Chill Factor (20 page)

“Thanks,” she told Casey. “What do I owe you for the photograph?”

“A date with Mr. Wonderful up there.”

“I think he might be spoken for by Ms. Tits-and-Ass.”

Casey’s grin turned her gnomelike face comical. “If she makes it a threesome, honey, I won’t object.”

At The People’s shooting gallery, Philip Laskey emptied his Sig Sauer into a life-size target of Chief Wanamaker.

Left eye—
pop!
Right eye—
pop!
No point in drilling body armor.

Nelson Dodge and Rudy Martinez fired at Mayor Banning. Cronin, the fifteen-year-old rookie, watched eagerly, yet flinched at every shot. Along with his new khaki uniform and lapel pin, Cronin wore ear protectors to filter out the din.

It was Dodge’s job to show his recruit around, but the big guy had been in a state all night after an argument with his father. Reluctantly, Philip had offered to take over. He didn’t like Cronin. And his sympathy with Dodge ran shallow. Philip’s own father had died the same year Philip was born. His only knowledge of the man whose seed he carried sat on his mother’s bureau—a yellowed snapshot.

“A fine, good man,” Anna Marie had told Philip. “A trifle heavy with the rod at times, but your pa was always there for us.”

Not for Philip. Ever. At times, a voice in his head asked,
If the man was so fine and good, Anna Marie, why did all his sons move away as fast as they were old enough?

Philip’s closest brother in age was twenty-two years older and lived somewhere in California.

“A son each year, until there were five, Philip. And then so many years passed, my womb drying up, my baby off to join the navy—what was God thinking, sending me another little one? When your father died, I knew. God sent me a son so that I would not die alone.”

Cranking the target to arm’s reach, Philip yanked the Chief off his hook. The firing pattern needed improvement. He retrieved his shell casings, removed his ear guards, and motioned the rookie outside, away from the noise. Cronin lingered, watching Dodge’s rapid, tight shots, then followed.

“Come back to the locker room,” Philip instructed. “I’ll show you where to stow your gear.”

A wasp buzzed past Philip’s head. He eyed it as he continued walking. When the wasp zoomed in for another pass, Philip smacked it out of the air and into the wall, so fast he barely felt the weight of it on his hand. It fell to the floor, stunned, and Philip crushed it under his shoe.

“Clean it up,” he told Cronin.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the rookie, and the rookie polices the camp.”

Cronin glared for a full ten seconds before he finally picked up the wasp by a wing from the otherwise immaculate floor, and tossed it into a waste can.

As they approached the training room, Philip heard voices of the men warming up.

“Martial-arts practice, every night, two hours,” he told Cronin. “You’ll train seven nights a week the first three months, then have one night a week free.”

The kid nodded. “What about shooting practice?”

“Starting next month, an hour each night.”

“Some men have handguns, some rifles.”

“You’ll train with both but won’t be issued a piece until you qualify. Colonel Jay decides where your strength lies.” He handed Cronin a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Training diet.” The same diet Philip followed, twenty-four ounces of meat, three glasses of vegetable juice, two quarts of distilled water. Fruit juice allowed after the third week.
“Random saliva and urine tests show whether you’re following it.”

Cronin looked up from the list. “You’re kidding, right?”

“To build a perfect world, first build a perfect body.”

Philip strode to his own locker and suited up, already preparing his mind for the training room. As they crossed the hall, he glanced back toward the gallery, where Dodge and Martinez continued shooting. The Colonel would choose one man to take down the enemy. Rudy Martinez couldn’t be beat on long-range shooting, no argument. But long range might not be practical this time, and Philip intended to show Colonel Jay he could do more than organizational detail work. If the opportunity arose, he intended to qualify as number-one backup.

Friday

Edna Pine met Lucy Ames in November at Club Cato.

Dixie rolled that fact around in her brain, willing it to stick to something. It remained the only connection she’d found linking Aunt Edna to the other robberies.

Robbery
, actually. Still no link to the first one, which occurred a full week before Lucy Ames held up the Webster branch. Then Edna ripped off the Richmond bank the next day.

