Web of Smoke (25 page)

“I was looking over the trust agreement while you were changing,” he said. “Your mom’s house in La Mesa didn’t go to DC. It went to Beth McClain.”

“What?” Christie asked, returning reluctantly to grim reality. She perched on the barstool. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that,” she murmured.

“Yeah, well, why would you suspect Pfeiffer? Like you said, there was a lot going on at the time.”

He opened the wine and poured them each a glass. She sipped at hers, watching while he cut an onion and tomato, placing the slices on a plate.

“I was thinking,” he said, popping a piece of cheese in his mouth and cutting another for her. “Let’s drop by and see Pfeiffer. Unannounced. Give him a little surprise. Maybe if we rattle his cage, we’ll get some straight answers out of him.”

“You and your surprise attacks, Sam.”

He looked up, grinning again. “I am getting into this investigation stuff, aren’t I?”

“I’d say so. There’s one thing you didn’t think of, though. It’s after business hours. He’s probably gone home already.”

Sam’s self-satisfied grin widened. “I had my pal look up his home address.”

“You’re not suggesting we go to his house, are you?”

“You bet. On the way, I want to stop by my office. I’ve been thinking about that business card of mine that we found in the gym locker. The more I bounce it around in my head, the more convinced I get that I’ve met this guy. His face isn’t familiar, but from what you say, it shouldn’t be. I usually don’t remember faces anyway.”

“What’s that got to do with your office, Sam?”

“I make everyone who stops in fill out a contact card.”

“So?”

“So, I’d like to look through my files and see if I find one on him. Maybe it will ring some bells.”

“You have files?”

He looked up from spreading mayonnaise on bread. “Yes, I have files.”

“The circular kind, right? Like the kind the trash man picks up every week?”

“For your information, I have very organized files,” he said defensively. “Alphabetized and everything.”

She took another sip from her glass, watching him over the rim.

“Okay, okay. A client’s daughter does the filing.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He rolled ham, turkey, and roast beef slices into cones and neatly arranged them on thick bread, topping them with crispy bacon. Next went cheddar and jack cheese, lettuce, thick slices of tomato and onion, then salt and pepper. He added a light dressing of olive oil and Dijon mustard. Cutting the two-inch masterpieces with a giant serrated knife, he passed one over to Christie.

She took a bite, remembering other nights spent in this kitchen eating Sam’s creations.

“I missed your sandwiches, Sam.”

She ate half of the giant sandwich before reluctantly turning back to the matters at hand.

“Okay, assuming we will actually find this contact card in your files
,
tell me what good it’s going to do us.”

He swallowed a bite before answering. “Mostly it’s questions about physical activity and exercise they’re used to. I like to cover my ass on that kind of stuff. Some people don’t think of golf as a sport and don’t think they have to be in shape to do it. Heart-attack scenarios. Other than that, there’s an address and phone. If I have a card on him, it’ll be interesting to see whose he uses. I don’t know that we’ll get anything else useful from it, but it’s worth a try.”

“And? That’s not all, is it?”

“And, I want to pick up my gun.”

“Gun? No way, Sam. You know how I feel about guns. A gun is an invitation to get killed.”

“I knew you’d react this way. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I want to have it—just in case. I feel antsy, Chris. Like something’s about to happen. If that’s the case, I’d rather not wait for it.”

Finished with their sandwiches, they restored the kitchen to order.

Sam gave her a questioning look. “Ready?”

She shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The last wisps of sunset faded from lavender to black but the evening still held the day’s warmth, hugging the thick air close like a woolen blanket. As Sam locked the front door, Christie stared at the shadowed trees and shrubs, motionless silhouettes against a moving gray backdrop. The moon gleamed through the misty veil, tracking their steps. She felt exposed in its glow, at the mercy of shifting clouds.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, turning away from the door.

“I don’t know. I’m paranoid, I guess. I always feel like I’m being watched.”

“You are,” he said, hooking a thumb behind him. “Look.”

She turned to see Snort and Bear, paws to the window, watching them from inside. They looked alarmed at the prospect of being left alone. Christie wished she could go back and comfort them, but she didn’t think soothing words would disguise her jangled nerves.

