Four Days of Fall Read online

  She pressed her face into his shoulder, and he could feel her tears through his shirt. Unlike Amanda, who wanted him, Liz needed him.

  “Let’s stop worrying about my job,” he said gently. “How was your day at the gallery?”

  “I don’t work on Monday,” Liz muttered into his shirt. “You should know that by now.”

  “I didn’t forget you don’t work on Mondays. I just forgot it’s Monday.”

  She sniffed. “It’s not Monday anymore. It’s Tuesday.”

  “Oh, what a cross little girl you are.” Incredibly, he felt his cock stir inside his pants. He pulled her face from his shoulder, tipped up her chin so their eyes met. “Do you know what I do with cross little girls?”

  She shook her head, but she was more than willing. For once.

  “Well, I’m afraid you’re about to find out,” he said, and he scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom. His cock, stalwart member that it had been, wasn’t quite up for the task, but he put his fingers to work with such alacrity Liz cried out at the end.

  “Do you want me to—“ she said after a few moments.

  Russ turned her on her side and spooned her. “I want us both to get a good morning’s sleep. I have to get up in three hours.” He sighed. “What a day.” He pushed his face against her hair. She didn’t smell like money, she smelled like marriage. And that was all right.

  He was feeling pleasantly drowsy. It occurred to him that he should tell Liz about Sabine. He hadn’t planned on it, not until it was final. There was no point. Even if she took an interest, she would simply pepper him with ignorant questions. But the word would be out pretty soon. Maybe he’d tell her tomorrow.

  Liz’ voice startled him. Again. “Anna Beth says she has a list. Of interns. She wants money.”

  “Fuck Anna Beth,” Russ replied.

  But he lay in a sickened stupor until finally he was falling, falling, falling from Sabine’s helicopter, into the sea where Larson’s golden hair coiled around him like silken ropes, holding him fast. And then he awoke, gasping for air.

  THE AVENGER

  The Avenger paused for a moment, before slipping into the crowd and into the pulsing space of the club. The girl was easy to spot, drinking at the bar with her friends. And easy to reach. Because she was drinking with friends, she looked at the text immediately. And then she was on her feet, moving toward the back of the club, casting her gaze about her. But the Avenger was difficult (though not impossible) to spot. As the girl stepped into the bathroom, the Avenger slipped in behind her. A quick survey revealed feet in the stall at the far end of the room. Time was of the essence. The hypodermic found its mark, and she crumpled. Easy enough to snag her phone, slip the pen in the pocket of her jeans. The Avenger was back on the street in less than 60 seconds. It had not been hard at all.

  Two down.

  News should come any time now about number three down in North Carolina.

  THE PRO

  “What are you doing?” he asked. Even though he could see perfectly well under the interior light of the car that she was texting somebody. Fuck that light. Fuck the texting. They needed to drive away the hell away from the park, now.

  He reached up to flick off the car light first. But she swatted him away one-handed, keeping the phone in the other hand.

  “I’m ordering takeout,” she said. “Some place around here on the river. I heard it’s good. We’ll go back to my place.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. We can go to yours. Where are you staying?”

  He hadn’t planned to stay anywhere. He had planned to have disposed of her body by now.

  “Where on the river?” he asked. Like it made a goddam difference. What the fuck was in that goddam flask?

  “Which question do you want me to answer first?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Where on the river or what the fuck was in the goddam flask.”

  Shit. He didn’t even have control of his own mouth anymore. He let his head fall back against the car seat. He was done. He might as well admit it.

  She punched the address into the rental’s GPS. “Just a mile from here. So that’s the answer to your first question. As to your second, I honestly don’t know. I bought it in the city before I came down.” She turned the car around and headed back toward the interstate.

  “What are you doing down here?” he asked. “Why did you come here?”

  “I could ask you the same question. In fact, I have.”

  She merged on to the highway.

  “And I answered you. Just want to talk is all.”

  “And I just want to write.”

  “How you gonna write when you’re wasted? If I hadn’t thrown the flask away, you would have taken some, too.” What a dumbass to panic and drop the flask like that.

  “Well, it must have been stronger stuff,” she said. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll never know now.”

  Because now the flask was lying somewhere in the woods with both their prints on it. And his DNA.

  She turned off at the next exit, then turned left and drove under the overpass. And there was the sign. One neon light burned out so that it read “Jolene’s Crab Shac.” A jolt from a pothole at the lot entrance swallowed the car so deep it felt like the wheel was about to sheer off. Bigger dump than the Raven. The building was wooden, perched out on a wooden platform over the river, with a wooden ramp leading to the door. The parking lot was full. Definitely not off season here. Must be local yokels crawled out from under their rocks. Shit. He eased down in the car seat.

  He needed to get his brain working. God, he needed to eat something, too.

  Why was he so happy he hadn’t done her?

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. Light flooded the car again when she opened her door, and as soon as she shut it, he pulled the cap brim lower across his face, sunk even lower, crossed his arms over his chest like he was sleeping.

