know nothing about human beings.”
One Week To Live Page 10