Five O’Clock Shadow (18 page)

She reached the back door and stopped. Something was different, wrong; it was closed. She hadn't shut it, of that she was certain. Of course, it could have been the wind. Foolish, probably, to be so jumpy, she admonished herself, it was just easy to get spooked in a place like this. Screw worrying about prints—she turned the knob and pushed. It didn't budge. She pressed her weight against it and shoved. How could it be locked? She threw a shoulder into it, grimacing with pain and fighting the claustrophobic panic that grabbed at her senses. It moved a half inch. So it wasn't locked; it was blocked. Something had been moved in front of it, wedged there and not about to be pushed away from the inside. She was trapped in a building with bars at the windows.

Suddenly she stopped her futile pounding against the door. An odor, familiar and unmistakable, was trying to register on her brain as it wafted towards her down the hall. Gasoline. She jerked her head upright. Recognition zapped through her nervous system, sending shock-waves across her body as the explosion rocked the building. Flames engulfed the front rooms, sending an exploratory tongue of fire curling along the ceiling to within twenty feet of where she stood.

Get to the floor. Stay under the heat and smoke. Where had she learned that? Who cared? Pauly jerked off her half-slip and wound the nylon around the lower part of her face and cursed the skirt she was wearing. The walls in the hall were melting, bubbling, popping, and then turning to liquid. She inched her way to the right. The bathroom, could she find it again? It had a window. Maybe, just maybe, the bars were loose.

“Lady.
Aqui. Aqui.
Over here.”

The roar of the fire drowned out all but its own sound. But hadn't someone called out to her? She made it to the bathroom and closed the door.

“Lady. Here. I help.”

There was a small face at the window about six feet up from the floor. The truck's protector was working on the bars with a tire iron. Pauly slipped once but finally stood on the toilet's porcelain rim, her slick-soled boots not gaining a hold until she balanced a foot against the tank. The room was filling with smoke. She coughed and sputtered and lent her weight to the stubborn bars. But at least there was air. She pushed her head through the opening gulping the outside air that already was acrid from the fire. No glass, no screen, just bars. She was beginning to feel faint.

“Push here…
aqui.
” The boy was pointing to the top corner of the window. Then he pulled and she pushed. A bolt snapped free.

“
Aqui.
” Now he pointed to the lower corner. Another bolt fell away. But the fire was at the door, five feet from where she hung grasping a window sill, her feet slipping and sliding over the tank of a toilet. The paint was blistering, then oozing down the inside of the bathroom door. How long before the entire door simply melted and the fire burst through? Seconds? She was mesmerized, staring at the killer so close.

“Lady. Lady. Now you come.” Suddenly the child was leaning into the room. He grasped her around the neck, then pulled her arm, desperately trying to get her to follow, to understand that she was free. The bars had fallen away. In some gargantuan burst of adrenalin Pauly struggled to force her body through the small opening, using the toilet tank as a springboard just as she felt a burst of intense heat engulf her backside.

She fell hard. Dazed. Not comprehending at first that she was on top of the Dumpster's lid, she lay there gulping in lungfuls of air. Stunned. Something hurt. Her shoulder. Broken? She didn't know, but her purse seemed to have cushioned her head; she'd tossed it out first.

“Please, you come. Hurry. No is safe.” The eyes peeking up over the rim of the receptacle were wildly large with fright. Another explosion somewhere to the side. Flames darted out the bathroom window. Panic. This time Pauly rolled to the edge and, dangling her feet over the side, jumped, then crumpled to the pavement. Small brown hands tugged her upright, pulled her to follow him back around the side, giving the burning building a wide berth.

They rushed for the truck. Fumbling, she found the keys, dropped them, scooped them up, opened the truck's door, pushed her rescuer in first, slipped behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and gunned the truck back over the low curb to bounce into the street with a screech as she rammed it into first gear and floorboarded it.

She made it the three blocks to the main street before she heard sirens in the distance. She pulled into the Allsups grocery-mart and gas station on the corner. Her passenger gripped the edge of the seat and watched her wide-eyed as she parked along the side of the building. She didn't turn the truck off but just sat there, fingers locked around the steering wheel, eyes closed as she tried to regulate her breathing, keep her heart from racing.

Then she looked at her passenger. He hadn't taken his eyes off of her. There were no words…just the fear. A fear that had become an entity poised between them, a shared thing that neither one cared to comment on. She had been so close to dying. He had risked his life. The sound of labored breathing filled the cab.