  He could hear customers leaving the place. Drawls stretching out like thick Podunk putty. Locals, for sure.

  He wondered what Scarlett sounded like before she lost her accent. Poor kid. Stuck in the sticks, dreaming of a wonderful new life in the city. Pity she’d fucked the wrong guy once she got there.

  But there was nothing to be done about it now. Besides it was the universe. The universe made the call, not him.

  The Universe.

  The Universe was his friend.

  He should trust the Universe.

  And then the car door opened and the light went on.

  “Heads up,” she said and tossed him the carryout, a big white plastic bag lumpy with Styrofoam containers. He fumbled to hold the thing.

  She got in and started the car, but then just sat, staring around at the parking lot.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, but didn’t make a move to back out of the parking space.

  “You okay? You want me to drive?” They needed to get out of this crowd.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, your chivalry reflex is working just fine, even if the rest of your reflexes are a little under the weather.”

  Finally, she pulled out and this time she veered around the pothole. Driving on the opposite lane gave him a clear view of the river. He would definitely leave the body somewhere in the river. If he was really careful and a just a little bit lucky, it could be a while before it was found. That smoking hot body not hot anymore, just swollen and mottled and stinking.

  He needed to think about something else.

  “I saw something back there,” he could hear her saying. “Well, okay maybe I didn’t see something. Maybe I just thought I saw something. Or maybe I just got a feeling. Like what’s that expression? Somebody walking over my grave. Although honestly, I don’t even know what that means. Do you?”

  “No,” he said. He didn’t like where this was going.

  She gave him a sideways glance. “You know, you seem like, I don’t know. Like I’m feeling this sadn
ess about you. Like maybe you’ve lost something.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” he said, sounding more pissed than he meant. He tried to keep his breathing regular.

  “It doesn’t mean anything. You have this kind of aura of sadness is all. And I wondered if maybe you just broke up with a girlfriend or something.”

  “We’re not here to talk about my girlfriend. We’re here to talk about you and Russell Stockton.”

  That shut her up. He remembered dimly the plan about getting her to open up and talk about Stockton. They were off the highway now, but she was headed toward the Pepto pink Victorian. He needed to get his car from the downtown street.

  “I’m parked on the block by the Raven,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly. You shouldn’t drive.”

  “I’m feeling better,” he said. God, how pitiful he sounded stupid.

  “See how you feel after we eat.” She cut her eyes toward him again. “Promise I won’t try to seduce you. Again. But surely that’s not against some private eye code of ethics or something. Or are you feeling bad about a girlfriend? You haven’t broken up with her. Is that it?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend. Let’s talk about your boyfriend Russell Stockton.” He needed to get control here.

  But then she reached over and touched one of his hands, and he folded like a piece of fucking origami. He didn’t care that he hadn’t gotten the job done. Yet. Big fucking deal, Selena. Why didn’t you ever call me back?

  When they got out of the car at the Victorian he walked close against Scarlett. That way, neighbors looking out their windows wouldn’t get much a view. The two of them might have been on a regular date. And if the neighbors could make out a man with her, they would think, later, that it was a date gone wrong. Happened all the time. A woman dead at the hands of the man who loved her. Or at least fucked her.

  And really it could be her own fucking fault anyway. That happened all the time, too.

  She waited until they were inside to flip the switch to a chandelier that flooded the foyer with about five jillion watts of light. Whoa, big money reno here. Marble floor, ceiling that went up like a regular fucking cathedral. As he followed her toward the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of himself in gilded mirror on the wall. Just a guy in a cap. A guy who would keep his hands to himself, not leave prints. He’d palm her key and come back to clean up.

  But Jesus, she looked even better in this glaring light than she had in the dismal light of the Raven, or in the woods, or in the car.

  He slowed to glance into the first room off the foyer—from the spilled light a clutter of furniture was about all he could make out—and by the time he got to the kitchen, a gigantic white space with stainless steel appliances, she was already bent over inside the refrigerator, her long legs up to there, her ass presented to him like some elegant piece of fruit in a denim wrapper.

  Yeah, he would miss Amy, but there were plenty of other women out there. Plenty of crazy chicks like this.

  “Beer or white wine?” she asked from inside the fridge.

  “Beer.”

  “The beer is imported. I noticed you ordered American.”

  “Imported is fine.”

  She straightened. “I’ll get you a glass. There’s a sunroom past the dining room. I’ll bring some plates.”

  “There’s no sun.” But there would be lots of glass and ways to see in.

  “Then we’ll sit in the dining room.”

  The dining room looked about a mile long, with a table to match. Pricey antique probably. Oil paintings of prune-faced people hung on the brocaded walls. Prunes were probably ancestors. This Eleanor must come from money.

  Scarlett came in carrying his beer and a couple of plates. He began unpacking the Styrofoam.

  “King crab legs,” she said. “And some crab dip with fried calamari.”

  He would need to get rid of this trash, and wipe the table. So far, not so bad.

  Same could be said for the food. Pretty good.

