Sole Witness (8 page)

Carver smirked. “I doubt that.”

“How about Lori Summers? You see her hanging around
him?”

“That one? Nah. Hot as hell, but cold as ice, if you
know what I mean. He tried and failed. Nobody else had any luck with her
either.”

A strange sense of smug satisfaction warmed Davis’s
middle. “When? This weekend?”

“Are you crazy? Ain’t seen her in years.”

Carver bent toward the kid. “Any reason why she’d be
crawling around here again?”

“I don’t know. New album? Maybe she’s gonna be on
the cover of this one, too.”

There’s a thought that even made sense. But if it
were true, why wouldn’t Lori have mentioned it?

“I thought Tommy sent you kids home because he had a
hookup that night,” Carver said.

“Yeah, but not with her.”

Carver loomed over him, her back to the sun. “Who
with?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know it wasn’t her?”

The kid shrugged. “Guess I don’t. Just figure
he’d’ve said if it was her.”

“Who do you know for sure that Tommy was seeing?”
Carver asked, enunciating each word as though speaking to the hard of hearing.

“I told you. That dude was ‘seeing’ everyone.”

“Names,” Davis interrupted, retrieving his pad and
pen from his inner jacket pocket. “I’m going to need names, numbers,
addresses—whatever you’ve got.”

By the time Davis finished chronicling the laundry
list of Tommy’s lovers, he’d almost run out of paper. By the time they finished
interviewing the sixth vapid vamp, he’d almost run out of patience. Tommy had a
pattern: blonde and willing.

When they pulled up at the seventh, Davis was ready
to shoot himself in the eye. The brown, nondescript condominium complex was
sandwiched between two other brown, nondescript condominium complexes, and the
elevator was tight and humid.

Carver knocked on the door, flashed her badge, and
stepped inside. Davis followed. The high-cheekboned woman in the doorway
dragged her gaze from his face on down, and there was no mistaking the
invitation in her eyes.

“Miss Tompkins.” Davis checked his notes. “Miss
Amber Tompkins?”

“You can call me Amber,” she interrupted in a
practiced drawl. Davis had the feeling she’d spent years perfecting the
Southern belle accent. She smelled like gum and cheap perfume, but the condo
stank like a smoke factory.

“Amber,” he acquiesced, and Carver rolled her eyes.
“We’re here about Tommy Turner.”

“Wasn’t that the worst, most scariest thing?” Amber
cooed.

God save him from groupies. “How did you meet him,
ma’am?”

“Oh,” she answered, brushing her hand across his
sleeve. “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’.”

No surprise she went home with Tommy. From behind
her, Carver made exaggerated gagging gestures.

“How did you meet him, Amber?”

“At the bar,” she answered, blinking heavily
mascaraed eyelashes at him.

Like the rest of Tommy’s girls, her face was pretty,
but overdone. The black eyeliner was too harsh a contrast for the blonde hair
and pale blue eyes, the intensity of her red lips burned his corneas, and he’d
never been a fan of sweeping blue eye shadow.

However, there wasn’t a man on earth who’d deny the
effect of two possibly augmented breasts bursting from a sheer blouse, a
miniskirt so short it could double as a leather belt, and a pair of heels so
high she must have been born in them to walk without wobbling.

“Bar, Hamilton,” called Carver, making hurry-up
motions with her hand.

“Right.” Davis scratched a note on the paper. “When
was this?”

“Saturday.”

Davis stopped writing. “This Saturday?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, and licked her lips. “We just
met once.”

Damn. He’d been hoping to find someone more
girlfriendish. Someone with an axe to grind, who fancied herself in love, who
looked a little guilty.

This one hadn’t even known Tommy long enough to look
sad. She looked like she’d just as soon rip Davis’s clothes off as the
rapper’s.

A little creepy.

Carver’s incredulous expression said she was reading
the vibes loud and clear.

He glanced back at his notes. “And you just saw him
at the bar?”

“No, silly,” Amber said with a coy look, as if he
were teasing her. “I went home with him, of course.”

Davis glanced over her shoulder in time to see
Carver mouth, “Of course.”

“Did he mention being afraid? That anyone was after
him, or angry with him?”

Amber shook her head. “He didn’t mention anything.
We didn’t do much talking.”

Nice girl. Carver was now making explicit hand signs
and exaggerated ‘orgasm’ faces.

“I see. Did you talk to him since then?”

“No,” Amber answered with a little pout. “And he
said he’d call.”

Bet that ticked her off. “Maybe he was going to–”

“–but he ended up dead,” Carver finished. “Will you
be around if we need to ask any more questions, Miss Tompkins?”

“Oh yes,” Amber said with a smile. “I live here.”

Before Carver started kicking her in the ribs, too,
Davis grabbed her elbow and towed her toward the door, away from Amber.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said through clenched teeth
when Carver dug her nails into his arm. “We appreciate your time.”

“Oh, anytime,” Amber answered, waving red-lacquered
nails.

She stood at the door while Davis and Carver strode
to the elevator and headed for woman number eight out of thirty-two.

So far, they were batting a thousand on crazy.

*          *          *

As soon as the pigs drove off, Amber slammed the
door to her condo and stalked to the ashtray teetering on the cracked linoleum
counter. Lipstick-tinged Virginia Slims threatened to burst from their pink
plastic stronghold. A thin tendril of smoke rose from the brimming pile.

Amber’s unerring fingers extricated the still-lit
remains of her interrupted break. She brought the butt to her lips for one last
drag.

Damn damn damn.

If that preggo pig hadn’t been there, the sexy cop
would’ve been putty in her hands. Wide shoulders, over six feet tall… he wore
that suit like he’d been a born businessman.

