Killer Kisses (12 page)

“Boys, for God’s sake.” As Dick continued to dab at his nostrils, Beth Heade yanked at her husband’s arm. “We have more important things to work on than some juvenile pissing contest.”

Heade lowered his fist and allowed himself to be led away, all the while glaring at Web. “I’ll make sure you’re on the night shift the rest of your life, Dweebster.”

Web shrugged. There were worse things in life—like being married to Dick Heade, for one. He sat down and listened to Beth pick up where her husband left off, her high-pitched voice artificially cheerful, as if she was on the Home Shopping Network hawking a particularly garish lot of jewelry.

“Okay, then,” Beth pointed the remote control and clicked to the next slide, showing downtown Summerville. “It is going to be
very
busy time. Between the reunion and the Arts Festival, every hotel room in town and in the neighboring villages are booked. This is a great opportunity for homeowners to rent out rooms to our visitors.”

The next slide showed Beth’s downtown real estate office. Web assumed she couldn’t resist the opportunity for a bit of
shameless self-promotion

Despite the fact that their rival hogged the spotlight, two other local realtors, Susan Cloutier and Sam Kruger, seemed unperturbed by Beth’s hype. Web knew for a fact that many clients defected from Heade Real Estate when they grew tired of Dickhead’s intrusions into his wife's business dealings. His overbearing boss just
had
to be in charge of everything and everyone in his realm.

“As always, I’m
happy
to help with rental agreements,” Beth announced. “Let’s not forget that in addition to catching up with our old or shall we say,
mature
colleagues, we have a wonderful marketing opportunity for Summerville. Some folks might decide they want to move back here to be among their friends.”

A photo of sail boats gliding across the white capped surface of Lake Ontario came up on screen. “Or they might want a summer home.” Beth flipped to a photo of a brick town home on Lake Shore Boulevard. Thanks to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, the perpetual look of false surprise on her face grew to clown-like proportions. “We have
everything
here in Summerville!”

Web couldn’t decide which was more annoying. Dick's nasal annoying bombast ego driven dribble, or Beth with her incessant chirping. If it hadn’t been for his mother, Web would have escaped from this boring little burg a long time ago, and moved on to more exciting places where he could make a difference, instead of spending weekends arresting underage drinkers at the U.

The death of his father in a car crash when Web was sixteen sealed his fate. He stayed in Summerville to become his mother’s scrawny, but determined protector. Her slow descent into Alzheimer’s Disease, turned his role into a permanent one.

His mind drifted back to those dreadful adolescent years when, all arms and legs, he was known as the Dweebster. He’d spent a lot of time stuffed into hall lockers by his constant tormentor, the same back then as now, Dick Heade. The only good thing that ever came out of it was meeting Lola Getz the day she opened her locker and he fell out—right on top of her luscious curves.

They both went down, him flailing, her squealing. Then, she’d dissolved into laughter. He’d been mortified, but would never forget what she said after they finally got back to their feet and he told her his name.

“Webster Bond.”

“Hmm. Stirred but not shaken. I like that in a man.”

Her Mexican accent sent a thrill down his spine and elsewhere. Thankfully, the class bell rang before he could say anything terminally stupid.

After high school, with no money for an out of town, much less out of state university, Web enrolled at Summerville University. Knowing he wanted to get into the police academy, his Criminal Justice Studies advisor took him under his wing to mentor him. Over time, with the help of the professor, puberty, and pumping iron, Web morphed from a scrawny kid into a lean, mean muscle machine.

From that point onward, women fell over themselves to get him into bed. He’d even been told by the same professor, still his mentor, the local co-eds had a running contest to see who could get arrested by the ‘hunky cop’.

He came back to the present and tried to focus on a new slide, allegedly of Doogan’s Pub, but with the Heade Real Estate sign clearly visible next door. Talk about shameless self promotion. He closed his eyes and wondered if the years had been kind to Lola, or if she’d turned into someone like the overly surgerized Beth.

Web shook his head to clear his mind of the revolting image of Lola with artificial body parts.
The
only
person he was remotely interested in reconnecting with from that era probably didn’t even remember him. Besides, a
fter what happened to her, he doubted she’d ever want to see Summerville again.

CHAPTER TWO

~*~

Ravenous, Lola slipped into a plush terrycloth robe and wrapped a towel around her thick hair. She couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into that chicken mole. It had been calling her name for the last thirty minutes. She slid into a pair of flip flops and flapped her way to the kitchen, the tantalizing aromas growing stronger with each step.

“Flora?”

She pushed the swinging door inward and paused to admire the room. Aside from the minor work she’d had done on her studio behind the house, the kitchen had been the last renovation on the old
casa
before her husband’s death. Outrageously non-Mexican, its white tile floors, black granite counters dotted with opal inclusions and white cabinets with glass fronts gave the room a clean, modern look.

Lola’s marketplace paintings, much sought after in the United States and elsewhere, imbued the space with splashes of color and contrasted past with present. Mexico, with all its turmoil, crime and corruption was still a beautiful country replete with the contradictions of modern day life and a foundation of ancient civilizations that still could be seen in the faces of the common people.

A covered dish sat on the stove; the table was set for one. A glass of red wine awaited her, along with a note. She opened it. Large block letters spelled out “LO SIENTO. FLORA.” How odd. Flora
never
left notes. Lola had no idea the woman could even read or write.

What the hell was going on?