  “Let me pay you for this,” he said. “I can put it on my expenses.”

  “I can put it on mine, too,” she said. “Self-employed. Expenses lower my taxes.”

  “I guess you make a lot of money with your books.” Fuck. Why had he said something so stupid?

  “I’d figure that a private detective would be able to look those things up, but I guess that’s not what you’re looking for. I suppose at some point we’re going to have to have the talk.”

  “Yes,” he said, because there wasn’t anything else he could say.

  Scarlett slanted her head like she was flirting with him. “But let’s put it off a little longer, couldn’t we? Because once I tell you everything then you’ll be done with me.”

  Done with me. What did she mean by that? And there it was again, that killer smile.

  He bounced a killer smile right back at her. “Maybe you’ll have a hard time getting me to leave. Do you seduce every private investigator you meet?”

  “Only the cute ones. But surely you already know that from my background check. Do you ever wear contacts? You should. Your glasses really don’t do you justice.”

  Shit. He had forgotten all about putting the phony glasses back on. He felt in his jacket pocket for them, but they were gone.

  Didn’t matter. She was bullshitting him, anyway. Like she really wanted to flirt with him. Although it seemed pretty natural, actually. And the crab legs were better than okay. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever had anything this damned delicious before. She was digging into her plate, too.

  And then somehow she was sitting in his lap feeding him crab legs, her own long legs straddling him so that her crotch sat squarely and hotly on top of the cockweiller straining again at the leash.

  And then she was holding his hand, pulling him up the stairs, his feet on the stair treads light and heavy all at the same time. She was stripping by the time they got to the bedroom door; he followed her trail to the shower.

  Yes. The shower.

  He began peeling off his own clothes.

  Fuck it. He would clean the drain.

  Tomorrow.

  After he did her.

  D A Y T W O

  What tears on Tuesday

  SCARLETT

  The pages fairly pulsed between Scarlett’s fingers. She skimmed through them again, and she was surprised at the strength of her relief. Surely she hadn’t thought she was permanently blocked, but maybe she thought she’d gone soft.

  She peeked out the curtain. Sun just about to be up, but at least she could rest for a little while. She leaned back in the chair. God, this chair was awesome. The big four-poster upstairs where the sleeping dog lay snoring was fairly comfortable, at least for the few minutes she stayed before she sneaked down here. But this chair, this was heaven. Trust Eleanor to make a small office the most comfortable room in the whole huge house. Work was everything to Eleanor. Or maybe Russ was everything to her, and he happened to come with Work.

  She could hear the steps fast and heavy down the stairs. Still barefoot, she could tell.

  “I’m in here,” she called. “The room behind the kitchen.”

  No shoes. No shirt. But obviously a few problems. He didn’t trust her for one thing. Or maybe he didn’t trust himself. She wasn’t sure which scenario would be more to her advantage—or disadvantage.

  He must have realized the way he looked. He made the shape of a smile with his mouth as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re an early bird.”

  She waved the pages at him. “I was writing.”

  “Oh, yeah? What about?”

  “You.”

  He tore the pages from her fingers; they crumpled inside his fist like large white flower petals.

  She spoke consolingly. “You’re a tough critic. Why don’t you at least read the pages before you pan them?”

  He glared at her.

  She looked back at him with a mild expression. She could hear a clock ticking somewhere in another roo
m. Probably the grandfather clock in the parlor across the hall.

  It took six ticks before he sank down on the edge of the desk in front of her, still glaring at her for another couple of seconds before he transferred his glare to the papers. He opened his fist, allowing the papers to un-crinkle. As he read down the page his brow furrowed deeper. Finally he looked up at her with so much confusion it might have been funny. Almost.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  She wanted to make a joke, give him the house address, but that was the kind of answer that begged trouble.

  “Right there on the page,” she said.

  “You mean this Edward is me?”

  She nodded. Vertiginous indeed, Russ.

  He tossed that first page onto the desk and kept reading. Color actually rose up in his face. It was sweet. Almost.

  She leaned forward. “If it’s like my last two books, you’ll be on the best-seller list. I can mention you in the acknowledgements if you like.”

  “No,” he said quickly, still reading. He looked up again. “You wrote this while I was asleep?”

  “I told you. I’m fighting a deadline.”

  “And that’s what you wanted from me?”

  “Sometimes when the imagination won’t work, a little hands-on inspiration can help.”

  He frowned at the pages again.

  “But we didn’t do—“

  She smiled at him and took pleasure in the smile. “You don’t remember? Boy, that really was some kind of X factor in that flask. Shame it’s lost. I’ll need you in fighting trim tonight.”

  Again, the look on his face.

  But she needed to be more careful. There were so many ways this thing could go wrong. So wrong. Tits up in a ditch as Joe Ned, her father’s number two man, used to say.

  “Come on,” she said teasingly. “Don’t you want to be immortalized? Just one more night.”

  He picked up the first page and began reading again, then stopped again.

  “So this Edward. He owns a tobacco plantation?”