Did Lucy and Edna cook up their heists
after
hearing about the successful robbery in Houston? There’d been no headlines on it. Since no shooting occurred, the
Chronicle
had buried the item on an inside page, and the bank’s public-relations department had issued only the barest details. Holdups scared away customers. But Lucy, an employee of Texas Citizens, would’ve known. She also could’ve supplied insider knowledge about when the branches would be cash heavy.

Comparing the info picked up at Club Cato with what she’d learned from Terrence Jackson, Dixie saw a pattern emerging: a recently widowed country woman determined to seek out new experiences. Not much, but a thread more than she’d known fifty-eight hours ago, when she agreed to help Marty. Maybe she could follow this thread to a “new experience” that included both Lucy and Edna.

The first checks written to Unique Boutique and Artistry
Spa appeared in late December, after Edna met Lucy. Lucy may have introduced Edna to the spa and boutique, or the two friends may have discovered the places together. Or not.

Dixie flipped a coin and headed toward Artistry Spa. When she peeled the Mustang off Loop 610 onto Westheimer, the heart of the Galleria area retail and office complex, she hit the speed-dial button on her cell phone.

“What do people do at singles clubs?” she asked when Parker answered.

“You pulled me out of the shower to ask about singles clubs?”

Dixie’s gaze flickered to the stained-glass bauble dangling from her rearview mirror.
My day begins with your smile, your scent, your touch …

“Must be nice, lie in bed till nine, stroll into work at ten.” Her own body clock started at dawn, except on weekends.

“Boat buyers keep the same hours.”

“Do you want to get back in the shower or tell me about singles clubs?”

“You’ve never been to one?”

“Parker! Do all salespeople answer a question with a question? If I’d been to one, I’d know what people do there.”

His gruff chuckle nudged a sleeping memory of them snuggled together in front of the fireplace, watching a late-night comedy.

“You caught me,” he said. “Most buyers are so flattered to talk about themselves, they don’t notice the salesman’s evading their questions.”

“I wouldn’t buy anything from someone who did that.”

“No?”

“I’m telling you, those ‘persuade and close’ gimmicks don’t work on me.” Yet listening to Terrence Jackson, hadn’t she felt an incredible urge to find some “languishing” dollars for him to invest?

She maneuvered a left turn, nearly throwing her neck out of joint trying to balance the phone.

“People who believe they can’t be hooked are the easiest,” Parker teased. “Did you drop a wad on a new toy and get buyer’s remorse?”

She told him about Jackson, leaving out the part about finding him handsome.

“I think Jackson might’ve conned Edna out of some dough, and I’m wondering if he’s the man you saw at her house after New Year’s. How would you like to attend a singles fiesta with me tonight and have a look at him?” It
was
Friday, after all.

“Bringing a date to a singles function is like wearing a sign that says ‘hate me.’”

“Okay, we’ll go separately. In addition to your taking a gander at Jackson, I thought we’d play detective.”

“Hmmm, sounds kinky.” They agreed on a time to meet. “By the way,” Parker added, “I can give you a sales resistance trick that works every time.”

“Really?” Not that she needed one. “So give.”

“Create a picture in your mind of Jackson being his most persuasive.”

She conjured Jackson’s espresso-brown eyes as they’d locked with hers, and felt again that shiver of interest she’d experienced in his office. “Okay.”

“Hear what he’s saying?”

She tried to concentrate on the words, but Jackson’s hypnotic voice made that impossible. “Yeah,” she lied.

“Now, change his suit to a purple tutu.”

Dixie grinned, imagining it. “Okay.”

“Add a long, pointy nose and floppy ears.”

Jackson became the donkey boy in
Pinocchio.
“Got it.”

“And a squeaky, silly voice.”

“Hey, it works!”

“Every time—did I hear brakes squeal?”

“Some idiot ahead of me using his cell phone.”

Dixie disconnected and slid into a parking space in front of Artistry Spa. A funky sculpture of colored shapes boldly illustrating the spa’s name marked the entrance. Turning a spoon-shaped knob in a polished steel door, Dixie heard the string sounds of Pachelbel’s “Canon,” and caught a quick whiff of what heaven must smell like. Flowers? Yes, but also vanilla, spice, something musky …

Aromatherapy.
Dixie wondered if they sold the scent in a
bottle, and if so, how much her credit card would allow her to take home.

