Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)

by Susan O'Brien

  “Lydia hadn’t heard from Frank, but she gave me one of those psychic medium reading things I didn’t want.”

  “Seriously? Are you okay?”

  We hadn’t talked much about loss, but we had an unspoken understanding.

  Instead of responding, I went in for a hug.

  “I don’t know,” I said to Dean’s chest. “I freakin’ feel like I just talked to my late husband.”

  I was relieved but stunned. After five years of wanting to talk with Jason, I might have just done it—right in the middle of a random parking lot, a crazy investigation, and a new romance. Not the conversation I’d envisioned. I stifled a giggle and hoped I didn’t seem nuts.

  Dean held me at arm’s length, and our eyes locked.

  “He better treat you right. Because I will hunt him down, no matter what galaxy he’s in.”

  I laughed again and felt my shoulders sink and tension slip away. Dean got me. It’s not that I didn’t want a big, emotional discussion. It’s just that I didn’t want one right then.

  “Don’t worry. He was nice. A little mysterious. But nice. Apologetic.”

  I felt tears rising and went back into Dean’s arms, hoping I wouldn’t soak his shirt.

  After a few minutes of comforting silence, Dean spoke.

  “You wanna get out of here?”

  I did. With him.

  It struck me that after talking with Lydia, I hadn’t rushed to call Kenna or Liz. Instead, I’d stood on my own two feet and marched them to Dean. And that felt like progress.

  On the way back to the hotel, I didn’t ask Dean about his housing situation, and I wasn’t sure if that was a mistake. Given my past and everything we were investigating, I wanted to know if he was living with a hot blond—or anyone, with or without hair—even a cat. (What if he had one of those hairless cats? Now that would be surprising.)

  Instead, I focused on Eva and waited to see if natural segues arose.

  We hadn’t gotten far down a canal-lined highway when I noticed bright headlights in Dean’s blind spot.

  “Is that person trying to be annoying?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the passenger-side mirror’s reflection. I could hear the other car’s motor revving, and I wished we were in Dean’s Aston Martin instead of a cheap rental.

  “I’m already going fifteen over the speed limit,” Dean said. “I’ll slow down and let them pass.”

  He eased off the gas, and the other car slowed, too.

  I twisted around to get a better look at it. In the dark, I could only make out that it was a black sedan with tinted windows and no front license plate. As I strained to see the driver, the car sped up, put on its left blinker, and veered toward us.

  “They’re trying to get over,” I warned Dean.

  He reacted by honking and pulling toward the shoulder and canal. That would have worked, except the sedan did the same thing more quickly, threatening to hit us if we didn’t move. Dean cursed and swerved away, sending us toward the water in what felt like slow motion.

  I screamed, tried to recall pertinent emergency tips, and wished I had a window-busting tool I kept in my van. If water short-circuited the doors’ controls, we’d be trapped. Normally, I was prepared for worst-case scenarios, but not in a rental car.

  We hit the canal, and the car pitched forward, sending disorienting water over the hood and windshield. Thank God the airbags didn’t go off and add to the confusion.

  Feeling as if every moment was an hour, I pulled instructions from the depths of my long-term memory, accompanied by motivating images of Jack and Sophie. If they lost both of their parents to drowning…

  “Open the windows and take off your seatbelt!” I commanded. “Swim out!”

  There was no time to spare. If the car sank with no escape, we’d probably have to let the pressure equalize before the doors might open, and then, if we were lucky, we’d find and share an air bubble while waiting.

  I unbuckled my seatbelt, lowered my window, and held my breath as water rushed through the opening. With inky currents rising around us, I took one last glance at Dean to ensure his window was open. It was. Pushing determinedly against the flood, bracing my feet on anything solid, I forced myself out the window and emerged next to the sinking trunk, desperate to see Dean—hopefully sans alligators and other canal dwellers.

  I wiped water and hair off my face, barely able to see Dean treading water on the other side of the car. He got to me quickly, and we made it to the shore together, speaking just enough to encourage and confirm each other’s safety. We climbed a grassy, muddy slope—filthy clothes hanging off, breaths heaving, shoes sloshing. I hugged him at the roadside and felt something hard against my leg, its weight practically dragging off my pants.

  “My phone,” I said. I’d paid extra for a waterproof case, thinking it might prevent a toilet disaster someday. Good call. I pulled away and showed it to Dean. “It was in my pocket.”

  “Call 911,” he said.

  Done.

  We suspected we’d been run off the road, and that’s what we told the emergency crews who ensured we were okay, wrapped us in blankets, questioned us, and transported us back to the hotel while they began efforts to retrieve the car. We’d chattered the whole way, retelling the story, shivering, and second-guessing ourselves. Had Dean overreacted to a bad lane change from an aggressive and/or impaired driver? Possibly. The police said we weren’t the first to end up in the canal. Either way, the other driver had fled the scene, and that said something.

  “I’m dying for a shower,” I told Dean when we got to our third-floor hallway. “And my adrenaline rush is wearing off. I need to put on something cozy and relax.”

  “Me too,” Dean said. “Do you want to come down to my room after? Maybe order some drinks from room service?”