Finally, she said, “Thank you.” It was all she could think to say. Maybe it was all that was needed. He nodded. She still didn't turn the truck off, just sat there feeling numb, not being able to sort through the thoughts that swarmed, no, swirled through her mind—the transient who probably hadn't gotten out, the Dumpster that had been pushed to block the door…which was good because it gave her rescuer access to the window. She reached in her purse and brought out her billfold. She owed him for watching the truck, but how much was life-saving worth? More cash than she had, that was for sure. She held out two twenties. She didn't have any more unless she went to an ATM. She showed him the empty billfold.

“I can get more,” she said.

He stared at the money. Reluctant to take it? Sobered by it being so little? It had been his life that he'd risked. Was she insulting him? In a flash she knew what she had to do. She put the money back.

“
Muy caro.
” She pointed to the bracelet before she unfastened it and held it out. His eyes sought hers, then strayed to the sparkling diamonds. Had she used the right word? Wasn't
caro
the word for expensive? She repeated the phrase and emphasized “very.” Still nothing. She wanted him to take it. It seemed fitting, a good ending for a piece of jewelry that reminded her only of deceit. It was interesting to muse that Randy had inadvertently purchased her life.

She nudged the child's arm. “
Por favor,
” she said gently. This time there was no delay. He simply reached out, snatched it from her hand, unlocked the passenger-side door and slipped away into the darkness before she could call out. The quickness stunned her. But what had she expected? That he'd wait around and chat?

A hook-and-ladder truck screamed around the corner, followed by an ambulance and two patrol cars. She shivered but her hands were steady now. She locked the passenger-side door, slipped the truck into reverse, then pulled forward and headed back to the motel.

Chapter Eight

Dinner was two packets of peanut butter and cheese crackers and a Diet Pepsi gotten from machines in the motel lobby. Pauly sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, television on but muted, and tried to think. Rational thought. Somehow it was eluding her. What she couldn't quite seem to erase was the stabbing fear that someone had tried to kill her. But wasn't that irrational? No. Her escape had been blocked; the fire set.

She got up and checked the door, twisted the doorknob, all the while knowing she'd locked it and put the chain-bolt in place. Then she called the front desk and left a wake-up call and set the alarm on the clock-radio beside the bed. Doubly sure. No harm in that. She didn't want to spend one minute more than she had to in this place.

Her shoulder was killing her. She grabbed her purse and went into the bathroom. The half-full plastic bottle of Advil was fuzzy to the touch from being buried under gum wrappers and whatever else inhabited the bottom of her purse. She unscrewed the cap, dumped three in the palm of her hand, ran the cold water tap a moment before filling a glass and chugging them down. She should have thought to do this earlier, when she first got back. The shoulder wasn't broken, but promised to be stiff and painful by morning.

She looked in the mirror and found the reflection difficult to recognize. Terror stared back at her accentuated by blanched, too-white skin, lips devoid of color. Dark eyebrows, akin to two slashes of a magic marker, sliced across her forehead. She couldn't turn away. So this was what it looked like to be lucky to be alive. She shivered, closed her eyes, and stepped back. She needed a shower. Her hair stank.

She dropped all of her clothes in a pile by the sink, then walked to the closet and pulled out one of those complimentary plastic clothes bags and brought it back to the bathroom. She stuffed everything inside, the skirt, the hundred-dollar vest, the blouse, pantyhose. Not a lot was salvageable. The skirt torn, the right sleeve of the blouse shredded below the elbow, the vest stained across the shoulder, and all smelling so badly of smoke that she'd almost gagged. Luckily she'd packed another skirt and blouse combination and a jacket, something appropriate to wear to the office. The pantyhose were a loss, but she could always buy more of those. Even if the things hadn't been ruined, she suddenly didn't want to see any of them again. It didn't make sense, but if she could have buried the lot in the back yard, she thought she would have.

Finally she stepped into the shower. The water pulsed against her head and neck. She turned, shook her hair away from her face, leaned back and let the water run down her back, pummeling her bruised shoulder. She was coming back to life. She lathered and rinsed her hair three times and reluctantly stepped out of the steam and warmth to stand shivering on the thick pile bathmat.

The knock on the door made her cry out, then quickly cover her mouth. How could she be jerked from security to danger so quickly? She froze, unable to think of what to do. The next knock resembled pounding and she wrapped a towel around her hair and grabbed another for her body.

“Miss? Security here.” The voice was muffled. “Can you hear me?”

Security. But how could she be sure?

“What do you want?” She had to repeat her inquiry twice to make herself heard through the door.

