The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (8 page)

Both liked what they saw. He was slim but broad-shouldered. His dark suit, which he wore over a bright white button-down shirt, hugged him like a second skin.
 

Beth leaned over the dinette counter for a better look. “Now, what do you suppose a man like that does for a living?” she mused out loud.
 

Jolene smiled. “Women—and lots of them.”

She’d love to be welcomed into that club.

Sadly, when he grabbed the nozzle from the high-octane pump, it looked as if she wouldn’t have that chance. Jolene sighed. Only patrons paying by cash came inside the café, unless they were hungry enough for a cup of the tepid coffee and a wedge of the three-day-old cherry pie that sat under the glass dome on the counter.

“I’ll just bet he’s an actor,” Beth chattered. “Who else would have a car like that? I’ll just bet he’s driving back from Phoenix because he’s got some movie role waiting for him—”

Suddenly, Jolene realized he was coming their way.
 

He was hungry for something after all.

His walk was as smooth as silk, like a man who knew what he wanted and always got it. She’d do what she could to make him want her—right here, and right now.

Well, maybe not there on the counter, but a quickie in the ladies’ room, say.

It wouldn’t be her first time.
 

In fact, it happened more often these days, since her boob job. The Las Vegas plastic surgeon had suggested that she go for something less “Anna Nicole Smith-esque, and more Scarlett Johansson-like,” but Jolene shook her head, declaring, “Nope, I want the most bang for my buck.”

She was getting banged a lot, so the proof was in the pudding.
 

Still, it was a numbers game, and a girl had to have patience.

It looked as if Jolene’s patience had finally paid off.

She hissed to Beth, “Don’t you have some spuds to chop, or some pans to wash or something?”
 

Beth knew the drill. Her loud, long sigh said it all:
you owe me.

Jolene waited until Beth slammed the back door before sliding behind the cash register.
 

Even before Hottie opened the front door, she dimpled up and thrust out her chest, but she timed a come-hither lick to her pouty smile when their eyes met.

His response—to give her the once-over—had her so flustered that she practically drenched her thong.
 

He held out a fifty-dollar bill. “I’d like twenty back, small bills.”
 

She nodded casually. But when she took his money, the warmth from his touch surged through her like an electric current.

So that he couldn’t see her blush, she stared down as she slipped the bill into the cash register. As she pulled together his change, she murmured, “Our coffee is the best you’ll find between the Arizona border and Twentynine Palms. I made it fresh, myself.” She caressed the word “fresh” with such longing that he paused to consider the possibilities.

He chuckled, then nodded toward the pie pedestal. “Did you make that yourself, too?”

“Who, little ol’ me?” she giggled. There was no way in hell she’d take credit for a Costco pie. Instead, she purred, “I have a lot of talents, but baking ain’t one of them.”
 

To help him guess what she excelled at instead, she let her eyes drop to his crotch.

She took her time raising her eyes to meet his. Hottie’s deep green eyes were mesmerizing.
 

She reached out with his change. But this time when their hands touched, he held fast to hers—

In order to pull her even closer.

She shifted her face up so that her lips were just inches away. Her free hand went to his hardened bulge. Oh yeah, he’ll do, she thought.
 

And I am so ready—

Then they heard it: another car, pulling up into the parking lot out front.

Hottie’s grin disappeared. His eyes narrowed as he watched the driver get out of the car.
 

The man was short, bald, and certainly over fifty, from what Jolene could tell. Despite the desert heat, the man wore a jacket over a white shirt and khaki slacks. He paused before entering in order to take off his round-framed spectacles, breathe on the lenses, and wipe them with a handkerchief.

Ah, hell, thought Jolene. The dude has lousy timing.

Hottie nodded toward the corner booth. “You talked me into that coffee and pie.”
 

It pissed her off that he hadn’t had time to take her up on her promise for the best sex of his life.
 

It made her just as angry that Baldy pulled up in the no-parking zone. If an eighteen-wheeler stopped for fuel, she’d have to make the idiot move. Otherwise, one of the two cars was sure to get hit, what with Hottie having left his right at the pump, too.

Maybe Baldy just wants to stretch his legs or put air in his tires, she prayed.
 

No such luck. The idiot was on his way into the café.
 

Worse yet, he walked right over to Hottie and sat down across the booth from him.

They nodded, but didn’t say a word to each other. Miffed, she cut a slice of the pie and poured the coffee. Before walking over to them, she slipped a menu under her arm.

The dishes clattered as she laid the plate and mug in front of Hottie. She practically slung the menu at Baldy. But before she could flounce away, Hottie grabbed her by the wrist. “He’ll have what I’m having,” he said with a wink.

She winked back. “Sure, he will.”

She had no doubt he was watching her as she sauntered off.
 
Suddenly she wondered, did I just promise to give Baldy a quickie too? No…Hell no! Oh sure, she’d been the sweetmeat in a middle of a manwich on a few occasions. But this time she wanted her focus to be on no one but Hottie.

She’d make sure he saw it that way, too, if push came to shove. She certainly knew what to push, and where to shove it.

The men’s voices were too low for her to hear what they were saying, not that Baldy said much of anything. It seemed that Hottie did all the talking. Baldy just shook his head and frowned. When he spoke at all, the words came out in an unintelligible growl.

When she placed Baldy’s food in front of him, she noticed he had a ring on his pinky finger. It was gold, with a black shiny crest. Also outlined in gold was the number, “13.” Usually if someone was wearing something unique, she’d coo out a comment in the hope that they’d leave a bigger tip. Instead, she kept her mouth shut. The look in Baldy’s eyes sent a chill up her spine.

