Authors: Chris Rogers
Bitch Factor
“BITCH FACTOR is going to rank as one of the year’s most stellar debuts. The story is exciting, gripping the reader immediately and never letting go. Sexual tension and out-and-out suspense abound in this outstanding first novel. Keep the name Chris Rogers in mind, for she is definitely going to be a force to reckon with in women’s fiction. Move over Stephanie Plum and make way for Dixie Flannigan, the new kid on the bounty hunter block!”
Romantic Times
New York Post
The Washington Times
Woman’s Own
Booknews
from The Poisoned Pen
Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
Publishers Weekly
Library Journal
Sun-Sentinel
, Fort Lauderdale
Knoxville News-Sentinel
This book is dedicated:
To Krystal, Connie, Cullen, and Kelly, my greatest creations, and to Nathan, Matthew, Brandon, Dean, Charlie, Jolly, Steven, Jennifer, and Tyler, for the joy they bring into my life and for loving me no matter how weird I get;
To Dean K, my inspiration, and to Day, for listening to all my stories;
To Lois, Rex, Dorothy, Alice, and Judy for always caring;
To Amelia, Amy, Ann, Kay, Laurel, Linda, Mary, Margaret, Ron, Shirl, and Stan for needling me with gentle criticism until I got it right;
To the entire audit staff, for their tolerance, friendship, and encouragement;
To the masters I shamelessly modeled;
To the taxi driver who unknowingly begot Dixie’s character; And to Barry, because he insisted.
For helping me keep the facts straight, I wish to thank Jeff Beicker, former bounty hunter; Glenn Gotschall, former Assistant District Attorney for Harris County, Texas; and the entire Houston Police Department—some of the finest people and one of the best-trained crime-fighting teams in this country.
It is also my pleasure to acknowledge: Peter Miller, Jennifer Robinson, all the staff at PMA Literary & Film Management, Inc.; Kate Miciak, Amanda Powers, and everyone at Bantam Books. Without their belief in me, and in Dixie, the publication of this book would not have been possible.
If Betsy Keyes had known about the car waiting at the curb that morning, waiting for the moment she stepped into the intersection, she would have worn the purple shirt. Purple was for special days, days she marked with stars in her diary. The
most
important days got the purple shirt and three stars.
Hopping over a jagged hump in the sidewalk, she shoved a hand in her pocket and pressed a thumb-size metallic noise-maker:
Click!
Released it.
Click!
Sometimes the dark secret Betsy held inside made her feel exactly like a teakettle about to boil over. Squeezing her toy clicker allowed tiny bits of worry to escape, like steam from a teakettle’s whistle. The shiny black cricket painted on top had worn thin from rubbing against her finger. Crickets were supposed to be lucky, weren’t they?
Click, click
.
But today’s worry wasn’t the bad kind. Today she would read her story to her sixth-grade classmates, which was worth two stars in her diary, at least. The story was exceptional. The class would love it…. Betsy hoped they would love it. They would laugh, certainly, and clap.
A honeybee zipped from a smelly wisteria vine trailing a chain-link fence and buzzed past her hair. She dodged it,
skirting a puddle from last night’s rain. Maybe she’d write a story about an angry honeybee that could only buzz-buzz-buzz, while its secrets stayed locked inside forever.
From the time Betsy was five years old, reading picture books out loud to her younger sisters, she’d known she would someday be a fabulous writer. She often skipped the real words and made up her own, inventing new adventures, new characters. Her sisters liked the made-up stories best.
She wished Courtney and Ellie hadn’t played sick today. If they’d walked to school with her, she could have practiced her story. She’d whispered to them, before Mama went out to jog, that she didn’t think they were really sick. After all, they were both fine at Daddy Jon’s party last night.
An empty school bus rumbled past, snorting like an old bear. Betsy wrinkled her nose at the smell. Maybe she’d write a story about a girl bear with two lazy sisters.
She liked going to school early, before engine roar and car horns and the crossing guard’s whistle cluttered the morning with noise. It gave her time to think about… things… like what she might have done to make her real daddy go away. She remembered his dark eyes and the way his hair flopped over his forehead like Courtney’s, but she could no longer remember his smile.