Last thing she needed was a cop in her life, but if
he had to be there, she’d rather him sweaty and thrusting than quizzing her
about Tommy.

Why had they come? How did they find her?

No doubt it had something to do with that big-mouth
Lori.

Miss Sassypants strolls into the bank and not three
hours later, Abbot and Costello traipse up her drive. Coincidence? Ha. She
hadn’t been home long enough to finish a damn cigarette.

Amber lit another.

She yanked out one of the wicker chairs from under
the burn-marked card table and flopped onto the seat.

God, she hated this place. Sterile white walls,
palmetto bugs the size of her fist, the neighbor’s colicky brat howling through
the night. She’d have been out of there if she’d have got Tommy.

If it weren’t for stupid Lori. Today sucked.

Dry lips clung to the cigarette when Amber moved to
stub out the butt. She grabbed her purse. Had to be lip-gloss in there
somewhere. Any other day, five tubes of the crap would fall out while she was
looking for– Oh. She’d almost forgotten.

Amber’s manicured fingers smoothed out the sticky
note.

Cypress Circle. Pay dirt.

She pushed herself up from the chair and crossed to
the counter, ignoring the teetering pile of unwashed dishes. The window glass
might be smudged, but the view told her all she needed to know.

No cops. No movement in the parking lot below
whatsoever. And no sun.

The last vestiges of sunset disappeared behind the
row of carports facing her. In the dusky twilight, all the cars looked gray.

Beautiful time to pay Little Miss Perfect a visit.
No Lori, no witness. No witness, no testimony. No testimony, no problem.

Amber shoved the sticky note back into her purse
next to the Glock and headed for her Camry.

Cypress Circle turned out to be just that—a circle.
A cul-de-sac of classic Florida homes. Smaller houses than she’d anticipated,
sure. But each swam in a large lot, surrounded by reams of well-manicured lawn.
Amber checked the number again.

There. Third one on the right.

She drove past and parked on the side of the road, a
half-block from the entrance to the circle. No sense broadcasting Miss Model’s
last night to live.

Flicking her cigarette onto the sidewalk, Amber
closed the driver door carefully and made her way to Lori’s little house,
tugging on some dollar-store gloves and tucking her hair under a ball cap.

No need to spread forensic evidence around like
candy.

A Disney-themed welcome mat graced the front
doorstep. Wasn’t that cute? Amber gave it a good kick, pleased to see it fly
into the bushes.

She decided to circle the perimeter before knocking
on the door to put a bullet in Barbie’s brain.

Darling little flowers surrounded the house. Barf. Amber
made sure to step on them, enjoying the feel of her stilettos impaling the
blossoms and the stems crunching underfoot.

Most of the windows were dark, but one flickered
with life. Looked like TV. So much for a model’s exciting life.

And what’s this? Amber halted, standing still in
surprise.

A sliding glass door separated Lori’s interior from
the exterior. And the door was open wide enough for an elephant to saunter
through. Guess fancy schmancy supermodels didn’t have to worry about the cost
of air conditioning like the rest of the mortals.

The icy blast hardened her nipples from three feet
back. Christ. It’s as if Lori
wanted
to die tonight.

Amber smiled. She’d be glad to grant that wish.

As she stood, a pale, scraggly cat slunk out the
opening and curled around her leg. God, she hated cats. Amber bent, lifted it
by the scruff of its ugly neck, and hurled it over her shoulder backward. The
satisfying mewl as the critter hit the ground barked loud into the stillness.

How annoying. Amber wiped her hands on her skirt.
Fur was so obnoxious.

Before crossing the threshold into Lori’s pristine
kitchen, she leaned against the outer wall and slipped off her shoes. No sense
alerting the prey to the lion’s presence, after all. And that’s what she felt
like.

A hungry lion. A ferocious tiger. A hunter on a
mission to kill. Amber Tompkins, huntress.

Amber slung the purse strap over her neck crosswise,
and wrapped her eager fingers around the cold metal of the Glock. She drew it
out and aimed it straight in front of her chest as she prowled barefoot down
the hall.

Soundtrack laughter shattered the stillness.
Sitcoms. Amber smirked. As soon as she had a clear shot, she planned to fire.

Laugh it up. Enjoy it. She who laughs last… dies.

The form swathed in homey-looking afghans giggled at
the screen. Amber unloaded six bullets in rapid-fire succession. The body
twitched. Amber grinned. Mission accomplished.

Before any hoity-toity neighbors got the urge to go
all ‘neighborhood watch’ and call the cops, Amber slipped back out the door and
into her shoes.

By the time she got the Camry started, a fit of
laughter overtook her.

Nothing could stop her now.

*          *          *

Lori slammed down the lid of her trunk, surprised it
could latch with all those shopping bags stuffed inside.

She really should have let Kimber come, too. Now
that she’d had a few hours to stew over their conversation, she’d come to a few
conclusions.

First, Kimber had a big mouth and little tact.

Lori unlocked the driver door and slid into the
seat. On the other hand, her pull-no-punches friend only wanted the best for
her. In fact, much as it galled her to admit it, Kimber may have been right.

The Mustang’s engine roared to life.

At least she’d come to her senses while browsing at Tiffany’s.
Maybe Kimber would accept a peace offering.

Lori edged the big pink rig free from the tight
space and out of the mall parking lot.

Kimber said it was time to start living again.
Easier said than done. She could never forget the witty, brilliant sister she’d
always wished she were more like.

And her run-of-the-mill queasiness around heights
hadn’t stormed into a full-fledged phobia until Sara had tumbled from her
hang-glider right before her eyes—and Lori hadn’t been able to save her. How
was she supposed to ‘get over’ something like that?