Turning her back on them, she climbed into the Jeep beside Sam and closed her eyes as he drove. Sam grabbed her hand and held it, his touch reassuring.

“Quit worrying, Christie. We’re not doing anything illegal.”

“I guess not, but I’m still as crazy about the idea of having a gun as I am about popping in on Leonard Pfeiffer unannounced. What if he calls the cops or something?”

“I’ll leave the gun in the car when I talk to him. We’re only going to visit him, Christie, not gun him down. If he asks us to leave, we will.”

After a few minutes of driving, they parked in the deserted Padre Trails lot. Submerged in shadows that rustled with still life, the green oasis looked like a photo negative of the picturesque daytime scene. Trees towered with deathly-looking limbs, the grass glimmering like black quicksand.

Close to the shore, the golf course stretched below an ocean mist that coated the sky. It acted like an acoustical ceiling, muffling and distorting the night’s sounds. Christie heard a car in the distance and the hoot of an owl, both noises seeming to come from just over her shoulder.

They crossed the silent blacktop that bordered the rolling greens. In the distance, the
chicka-chicka
of a sprinkler kept pace with their footsteps. Her clothes blended with the night and her white hand seemed to float, unconnected, as Sam grabbed it and guided her to the shed-like office bordering the driving range and the pond. He unlocked the door. Reaching inside to flick the switch, he flooded the doorstep with bright illumination that blackened everything in the periphery. The screen door banged shut behind them.

The inside of Sam’s office was small and cluttered, fragranced with the scents of leather and coffee. Christie stood in the narrow space beside a junior-sized basketball net with a strategically placed wastebasket beneath it.

Sam grabbed a club that leaned against his desk and one of the balls scattered over its surface, tapping it across the mini putting green that hogged half of the room. Returning the club to its resting place, he went to the desk, sidestepping more sports paraphernalia with practiced ease. He pulled open the bottom file drawer and removed a folder. Staring over his shoulder, Christie saw that the folder was marked “Prospects.”

He caught her questioning look. “These are the ones that don’t sign up after they come in. When it’s slow, I go through them and touch base. Give them a little push if they seemed serious to start with.”

She’d never thought Sam organized enough to recruit clients, picturing him, instead, as taking it as it came. This simple plan for keeping business going tipped some scale in her mind, revising an opinion she hadn’t even known she’d possessed.

As he sorted through the stacks of cards, she wandered to the window, now shut and locked. A tickle raced down her spine, chasing goose bumps across her skin as she looked into her reflection superimposed against the black fabric outside. Her own eyes stared back at her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else’s did, too. She closed the blinds.

“I wonder if that bastard used his own name or made one up?” Sam mumbled. “There’s nothing under Porter. I’m checking the addresses for your mom’s.”

“Here, let me have half,” she said, reaching for a pile.

Together they scanned the cards, the room silent except for the shuffle. Christie had gone through a quarter of the stack, when she paused, staring at the card in her hand.

“Sam, look.”

He took the card from her and read the name. “Dwight Calvin McClain.”

They stared at each other as, outside, a mockingbird’s song abruptly ceased and the silence seemed deafening. Christie looked up, her gaze trying to penetrate the dense blackness beyond the screen door. From somewhere close, she heard a thud. As if someone had kicked a rock or stubbed a toe on a root. Across the desk, Christie met Sam’s gaze and knew he’d heard it too.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Did you hear that?” Christie asked.

Sam looked up, not sure what he had heard. Christie stood and moved to the open office door, staring out at the inky blackness beyond.

“Sam, did you hear that?” she repeated.

He listened harder, nodding his head. “It must have been a squirrel, Chris. You’re psyching yourself out.” He turned back to the contact card he was studying. “Guess who DC listed as his employer? Leonard Pfeiffer. I’m not surprised.”

A sound, or maybe it was the lack of sound—her silence instead of her answer—something warned him. He jerked his head up, spinning around in his chair to face her.