  Something told me drinking might lead to other relaxing things, and I felt like I’d been handed a fantasy suite card on The Bachelor. Did I want to forgo my individual room to spend quality time with Dean? Would saying “no” be prudish? Would saying “yes” lose his respect? Or had I been watching too much reality TV? (None of the above, I decided.) Thankfully, America wasn’t watching.

  “I don’t want to say goodnight yet,” I confessed. “But I’m exhausted.”

  Too bad he didn’t ask to take a nap, I thought, because my answer would have been a resounding yes. Note to self: Suggesting a nap is an easy way to get me into bed. Consider myself warned.

  “I understand. What do you have in mind for tomorrow?”

  “Touching base with the police first. I hope our licenses and credit cards will be recovered. But then we should visit Bruce’s frat. I figure they stick together through thick and thin. Maybe he’s reached out to them somehow.”

  “Good. And we’ll follow up on Eli. Sleep well, and text me when you’re up, okay?”

  “How about if we meet at ten in the lobby?” I suggested. I wanted to sneak in enough zzzzs and report writing before being on mommy duty. Plus, I needed to pack.

  “Okay. I’ll be in the gym early working out. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Great,” I said, squeezing his hands and thinking maybe I regretted saying goodbye. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  I wish.

  Sixteen

  In addition to soft pajamas, I wanted comfort food, and I wasn’t risking another vending machine spree, so I settled on the hotel’s courtesy microwave popcorn to keep me company.

  I stuck the bag in the microwave and hopped in the shower for a swamp-water and belated oil-slick cleanup. I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed.

  I heard the microwave’s faint beep as I rinsed the last conditioner from my hair and started shaving like it was summer. I finished with just one nick from a brand new razor, and a streak of blood ran d
own my calf as I turned off the water. I still heard beeping from my room, so I turned off the bathroom fan and opened the door to scope things out.

  That’s when I smelled it. I say smelled, because I couldn’t see much. Smoke was pouring from the kitchenette and filling my room, and it wasn’t the microwave beeping—it was a fire alarm. For a nanosecond, I was afraid the entire hotel was on fire. But the smell of burned popcorn was so horrid and choking that I knew (for better or worse—I wasn’t sure which) that my room was the problem.

  I ran to crank open my windows, but they’d only budge a couple inches. I loved safety features with all my heart, but right now they were backfiring on me. I turned on the AC, not knowing if it would hurt or help, and then made a dreadful mistake. I opened the microwave. Mostly naked, with my towel over my mouth, I yanked out the smoking bag, dropped it in the sink, and doused it with water, creating an ugly cloud of steam. It seemed smart. But it smelled like buttery farts. That linger.

  I had to get out of there.

  Ignoring my ringing hotel phone and holding the towel over my mouth, I tried to feel out clothes in my suitcase, but the smoke and odor were overpowering, and someone was banging on my door. Maybe if I opened it just enough, I’d catch my breath, let out some smoke, and find something to wear.

  I wrapped the towel tightly around me, held my breath, and turned the knob. A large, male security guard was standing there with a walkie-talkie on his hip, which was about the same height as my chest.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay? Oh my God. There’s so much smoke in there!”

  He barked out a walkie-talkie code that didn’t apply, unless there’s one for microwave snack disasters.

  “I over-popped my corn,” I said, sucking in fresh hallway air and not thinking clearly. “And I’m not dressed.”

  “You’re also bleeding. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Security Guy pulled me out of the room and steered me toward the vending machine area, just the spot I’d tried to avoid.

  Now that my alarm was blaring into the hallway, I saw doors opening on both sides of mine and down the hall. I also heard complaints about a putrid smell and concern about a wet, bleeding, nearly naked woman in the hall.

  “Evacuate the floor,” Security Guy trumpeted into his walkie-talkie. “Sorry, everyone. I know the stench is unbelievable. Please, make sure everyone is out of your rooms, and take the stairs.”

  That sounded great, except I didn’t want to be seen, and thunderous noise was coming from the flight on my left. Coughing and clearing my throat, I scooted between the snack machines, not feeling like “all that and a bag of chips.”

  Security Guy started banging on doors, and firefighters stormed through the emergency exit and straight toward my room, where I hoped they wouldn’t soak my belongings, especially my computer.

  I knew Dean must be in the hallway somewhere, but I didn’t dare look.

  “That’s my girlfriend’s room,” I heard someone say. Someone who sounded like Dean. That was flattering and probably the worst timing in the world. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine, sir. She’s around the corner.”

  Oh, God. No.

  I savored the next few butter-fart-scented seconds of being Dean’s “girlfriend,” knowing they might be my last.

  “Oh my God. Nicki!”

  “I’m fine,” I said, peeking out from between the machines. “Don’t worry. Just mortified. There’s no fire. I just burned some popcorn. Really badly.”

  “Are you bleeding?”

  I looked down, where blood was drying on my foot.

  “I was shaving. It’s nothing.”

  “Okay. I’m going to get you some clothes,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Sure. Whatever. Run for the hills. I wouldn’t mind some alone time.