Artistry Spa: the ultimate sensual experience
, the Yellow Pages ad had promised.
All-natural glacial facials, seaweed body wraps, therapeutic massage, pressure water massage, aromatic mud baths …

Dixie shuddered. Why would anyone put herself through such embarrassment? The list in the ad had measured over an inch deep in ten-point type, and the woman who greeted Dixie must’ve had the works. Chocolate-brown hair, alabaster skin, and cherry-red nails all glistened as if they’d been turned out by a pastry chef and glazed with sugar. Her clothes fit like a banana skin.

When Dixie asked for Lonnie Gray, the woman smiled with perfect teeth. “If you’re willing to see someone else, we could take you right now.”

“I just had a few questions—”

“Then I can help you.” She slipped a brochure from a drawer in a silver-leafed table.

So far the woman hadn’t said enough to fill a sound bite, and she didn’t appear to be the person who’d have the most revealing information on clients.

“I really need to see the owner.” Dixie offered the business card she’d taken from Edna’s dresser:
LONNIE GRAY, PROPRIETOR.

“Lonnie does reserve Mondays for consultation appointments, but at the moment he’s unavailable.”

No way to get out of this without a treatment, Dixie realized. Perhaps following Edna’s experiences might in itself be revealing. If she had to endure a “seaweed body wrap,” it damned well better be useful.

She tried a little Southern aggression.

“I heard so much about Lonnie from my friend Edna,” she gushed. “I don’t believe I could trust anyone else to do me—and I
did
make an appointment.” Fortunately.

“Well … Lonnie’s here, but … he’s having an emergency.”

“How long will I have to wait?”

The woman moved with fashion-model slinkiness to a phone on a tiny silver desk beside a teal chair far too delicate to
invite sitting. Except for the dollar signs Dixie saw stacking up rapidly, the decor gave away nothing concerning the transformations taking place beyond a pair of satin-finished lavender doors. Neither did the one-sided conversation she overheard.

“Half an hour,” the woman said, cradling the phone. “You can wait in the steam room, if you like. Open those pores.”

Eight minutes later, stripped, showered, and wrapped in a towel as big as a bedsheet, with a smaller one around her vigorously shampooed head, Dixie lay on a teakwood bench within a dense cloud of eucalyptus steam. In no time at all, her skin felt so relaxed it might slide right off her bones. If pampering oneself felt this terrific, she could be sold, after all.

Before she became a complete puddle, the door opened, and a ribbon of cool air invaded the delicious heat.

“Ms. Flannigan. Lonnie can evaluate you now … if you’ll come with me.”

Dixie swam up from her near slumber and followed the cool air out the door. A different woman, as perfectly polished as the receptionist but dressed in lounging pajamas, led her through another lavender door. The spacious room—mirrors at all angles—held a massage table, a beautician’s adjustable swivel chair, a teal sofa, and a silver coffee table, where a carafe of orange juice chilled in a bowl of ice. The woman gave her a lavender satin robe that glided like oil over Dixie’s lobster-pink skin.

“Would you care for a mimosa?”

Champagne
and orange juice. With no food in her stomach, she’d be dizzy in two sips, but what the hell, why not get the full effect of shameless hedonism? Maybe the alcohol would make the torture bearable.

“A small one,” she said, and then before she could stop herself, tossed back a third of the delicious liquid in one swallow.

“Make yourself comfortable. Lonnie will be in shortly.” The woman indicated the beautician’s chair.

Dixie sat. “Any chance of a bagel to go with this drink?”

The shadow that crossed the woman’s features couldn’t be called a frown. Such a perfect face wouldn’t dare.

“We have fruit. Will that do?”

“Anything.”

“I’ll bring it right in. Oh … and here’s Lonnie!” Her smile said Dixie should feel honored by the noble attention.

She left the door ajar, and Dixie heard the man speak before she saw him.

“This color is
extraordinary
on you, sweetheart.
Gorgeous.
And I can’t get over how
slim
you’re becoming. Look at you. Who is this slender young thing?”

Dixie caught a glimpse of the woman whose shoulders his arm encircled. Sixtyish, in her strawberry-pink suit, carefully styled hair, and flawless makeup, she reminded Dixie of Edna. Not her old neighbor, but the Edna who’d smiled amiably over a gun barrel. Dixie’s antenna homed in.