Sam didn’t need an introduction to know that the man with the knife to Christie’s throat was DC Porter. DC jerked, turning on Sam as if he’d caught sight of some slight movement, but in the split second that passed, Sam had been too shocked to move. DC’s sudden spasm cut a nick into Christie’s neck. A scarlet drop of blood dribbled over the knife’s edge. The sight of it honed Sam’s surprise into cold, hard anger.

“Let her go, DC,” Sam said, putting his hands in front of him in a deceptively placating gesture.

DC’s gaze darted around the room in a continuous circle. It was apparent that the shadows made him nervous.

“Get outside,” DC ordered.

With the blade on Christie’s neck, DC took a step inside the office and waited for Sam to lead the way out.

Sam stalled for time, his searching gaze finding the putter propped against his desk. Keeping his hands palms up in front of him, he stood.

“You don’t want to kill her, DC. You’ll never get the house then.”

DC stilled, staring at Sam. “What do you know about it?”

“I know you and Mary Jane meant to do business. What happened, DC? You blew it, didn’t you?”

DC grabbed a handful of Christie’s hair and gave it a violent jerk. “She fucked it up for me. Always acting like a fucking queen. Too good for me.”

“You let a woman come between you and business?” Sam asked, clicking his tongue reproachfully. “How could you do that?”

DC turned red with angry embarrassment. Too outraged to speak, he flapped his lips like an air-breathing fish and sputtered disjointed curses.

Sam inched around his desk but DC caught the action, jerking him to attention with another vicious yank on Christie’s hair. Sam froze.

“I said outside,” DC snapped.

“Easy, man. I’m going,” Sam said, knowing he wouldn’t get an opportunity to overcome DC. He’d have to make one.

With that realization, everything slowed to a minute ticking of emotion and reaction. His glance ricocheted off the putter leaning against his desk. He saw the look of astonishment in Christie’s eyes as she realized what his intentions were. He felt the warm night air breeze through the open door and brush against his flushed and heated face. His palms felt like they were coated in Vaseline. DC spewed a string of curses at them, unaware of the changing tides.

Sam drew even with the club and, hiding the action from DC with his step, wrapped his fingers around the familiar grip. In one fluid movement, Sam pivoted his body, swinging the club as he turned. It hissed through the small space separating them, screaming with friction as it parted the thick air. Christie lunged to the side while surprise momentarily froze DC. With all Sam’s weight behind it, he slammed the club full speed at DC’s head, but at the last moment DC acted with quick reflexes, jumping to the side. The club glanced off his shoulder and sent the knife flying across the room.

“Christie,” Sam yelled. “
Run!
”

She ducked away from DC but, instead of running, she lunged for the knife. Sam stared at her for an incredulous split second. Damn her, he’d said run! She never listened.

Sam swung the club again but, with incredible strength, DC wrenched it from his hand. Hurling his body at DC without hesitation, Sam propelled them both into the screen door. It snapped back on its hinges, spilling them out of the office. They hit the hard ground with a force that knocked all the wind out of Sam and left a dark veil of stars over his eyes. Somehow he’d landed on the bottom with the weight of DC shifting on top of him. Frantically, he blinked his eyes, peering through the star-studded blackness just in time to see DC throw a punch that smashed into his nose and obliterated everything but a screeching pain that rendered him sightless again.

Striking out blindly, Sam’s fists connected with DC’s body. He pounded with all his strength. Pinned by the other man’s weight, Sam still managed a lucky shot that clipped DC in the face and knocked him off-balance. Locked in battle, they rolled to the shore of the still pond between the first hole and the pro shop.

Sam’s vision began to return and the hazy image of DC loomed into focus. Scrambling to his feet, Sam had just a second to brace himself before the weight of DC’s body slammed him backward, into the pond.

They shattered the icy surface, the shallow oily waters sucking them into the muddy slime. The shocking cold cleared Sam’s mind instantly, narrowing his fight strategy into one simple impulse. Kill.

Pushing off the floor of the pond, he locked his hands around DC’s throat. DC fought, clawing at his throat, trying to peel back Sam’s fingers to let in even a breath of air, but Sam held tight. The feel of DC’s cold, slippery flesh beneath his fingers fed the consuming rage that tore through Sam, demanding blood. Demanding vengeance.