She looked out the kitchen door, searching for the telltale glow of the night watchman’s cigarette.
Nada
. She ran to each exit, trying to find signs of the usual cadre of gunslingers assigned to stand at each of her entryways.

Nada, nada and nada
.
 

Panic bubbled through her chest. She ran to her bedroom, locked the door behind her, and picked up the house phone.

It was dead.

Her cell phone wasn’t safe. Izzy had told her that anyone with a Bluetooth headset and a computer could listen in on her conversations, worse yet, they could track her movements using the GPS in her own phone. She grabbed the 'go bag' from the closet shelf, threw in the leopard cover for sleeping, tossed the throw-away phone into her large purse, and opened the hidden wall safe. Stacks of US currency and jewelry went into her bag next, along with passports from two different countries. She hesitated for a moment when she reached for the next item.

She wouldn’t get across the border if she took it with her. On the other hand, there was a good chance she wouldn’t make it out of the compound if she
didn’t
.

Lola took a deep breath. Enough waffling. Her life was in danger.

She grabbed two boxes of ammo and the Glock. Good thing she’d practiced with it during the last weeks. She might just need to kill a few
coyotes.

~*~

After the room emptied, Web collapsed the folding chairs and placed them into stacks along the beige cinder block walls. With a little paint and care, the community center could be transformed into a real community jail.
Yeah. That’s the ticket.
He chuckled, then Beth Heade’s chirpy voice broke into his thoughts.

“What’s so funny?” She stood with her fist on one hip, her head cocked at a bird-like angle.

Web shook his head. “Nothing you’d want to hear.”

She sighed as a curtain of blonde hair fell across her eyes. “Honestly, don’t you think it’s time you guys buried the hatchet?”

Oh, yeah. He was willing to bury it. Right into Dick’s head. He cleared his throat. “Let the record show I did not lift a hand against your husband.”

“No, but you deliberately provoked him. You know better. He has a short fuse, and you lit it.”

Web glanced around the dingy space. It was just Beth and him now. Time for a private conversation. “No, he was lit before he came to the meeting.”

Her head snapped back and she glared at him, all signs of friendliness gone into the blue permafrost of her eyes. “How dare you?”

“I dare, because I’m the adult child of an alcoholic. All you’re doing is enabling him with cover ups and denial, Beth. You have to open your eyes.”

She wrapped her arms around her super-sized chest. “He’s just a heavy drinker. Like his dad.”

“Yeah. Just like his dad’s drinking buddy,
my
dad. Except my dad drank and died in a car crash. Thank God he didn’t kill anyone else, but my mother and I are still paying for it. You should be thinking about the consequences for your family.”

Her eyes glittered with tears. “We don’t have any kids—you know that.”

“Kids or no kids, you owe it to yourself to get help…get him help and we’re not talking about alcohol, are we? I think he’s into coke.”

Beth's gaze darted around the room. “He’s not an
addict
. He just uses it
recreationally
.”

Web opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Dick’s bellow. “Beth, where the hell are you?”

Dick charged into the room, his custom-made suit looking uncommonly wrinkled. “What’s taking you so long?”

Beth grabbed her bag and a stack of handouts. “I’m all set. Why don’t I drive home?”

Dick turned and glared at Web. “What’ve you been saying to my wife?”

Web didn’t respond.

“Okay, Dweebster. That’s it.” Heade put his arm across Beth’s shoulder. “I’m making sure you’re on night shift for the next month. Your job will be to patrol all of Summerville, keeping our streets safe for the Class of 1985. No Eastman Awards dinner, no dinner dance with the Harbor Lights, but look at the bright side. You
might
make it to the baseball game.”

“I have seniority. I’ll be talking to my union rep.”

Heade placed a hand on his chest and feigned a look of surprise. “You do that, and I’ll just have to declare a state of emergency, what with all the mobs of folks coming into town with Art Fest.”

“That seems a bit over the top, even for you, Dickie.”

“Did I do that?” Heade snickered. “Let’s go home, Beth. I have big day tomorrow.”

Waiting until he was certain to be alone, Web slammed a chair against the wall. Now he wouldn’t even have a chance to see if Lola showed up for old times’ sake.

~*~

Lola made one more trip into the house from the garage. Her hair still damp, clothes stuck to her wet skin and the gun irritated the hell out of her lower back. How did gangsters keep the stupid things jammed into their waistbands? She loaded a cooler with ice, cold drinks and the chicken mole that she absolutely refused to leave behind. There were limits, after all. And she was
starving.

The lights went out.

Praying and moving as fast as she dared, she felt her way along the walls, silently cursing her choice in building materials when she bumped into the corner of a granite counter.

Breathless and hands shaking, she found her way into the garage, then to the car. She fumbled miserably to get the key in the ignition and waited for the propane generator to kick in, so she could open the garage door.

Nothing. Had they shut off the gas line?

She called on all the saints she could remember.

She heard a loud thump and the lights came back on. Lola hit the remote and the garage door began to rise in slow motion. She bit her lower lip, drawing blood.

Vamos. Madre de Dios, vamos!

She heard men shouting and saw small flashes of light.

“Ooh,
mierda
!”

She floored the gas pedal and the armored Hummer flew out, the roof rack scraping the door with a shriek. The sounds of fire crackers followed, pinging the car. Tires squealed and dark forms leaped out of her path. If she could make it to the border into the US, she
might
avoid being kidnapped—or worse. Just as she thought she was clear of obstructions in the driveway, a boom rattled the windows of the car and a burst of light erupted in her rear view mirror.