She was relieved when, a moment later, he got up and walked out the door. By the time he pulled out of the parking lot, Hottie had also risen. He didn’t look too happy—until he realized she was walking his way. Then the devilish smile was back. “What do I owe you?”

She shrugged. “For two coffees and pies, it's seven-fifty.”

He opened his wallet and pulled out another twenty. He folded it and placed it in the deep crest between her breasts. “Keep the change,” he said with a wink.

Before he could remove his hand, she pressed it against her breast.

He didn’t pull away.

They were interrupted by a dull buzz coming from his cell phone.

He pulled it out of his pocket and stared down at it, but he didn’t answer it.

When he laid it down on the tabletop, she knew he didn’t care who was on the other end of that line.
 

That made two of them.

She eased herself onto the table. Then she grabbed ahold of his belt buckle and pulled him toward her. His response was to lift her skirt and hook her thong with his index finger. Slowly, he pulled it down her thigh—
 

But they froze when they heard a cacophony of horns. In unison, they looked up to see a trio of eighteen-wheelers circling the gas pumps.

“Aw, hell,” Hottie muttered as he ran out the door.

Seeing him, one of the truckers rolled down his window and hollered, “Yo, buddy, you’re blocking the diesel pumps! Better move that ballet slipper before it gets sideswiped.”
 

Two of the other truckers were already parked and making their way into the café. As Hottie brushed by them, one poked the other in the rib and snickered.
 

Hottie stopped in his tracks. He turned around to face the man. He stood there for a moment, still and silent.

Then he punched the trucker in his throat.

While his buddy lay gasping on the hot asphalt, the other trucker raised his hands as a sign of surrender.

Hottie stared at the trucker for what seemed like an eternity. The fear in the man’s eyes sent a shiver down Jolene’s spine.
 

Realizing that the trucker wasn’t going to give him any trouble, Hottie looked back at Jolene, winked, then strolled to his car.
 

She watched as the Carrera backed out of the lot and peeled off.

Then she noticed Hottie’s cell had fallen onto the booth’s cushioned seat.

Hmmm. Maybe Beth was right, and he really was an actor—in martial arts movies or something. She didn’t see enough of them to know for sure.
 

She was sorely tempted to open the cell phone’s directory and scroll through the contact information. The only thing that stopped her was the hope that he’d come back when he realized he’d left it, and she’d hate it if he caught her snooping.

That hope stayed with her the rest of the night.

At daybreak when, as she served the three-day-old pie to two deputies from the Joshua Tree Sheriff’s Department along with another coffee refill, one of them mentioned something about a Porsche that “had to have been doing close to ninety miles an hour before it rolled and burst into flames.”

Jolene felt the blood rush from her face. “Was it a black Carrera?"

Seeing the look of horror on her face, he nodded solemnly and added, “By the time the fire truck got there, it was an inferno. Burned so hot, it incinerated the body. Nothing was left but ashes.”
 

She was so stunned that she dropped the coffee pot as she ran to the ladies’ room to throw up.

By the time she remembered she had Hottie’s phone, the patrolmen had cleared out. She didn’t feel guilty holding onto it.
 

Later at home, when she opened it, she was disappointed to find it locked with a security code. Now she’d have to wait to see if
People
or
Us Weekly
mentioned the accident. Should it turn out he was someone after all, at least she’d always have it, as a memento.
 

Hell, it might be valuable, even more so now that he was dead. If she’d learned anything on the night shift, it was that sometimes patience paid off.

Chapter 5
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

Every now and then, a spy vanishes in an attempt to escape the web of deceit in which he is forever tangled.
 

If he never resurfaces, it’s due to one of four possible reasons:

(1) He is truly off the digital, social, and communal grid, and therefore has left no trace of his existence;

(2) He has successfully changed his identity, which means he’s successfully taken on a new one, and most certainly a new face as well;
 

(3) He has enough dirt on his employers for them to leave him alone; or

(4) Bang, bang, he’s dead, thanks to the employer who sends in the clean-up crew, or an old enemy with an ax to grind—on the gone guy’s neck.

Should the missing agent resurface eventually, it’s only because (a) he’s not dead; and (b) he wants to be found.

Be duly warned: he, too, may have a few axes to grind, so watch your back…and your neck.

Jack’s headache was a clear indication that he’d gone to bed drunk.
 

Again.

If he needed further proof, all he had to do was look at the empty Scotch bottle rolling back and forth on the floor of the one-hundred-year-old antique mahogany cabin cruiser he now called home.
 

He’d won the cabin cruiser from a down-on-his-luck Irish seaman, thanks to a backdoor straight in a Texas Hold’em game at Charly’s, the only casino on the French Riviera that was still willing to let him play, especially after the unfortunate incident at Le Baoli that included a scuffle with the lobby boy of the Hotel Cannes de Croissette, and a chimpanzee he’d emancipated from
Le Parc Zoologique de Frejus
.

The boat came with its own crew: three blondes who claimed to be dancers from the Monte Carlo Ballet who thought the chimp was—how did they put it? Oh yes, “
être un bourreau de coeurs
”—a ladykiller.

“That makes two of us,” Jack muttered under his breath.

The waves slapping against the boat were gentle enough now. But last night they were rougher. Every so often the bottle slammed into an empty tin basin on the far side of the galley. Whenever this happened, Jack’s ears interpreted it as the start of Armageddon. He’d slide out of the bed, his Sig cocked and pointed in the direction of the perceived danger. Depending on their own states of mind or ability to hold their liquor, either the women would squeal in fear, or moan through their hangover headache, or hiccup obliviously.