Hot Spot (21 page)

DANNY RETURNED HOME TO FIND THE POWER out and had to muscle open the gate at the end of his drive-way. After parking at the house, he grabbed a flashlight from his car, entered the kitchen, and dialed the emergency number for the electric company. A message machine informed him that lightning had hit one of the relay stations east of the river; Xcel had no idea when service would be restored. One of the downsides to living in the country—no swift action after storms. That's where his generator came in. Walking to the garage, he hit the switch on the Honda 12,000-watt generator and it roared to life. Returning to the kitchen, he flipped on the lights and turned off his flashlight.

A power outage always set his surge unit to beeping, along with screwing up all his clocks and an occasional monitor screen. He'd better check the situation in his office.

The door was half open—not a good sign. Although he may have forgotten to lock it. Not very likely; he'd become ubersensi-tive to security since the last break-in. A quick survey disclosed a jimmied lock, all the wood adjacent to it rough and slivered. His stomach tightened as he pushed open the door and flipped on the lights.

Jesus—the place had been torn apart.

Two of his computers had been partially wrenched from their moorings; file cabinet drawers had been pulled out and emptied; a monitor hung from a desk top, dangling by its cord, scattered papers carpeted the floor. His security codes had held—as they should—so the thief or thieves had tried to carry away the hard drives.

Not an easy task when they were bolted to the desktops; he'd been in this business long enough to understand the necessity of vigilance.

But fuck, what a mess.

Definitely not the work of professionals.

The security camera should have caught the action. Picking his way through the mess, he lifted down a heavily carved frame with an early print of Kilimanjaro. The picture had been pushed to one side and was tipped now at a crazy angle—as if he'd be stupid enough to have his safe behind it. The small digital camera mounted between the lions couchant at the top of the frame had gone undetected, the drilled hole for the lens virtually invisible in the high relief of the carving.

Extracting the small chip from the camera, he took it into his bedroom, pulled out a laptop he kept in an overnight bag in the closet, and powered up.
Come on, come on, come on
, he silently urged, impatient to discover the identity of the criminals.

As the first images came up on the screen, he saw that whether by design or chance, the thieves had arrived after the power went out. All that was visible in the frames were two shadowy figures dressed in black with black ski masks. Christ, he was watching a cliched scene from a movie. They even wore black gloves. Were they actual amateurs or someone who wanted to appear like one in dress-up? As the action unfolded, he watched their increasing frustration as the machines remained bolted down. You'd think if they were professionals, they would have had some minimum tools to deal with the secured computers. His wasn't the only office that made it difficult to carry out the merchandise.

Their penlight flashlights weren't sufficient illumination— even had they been unmasked—to allow identification.

Okay, that was pretty much useless. He shut down the computer.

Now what? Wait for them to show up again? Put in a man trap like the landed gentry did before human rights were a consideration? Call the cops and subject himself to a painfully inept investigation by county mounties who mainly gave out traffic tickets? Sit up every night with a loaded shotgun until the crooks showed up again and shake them down for the name of their employer?

Speaking of suspects—there was one he'd like to shake down more than the others.

A whole lot more.

And if he'd been sober, he might have been swift enough to discover whether she was scamming him or not and maybe enjoy himself in the bargain. But he wasn't sober, his deductive reasoning and mental acuity weren't anywhere near prime, and he was damned tired after too many sleepless nights and martinis.

So wishful thinking about Stella Scott would have to wait— probably indefinitely. He was going to bed. No one was going to try another break-in tonight. Even amateurs weren't that stupid.

He locked up, turned out the light, climbed into bed, and thanks to plenty of Grey Goose vodka, actually slept.

TUESDAY MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT AND CLEAR. Except for some fallen trees and the rivers running high, the storm might never have passed through. The forecast was for temperatures in the eighties and sunny skies. A perfect summer day.

Stella watched the morning news in the store with Megan. She'd come over after bringing her kids to the park for the summer rec program and was admiring the preliminary design and layout of the campaign sign.

"Where did you find that perfect photo of a boy and his dog?"

"A zillion images are available online—they're in the public domain. I had my pick. I shut down briefly for the storm, but as soon as it passed over, I turned on my computer again and finished about midnight. I'll fine-tune it tonight, and we'll send it to the printer tomorrow. By the way, my folks send their good wishes for your campaign. They're as ready as we are to see the Deloittes permanently retired."

"Thanks." Megan held up crossed fingers. "God willing."

"Along with some hard-hitting truths, babe. Be sure you send out a press release talking up your new signs."

"We're way ahead of you. Peggy's sending it out the end of the week to coincide with the signs going up."

"Perfect timing."

"Are you talking about me?"

The women turned to find Buddy coming through the door. "Of course. Who else?" Stella replied with a smile. "Here for your weekly quota?"

"What else? The new comic shipments are marked on my calendar, along with my TiVo list and my golf schedule."

"Some people work for a living," Stella teased.

"And some people have the summer off. Right, Megan?" He turned to smile at Megan.

"Thank God, after nine months of teaching squirrely junior high kids. Did the storm hit your neck of the woods last night?"

"Nothing major," Buddy said. "A few trees down. The power flickered off and on, but didn't actually go out."

"It did at my place. For a couple hours. But the kids were already in bed so TV wasn't a problem."

"No blackout here," Stella said. "Your comics are on the shelf in the back, Buddy, if you're eager."

Buddy grinned. "Takes a fanatic to know one." Comic book collectors waited with bated breath for the new installments. Age didn't seem to be a factor, nor did socio-economic considerations. "Care to go for brunch later?" he asked Megan. "I'm free, you're free, and the river view at The Fish House is picture-perfect." He wasn't asking for a date; his voice was as casual as the offer.

"Why not?" Megan asked. "The kids are at the park till three."

"Care to join us?" He looked at Stella.

"We can't all be on vacation. I'll pass, but thanks."

As Buddy turned to walk toward the back, he swung around. "I forgot to ask. Did you and Rees hit it off?"

Do fish swim? "We had a good time," Stella said, not about to tell him the truth. Not about to give Danny Rees even more reason to have a big head.

"That's what he said. You two'll have to come out on the boat again sometime."

Had Rees really said they'd had a good time? Even after their none-too-friendly parting? Damn. She'd just convinced herself she could live without him—or sort of convinced herself. Translated: if she kept real busy, she didn't have time to think of him every ten seconds. Only every twenty.

It was progress.

What was that saying about the longest journey begins with one step?

AFTER MEGAN AND Buddy left, Stella was grateful the new comics had come in. The store was more mobbed than usual; she rang up sales like crazy. And for long periods of time, she was relatively free of useless fantasies in the vein of Cinderella and Prince Charming. Now if only the new comics came in every day, there might be some possibility of continuous diversion until such a time as she could talk herself out of needing sex with one certain man.

Until that dubious day, however, she had to resort to other means.

Like killing him off in Marky B's newest adventure. Or using her sex toys with more than a little frequency. Or shopping for shoes she didn't need. Thank God for sane, rational coping mechanisms. But that's what being an adult was all about, wasn't it? Making that choice between denial and Prozac.