Sole Witness (23 page)

She shrugged. “It’s your coffee.”

“That’s not what I mean. Is
emotion-free sex really what you want? Some kind of fling?”

If that’s all she could have,
then yes. She’d take what she could get for as long as it lasted, no matter how
selfish that might be.

His suit jacked clattered to the
hardwood floor, saving her from responding.

Davis picked it up and rummaged
in the pockets, a rueful smile on his face. He presented her with a loose fist,
palm down. “Hold out your hand and close your eyes.”

Lori obeyed, feeling like a child
again but enjoying the moment. He placed something small into her hand.
Something round and a little scratchy. Something that smelled like… chocolate?
Her eyes flew open and she burst out laughing.

“A Cadbury egg?”

His smile faltered. “They’re not
your favorite anymore?”

“No, they are, they are. Thank
you. It’s just what I wanted.”

Davis shifted his weight. “Don’t
thank me,” he said gruffly. “Department can’t get in a decent sandwich, but
they take their Easter candy very seriously. That’s your tax dollars, hard at
work.”

Lori reached out a tentative hand
to pat his shoulder and Davis pulled her into his arms.

“You were the one who got away,
you know,” he whispered, looking her in the eye.

“I didn’t get away. You dumped me
for a cheerleader,” she reminded him, but somehow the old hurt was gone. “If
you keep bringing me chocolate, maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“I would like that,” he answered,
something very important and urgent in his voice. “I was an idiot back then. A
clueless teenage boy.”

“Not any more. Too bad it can’t
work out,” Lori said with a sad smile.

“Can’t it?” he asked, his gaze
intense.

Lori opened her mouth to answer
but his lips were on hers before she could respond.

“I may be a cop and I may be an
idiot,” he whispered against her mouth, “but I’m also a man. I don’t know why I
thought I could resist you.”

Although not exactly the love
words she’d hoped for, Lori returned his kisses with fervor. Maybe Davis was
here because he was horny, and maybe he’d forget her as soon as she was out of
his sight.

But right now, she didn’t care.

He enveloped her in his arms and
devoured her with drugging kisses.

Lori wasn’t sure they’d make it to the bedroom.

Davis didn’t want to open his eyes.

Lori lay draped across his chest, one leg over his
with her head resting on his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect way
to start the morning.

He slid out of bed without waking her and turned off
his alarm clock, so as not to disturb her. He showered and dressed and frowned
at his watch. Part of him couldn’t wait to be on the road, tracking down Amber
Tompkins.

Another part of him wanted to linger here, snuggling
under the covers and simply looking at Lori while she slept. Feeling foolish,
he snuck back into the bedroom for one final glimpse of her before he left for
work.

Arms outflung, she arched her body in catlike
stretches, kicking off the covers in the process. She opened her eyes, caught
his gaze, and smiled.

“Morning, Davis. I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” His pants twitched in response.

“I was. Tell me, have you ever thought about being a
sketch artist instead of a cop?”

Davis’s romantic thoughts vanished. “A what?”

“A sketch artist. For the police. I was just
thinking about how many crazies you must run into every day out on the street.
Seems like a sketch artist would perform a critical skill in a safer
environment. Just as important, less dangerous.”

Davis took a step backward. What on earth brought
this on?

Two nights in bed and already she wanted to change
him, improve him, fix him? Make him someone other than who he was?

“I don’t draw anymore,” he lied. “That’s a stupid
idea.”

Rather than look offended, Lori shrugged and rolled
out of bed. “Oh yeah? Then what’s this?”

He trailed behind as she padded into the living room
and snatched his black leather portfolio from behind the couch.

She flipped open the catch and all his portraits
scattered across the floor, the faces he’d hoped to forget staring at him with
hurt and accusation.

Those feverish drawings hadn’t been for anyone but
himself.

They were meant to excise his demons, to somehow
ease the dreams that plagued him at night when a case dragged on for too long
and leads led nowhere.

“It’s nothing,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t be poking
your nose in my things.”

“No?” she scoffed, waving the sketch of a small
child in his face. “Don’t lie to me. These people are real. You could help
them.”

For the love of God, he’d
tried
to help them.

If she thought that being a sketch artist instead of
a detective would somehow help him, make him softer and happier, then she had
no idea what it meant to be a cop, how it felt to bring the bad news to a new
wife or to hide from a grieving couple that he’d run out of hope for tracking
their stolen child.

“Follow your own dreams,” he said instead. “You want
to open some sort of agency? Then open your damn agency and quit telling other
people how to run their lives. Start selling yourself instead of your body.”

 Lori straightened indignantly. “I’m not selling my
body.”

“You’re not?” He raked his gaze mockingly along her
still-nude form.

She reeled backward as if slapped.

“The key difference is that a prostitute lets the
buyer use the inside of her body. I get paid just for letting people look at
the outside of mine. I make no apologies for taking advantage of our
capitalistic society and shallow culture, and you should make no apologies for
your artistic talent.”

“You don’t understand anything about it,” Davis
answered, bending to scoop up handfuls of sketches. He crumpled one in his fist
and Lori slapped it out of his hand.

“Don’t be infantile.”

She smoothed out the wrinkles and stacked the papers
back into the portfolio as if his entire police career hadn’t been splattered
across the floor.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Davis muttered, hating
the childish petulance in his voice.