“Left the lights on in your truck.”

Damn. She probably did. Now what? She unlocked the door but left the chain-bolt in place. “I just got out of the shower. Could I ask you to turn them off for me? I'll just get the keys.”

The officer was young and seemed more interested in the amount of bare skin that was showing where the towel didn't cover. She handed the keys through the four-inch opening in the door. Was she being foolish? She was silhouetted in the truck's lights, high beams no less, that penetrated the darkness and blasted the front of the unit. Talk about a beacon that might call attention to number twelve…how could she have forgotten the lights? But she thought she knew. She watched as the security officer opened the driver's side door and punched the knob that plunged both of them into darkness.

“I get off at nine. There's a pretty good band in the bar out front.” He handed the keys through the partially opened door.

God, he was trying to pick her up.

“Early day tomorrow. But thanks.” Did she slam the door? She hadn't really meant to.

She fluffed her hair, deciding to skip the blow-dryer, and slipped on the flannel nightie, the one Grams wanted to replace with something more feminine. The faded plaid night shirt was one of Pauly's favorites. She wasn't ready for the tufted mules and matching feathery peignoirs that Grams favored. She flopped back on the bed. Calmer, more relaxed, ready to think this thing through.

Who knew that she was coming to El Paso? Besides Tom and Archer, there was Steve, also her grandmother. Sam had given her the address but had had no idea when she'd check it out, or
if
she would. Had she been followed? She had no idea. She really wasn't being careful, noticing things, making herself aware of her surroundings like Tony had warned her to be. There was still a PI out there following her around as far as she knew. And whom did he report to? Archer, or Tom? Maybe both of them.

But why? She didn't think she knew anything. Wasn't she the one struggling to find answers? Someone must be worried that she was getting close. But to what? Or did they just want her out of the way on general principles—like the pictures in her safe deposit box?

She hit the volume button as a news bulletin came on the screen. A three-alarm fire on River Street had claimed the life of an as yet unidentified person, who it appeared had been caught inside. It was uncertain just what that person's connection might be to the tragedy, which had been orchestrated by someone dousing the building with gasoline. The arson investigators were on the scene and were already offering opinions that the blaze had been set. One man pointed to a gas can that had been found in the parking lot.

The news cameras panned the smoldering building, now without its roof, and returned to the reporter who was saying that the building had been empty for some time but had been headquarters for a U-Haul trucking firm. Not the Amistad adoption agency? Was she surprised? No. The reporter finished by saying it might be a few days before a positive identification could be made on the body found in the building.

Was someone listening to the TV report at this very moment who thought that body was hers? The thought was chilling; goosebumps rose along her arms and rippled over her thighs. She hadn't thought of that. Or did the arsonist wait around? Did someone see the boy lead her back to the truck? That seemed more likely, someone waiting in the shadows admiring his handiwork, only to see the intended victim escape.

And what had the boy seen? Had he been hiding somewhere, maybe still in the bed of the truck, when the gasoline was poured around the front of the building? Why hadn't she questioned him? It had been stupid to just let him slip away. It was possible he could have identified the arsonist.

She got up and checked the window; it had bars but with release snaps along the side. She tugged the drapes to overlap at the center. Was she safe here? Probably. And she couldn't panic and just rush off, go home in the middle of the night. She really needed to make an appearance at the teaming firm in the morning. She didn't want to have to answer the questions it would raise if she just headed for home now. How could she tell Tom what had happened? She'd made such a big deal about taking an active part. No, she'd stay. It'd be business as usual in the morning.

And she made a silent vow to Tony. She would look over her shoulder, at least be aware of her surroundings, and not be so trusting, not put herself in possible danger like snooping around deserted buildings alone.

***

The company was easy to find. El Paso Energy and Engineering was in a “nice” part of downtown, on the second floor of a five-story building that had a granite facade and its own parking garage. She hadn't slept well, but makeup covered a lot and taking the previous evening into consideration, she looked better than just presentable. And she was alive, wasn't she?

She'd checked out of the motel after breakfast and planned to work the day at El Paso E&E and then head back. Nothing on earth could have enticed her to spend another night in a strange bed. El Paso had quickly become her most unfavorite place to be. She pulled into the underground parking at the rear of the building and parked next to the elevators. So she wasn't a compact car, she didn't see anyone who was going to make her move and she just felt better being close to the building's entrance. The elevator opened directly in front of the receptionist's desk on the third floor. The nice suite of offices had the smell of newness, sizing in the carpet, Scotchgard protection for the overstuffed furniture in the waiting area.