Click, click
.
Sidestepping a pink and yellow buttercup that had poked up through a crack in the concrete, dewdrops glistening on its petals, Betsy pushed the empty feeling away. Today was for happy thoughts. As she neared the intersection, she recited the first line of her story over and over, because teacher said the opening was so important. It had to grab a reader and pull, like reeling in a fish.
Betsy was so caught up in her words, she didn’t notice the car waiting for the moment she crossed the street. She didn’t hear the engine ripping toward her until it was too late. As the shiny black cricket bounced from her hand, Betsy knew she should have worn the purple. Today was the last important day of her life.
RECORDED INTERVIEW: January 4, 19—
I felt the bump and looked in my rearview mirror at the body lying beside the road
….
I honestly thought the killing would end there
.
From the forty-seventh floor of the grandiose Transco Tower, the law offices of Richards, Blackmon & Drake command a panoramic view of the city. Dixie Flannigan scarcely noticed the view as she pushed through the mahogany doors. Pine needles clung to her denim jacket from shouldering a Christmas tree into the back of her pickup, and her hands smelled of pine sap. A janitor, lazily mopping an inch of water off the women’s rest-room floor, had refused to let her enter—even the men’s—and Belle Richards’ message had said
hurry
.
Pausing at the receptionist’s desk, Dixie tossed a green and red handful of Hershey’s Hugs on a document the woman was proofing. The military-strict assistant glanced up.
“Cheers, Sergeant!” Dixie grinned.
The woman’s scowl lifted almost a centimeter. “What’s cheery about adding another damned inch to my hips?”
The law firm had hired receptionist Sally Grimm, former martial-arts instructor, after a client stormed through the offices hell-bent on shooting the firm’s senior partner. Such mayhem would never happen on Sergeant Grimm’s watch. Today Dixie couldn’t resist trying to break through the woman’s armor—after all, ‘twas the season to be jolly. Didn’t
that include stone-faced door wardens? Leaning across the desk, Dixie lowered her voice.
“A copulation consultant once told me a woman’s chances of getting laid increase proportionately with the size of her derriere.”
Grimm’s thin lips twitched at the corners, then rippled into a tight, reluctant smile. Dixie beamed back at her, dropping a few more candies on the desk. As she continued down the hall, she heard a low chuckle, followed by the sound of a foil wrapper ripping open.
Turning the brass handle to Belle’s office, Dixie found the defense attorney on the phone, pacing behind her desk. High heels
thupped
into plush gray carpet, marking cadence with a Muzak version of “Little Drummer Boy.” Attractive, fortyish, and tough as boot leather, Belle Richards had once been described by
Fortune
magazine as Texas’ hottest female lawyer. Today Belle looked rattled. Her hair sprigged out where she’d been running fingers through it, her lipstick was bitten off, and her white silk blouse had a coffee stain on the left tit.
Dixie shed her jacket and settled into a red leather guest chair. She hoped the attorney hadn’t put her heart and soul into another case that was going sour. She and Belle had been friends since law school, and normally, Dixie didn’t mind rallying forces to help slay a few legal dragons, but at Christmastime, family outranked even the best of friends. On the long elevator ride to the forty-seventh floor, Dixie had practiced seventeen ways of saying “no.”
Ending her conversation with a “Thanks, anyway,” Belle cradled the phone and pushed an open file across the desk.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy, Flannigan. Dann and I left the courthouse together only three hours ago, but I think he’s skipped.”
Dixie glanced at the file:
Parker Dann, Intoxication Manslaughter
, which was Texas Penal Code language for driving while drunk and accidentally killing someone. Evidently, he’d also left the crime scene—a hit-and-run case.
“Three hours is a short call.” She thumbed the file open to
flip through the pages. “Tough spot in the trial for a holiday recess?”
Belle bit the last flake of color from her bottom lip.
“A very tough spot. The jury has my client ninety-nine percent convicted already. And you know how strong public opinion gets in the death of a child—”