He stalked into the kitchen, seized his jacket, and
threw open the door. He needed some space.

“Just think about it,” she called out from the
living room as he clamored down the stairs.

Yeah, right.

If all she wanted to do was run his life and make
him into someone he didn’t want to be, then what he’d think about was getting
her out of his house and back out of his life for good.

The sooner, the better.

*          *          *

Amber woke up smiling.

Lumpy pillows and musty smell aside, this ratty
motel had engendered her new favorite dream: Lori Summers choking out her last
breath with Amber’s fingers clenched around her skinny little neck.

Still smirking, Amber swung out of bed and strode
over to the mold-crusted bathtub.

She flipped on the bare light bulb in time to see a
palmetto bug the size of her thumb scuttle across the sink and disappear behind
the stack of scratchy towels.

Despite the beautiful dream, this dumpy roach motel
was clearly a rung or twelve below her usual haunt—crashing at the condo of one
of her boy toys.

However.

Stupid though they might be, Amber couldn’t risk
them flipping on the tube after a bounce on the mattress only to discover her
face plastered over the news. Especially with the unfortunate tagline from the
newspapers. Homicidal Maniac. Please.

Homicidal, sure. Who wasn’t?

But ‘maniacal’? Hardly. How typical of the
sensationalism prevalent in today’s news media. Next thing you know, they’ll be
claiming she was a religious fanatic, on a hate crime sanctioned by Jesus, sent
here to slaughter supermodels for their slutty ways.

Morons.

Amber showered and dressed and then packed up all
her things. She’d made her decision last night. No more mistakes. Come hell or
high water, Lori Summers died today.

Okay, worst case scenario.

What if she were merely wounded, but not mortally
so?

No. Unacceptable. Amber had already made her
reservation at the all-inclusive Cancun resort
Castillos
for tomorrow
night.

No, death would come a-knocking this very morning.
Now.

But how was she going to lure Little Miss Scaredy
Pants out of her birdcage? Amber could hardly waltz up the stairs and ring the
doorbell like a freaking Mary Kay lady.

Summers was stupid, sure, but presumably not that
stupid.

A cigarette between her teeth, Amber drove out of
the parking lot without paying for her room. She’d shared it with at least
seven other critters. Let one of them pick up the tab.

First things first. In order to make a fast getaway
after the murder, she needed a getaway car. Too bad she was stuck with her
conspicuous Camry. Nothing to do about it now. She’d swap it with something
right after she blasted a hole through the model’s pretty little forehead.

In order to make a getaway that got very far, she’d
need gasoline.

Right now, the meter hovered around E. Not good. She
couldn’t make it to the beach house on fumes.

Amber pulled the car into the shadiest gas station
she could find.

No sense getting an attendant who spoke enough
English to read the paper or kept abreast of breaking news on the television.
The last thing she needed were the cops on her tail, less than twenty miles
from her victim’s crappy little beach house.

She parked at a pump and walked inside.

Cigarettes, lottery tickets, two dusty aisles. She
squinted at the attendant. What was he, Indian? Pakistani? Damn. His vocabulary
was probably better than hers. Probably read the freaking newspaper, too.

No matter. She was already inside and time was
a-wasting.

On impulse, Amber cruised down the aisles, not sure
at first what she was looking for. Then she saw them. Sitting there, innocuous,
in all their cherry-red plastic glory.

Gas cans.

Bet little Sassypants Summers would come tearing out
of that house if it, well, spontaneously caught on fire. And if the runway
princess stayed inside to boil and bake like a big pan of ziti, then who cared?

Dead was dead.

Amber picked up all three of the red gallon
containers and brought them to the counter.

“These, a soft pack of Virginia Slims, and twenty
bucks on pump four.”

The attendant shook his head. “You’re wasting your
time with that, you know.”

Please don’t be a Chatty Cathy. “With what?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you look like
a nice enough lady. Today’s Friday, right? Tail end of Spring Break season.
After this weekend, gas prices are going to come back down.”

He looked at her expectantly, but all Amber could do
was grind her teeth behind a forced smile.

“I’m not saying they’re artificially high right
now,” he hurried to add. “I’m just saying there’s no sense stockpiling spare
gas until at least Monday.”

He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

Amber would’ve plugged him with a bullet right there
if she didn’t need him to authorize the damn pump so she could get the hell out
of there.

“Just… ring me up,” she ground out.

He threw up both palms and turned to the register,
as if affronted. Screw him and his tender feelings. She had business to take
care of.

Practically snarling, Amber snatched up her change
without letting him count it back to her. She stalked out the door, juggling
the big plastic containers as best she could.

Deliver her from nice people.

Back at the Camry, she popped the trunk and
carefully placed each container inside once she filled them. After she closed
the lid, she leaned against the side of the car as she pumped gas into the
tank.

Her cell phone rang from somewhere deep inside her
purse.

Amber fished it out and shoved it between her ear and
her shoulder, forgetting to check the caller ID.

“What?” she growled.

“Amber, honey, it’s me, George. Where did you go
yesterday? I fixed you your coffee, just how you like it, and I went through
all the doughnuts with a plastic fork. Was cinnamon okay? I brought you
cinnamon, but you were gone.”

“Something came up. Listen, George, I gotta go.”