“Mrs. McIntyre? If you'll wait here, please.” The receptionist was interrupted by an incoming call, but waved towards the denim settee. Then, after answering a brief question, added with a smile, “I'll ring Mr. Warner for you.”

Pauly didn't have to wait. Mr. Warner seemed to lope down the long hall to her right, hand already outstretched in greeting. He had that Ichabod Crane look of the too-tall and too-thin which meant that his clothes hung and didn't fit well.

“Uh, I just got off the phone with the folks from MDB and I…I don't want you to shoot the messenger but you need to call your office. There seems to be some problem, no, a holdup, just a delay…well, some question about your getting a clearance and I…I've told them that E&E isn't comfortable with the fact that you don't have one, aren't cleared yet, and now that you may not be able to be.” He stopped short. His nervousness almost overcame him but he hastened to add, “That's not a personal policy. I wouldn't be doing this, but you've got to realize that we've got a governing board, pretty strict in their requirements. We're a young company; we can't afford a wrong step.” A hesitant, apologetic smile jerked up one corner of his mouth.

Pauly thought she could read between the lines. Archer. It had to have been Archer. Mr. Warner was just a little too nervous. Had dear Archer put the screws to him? Made him be the bad guy so that poor Archer just had no choice but to remove Pauly from the project? She was so angry that she didn't trust herself to speak. How could he do this? Bypass Tom and yank her off the job?

“Could I suggest that you use the phone in the reception area?” Mr. Warner was almost blocking the hall now. The hang-dog look appeared real. But let him suffer. What had Archer said that she'd done? Sold secrets to the enemy, whoever that was this month?

But she wasn't going to waste time on some hackneyed phone conversation. The damage had been done. She was officially off the project. There was no doubt about that. And poor Mr. Warner wasn't really a player in all this. No, her fight was with Archer. And what she and Archer had to discuss, had to be done in person, face to face or not at all. Pauly didn't say anything, just turned abruptly and walked back to the elevators with a protesting Mr. Warner offering his apologies. What a spineless ass. But to be fair, Archer could be convincing, and El Paso E&E didn't know her, had no way of knowing that the information Archer had given them wasn't correct. The elevator doors drifted open, then shut after she stepped inside and cut off any further protestation.

She made it back to Albuquerque in four hours and without a ticket. Anger blotted out any memory of the night before. How could Archer blatantly lie about her? Intimate that she was unfit? Exactly like he'd done. But had he initiated some kind of suspect information? Planted something for the FBI to find? Or merely passed on a rumor that he'd heard, unsubstantiated but devastating if it were true, and let the PI take it from there?

Now the PI thing really impinged on her freedom, her ability to work, have a life. Hadn't she taken this “snooping” too lightly? She had been naive enough to believe that they wouldn't find anything, but that didn't include trumped up evidence, something planted that would make her suspect.

By the time she pulled into MDB's parking lot, she knew what she was going to do. And she wasn't going to worry about how dumb it might be in retrospect. Archer Brandon had sullied her name, was squeezing her out of participating, would demand, no, pressure her into selling her one third of the business because she was a liability. And it was all a lie. She thought she knew why he wanted to get rid of her. And unless she played her trump, put a new spin on all this, he'd do just that.

Tom was sitting in Archer's office when she stormed past the secretary.

“He can either stay or go. It's up to you.” Her voice was controlled as she pointed to Tom, her eyes locked on Archer.

“Pauly, there's no need to be upset. There's just been a little glitch…” Tom started.

“Glitch? Interesting word for ‘lie,' wouldn't you say?” She pulled a chair up opposite the desk and beside Tom. “I don't suppose it's anything you'd like to share. Clue me in on what is serious enough to warrant getting me bounced off the project?” Both men were immobile. Tom looked at the floor. Somewhere behind Archer's eyes there was the hint of a smirk, just a little ‘I've won but can't gloat quite yet' look.

“If anything, Archer, I'm surprised. Shocked that you would attempt to get rid of me, threaten me with some trumped-up accusation that could ruin my career when it might not just be my career that goes down.”

Silence she could cut. The glimmer of enjoyment was snuffed out and Archer's eyes hardened, squinting as if trying to concentrate, understand what it was she was getting at, maybe not wanting to believe.

“Pauly, there's no need for ugliness. You're upset.” Tom reached out to put a hand on her arm, then thought better of it and paused.

“I think we're past the condescending bullshit,” she said. Tom's arm recoiled and ended up in his lap; he shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Sweat dotted Archer's forehead.