  Guests filed by, most averting their eyes while I waved, explained, and apologized. One kind woman asked if I’d like a bathrobe, but before I could accept, Dean was back with men’s workout shorts and an Army sweatshirt. I maneuvered myself into them while he looked away.

  “Thanks,” I said, keeping a death grip on the shorts and reluctantly permitting him to turn around. So much for my “wear undies to the vending machines” policy. At least the sweatshirt was thick and non-revealing…and even cozier than the pajamas I’d planned.

  I spent a few embarrassing minutes answering firefighters’ questions and apologizing to Security Guy, whose name was Mo.

  My room was cleared for safety, but it would take a while—and a collection of heavy-duty fans—for the smoke to dissipate. As I watched a tall fireman carry out the microwave and blackened popcorn bag, I wondered if my bill had just doubled.

  “Everyone will be offered replacement rooms for tonight,” Mo told me. “And you can have access to your room if there are things you need to grab. We just need to give the firefighters some time to work in there.”

  Doubling my bill might be lowballing it.

  “Thanks,” I said. “When will everyone be allowed back up here?”

  “It shouldn’t be long. Meanwhile, there are free drinks and donuts in the lobby.”

  I looked at Dean. “I’m going to get some essentials in my room. How about you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Meet me at the exit sign.”

  I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.

  My room was so smelly that I just ran a brush through my hair, shoved on leggings and flip flops, and collected some cash I’d left in the hotel safe.

  Then I gave Mo my cell number and waited for Dean by the stairs. Unless he was desperate for donuts, we were skipping the lobby.

  “Let’s get out of here until things settle down,” he said, reading my mind.

  “That’s my plan, but you don’t have to come with me.”

  “Stop it,” he said. “Come on. We’re going out the side door. We both need fresh air. And I have an idea.”

  We took off in my car with the windows open, got sodas at a drive-thru, and headed toward Smyth College, looking out for black sedans all the way.

  “I thought we could take a stroll by the frat,” Dean explained. “I was reading about it online when the, um, commotion started.” He gave me a sideways glance, and we burst out laughing. “You know you smell, right?” he added.

  “I know. I think it’s my hair. I need another shower and some Febreze. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We’re in a rental, although it’s our only one left. But I have to ask. How do you mess up microwave popcorn?”

  “You follow the instructions, ignore the fine print about how microwaves vary, and get in the shower. It’s that easy.”

  “And you still end up smelly and hungry.”

  I almost spit out my drink laughing at myself. This was the most relaxed I’d felt around Dean. Sometimes I was happiest when the worst was over and there was less to worry about. Not the best way to live, but I’d take peace where I could get it.

  By the time we found the frat house, it was after midnight, and a few guys were on the porch smoking. We parked two houses down and whipped up a pretexting plan.

  We got out of the car with our drinks, talking casually and continuing to laugh, and held hands as we walked up to the students—as if we were on a date, which I wished we were.

  “Hey guys,” I said with false confidence.

  “’Sup?” one of them said, squinting and setting down a smoke. It didn’t smell like tobacco.

  “We were just driving by, and I made him stop.” I gestured to Dean and laughed good-naturedly. “My cousin went here a couple years ago, and he pledged with you guys. I’ve heard so many stories about this place.”

  “Really?” the guy said. “It rocks, doesn’t it?” He smiled at his friends.

  “Don’t think I’m weird,” I said
. “But could I take a peek inside?”

  “It’s kinda late,” he said. “Some of the guys are sleeping.”

  “Okay. No problem. Did you happen to know Bruce Fallon? He’s my cousin.”

  One guy laughed dismissively.

  “Yeah. He’s notorious around here. No offense, but he almost brought the place down.”

  “What? How?”

  He waved his hand at me. “Nah. I don’t know the whole story. I think he just got in trouble and it didn’t reflect well on us. But it’s all good. We’re back. And he left us in great shape financially. They made some bucks while he was here. He’s a cool cat.”

  There were nods all around.

  “You know his best friend Todd?” I asked. “He graduated last year.”

  “Todd Carter? Hell yeah! He was our tech guru. We friggin’ need him back. Where is he now?”

  “He and Bruce run a tech startup in Virginia,” I said.

  “Oh? The power couple’s still together? Tell Beauty and the Brains we miss their assess.” The guys laughed and chanted an unintelligible motto.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “I’m heading back to Virginia tomorrow. You gotta share some dirt, though, so I can give them a hard time.”

  The guys looked at each other, and one spoke up. “Tell you what, you can come in for a few. You gotta see their pictures on the wall of shame. And make sure to tell them Ian says ‘hi.’”

  I wanted to high-five Dean.

  We climbed the steps and introduced ourselves by first name. Ian opened the front door and led us into a dimly lit foyer.

  “Check it out,” he said, pointing to a wall-size collage under the staircase. Laminated photos from at least a decade of frat parties were randomly pinned together. I’d never find Bruce or Todd without help, although some photos had semesters and years written in Sharpie.

  “There they are,” Ian said, pointing at a three-by-five of Bruce and Todd in their junior year, Bruce’s arm around a tan blond and Todd with a fair brunette, all in Hawaiian leis, sunglasses, and hula skirts, making exaggerated faces that announced, “Drunk and proud!”