Authors: Fern Michaels
Sara's Song (30 page)
The phone still in her hand, she dialed Dallas's number from memory. When there was no answer, Sara left a message for Adam on the answering machine. “Pick me up at 210 Coriander Street. It's a complex of town houses a half mile down the road from my house. It's 2:30. I'm leaving now because strange things have been happening here.”
Sara raced upstairs to pack a small bag. Her new purchases in hand, she made two trips to the garage. She felt like crying again when she turned off the tree lights. Was life ever going to be the same? The joy and anticipation she'd felt earlier over her date with Adam was gone. What she felt now was fear, anxiety, and a total sense of loss.
When she drove away from the house, she knew she wouldn't return. And if she did, it would be to pack her things. She wasn't sure, but she rather thought Carly felt the same way.
This time when she left the house, she didn't bother setting the alarm. What was the point? There was also no point in looking back. She drove faster than usual in her hurry to get to Nellie's town house. When there was no parking space to be found, Sara parked in front of the manager's office to see what could be done. “If you're a friend of Nellie's, then I don't see any reason why I can't let you use the indoor garage. Here's the remote garage-door opener. Just bring it back after you park your car. Will Nellie be gone long?”
“Possibly a week or so. I appreciate this. Thank you, Mr. Owens.”
“Anything for Nellie. She treats everyone in the complex and won't take a dime for her help. It's my pleasure, Dr. Killian.”
The town house was spacious, two full bedrooms, each with its own bath, a formal dining room with a vaulted ceiling, and a step-down living room. The eat-in kitchen was colorful and homey, with green plants, shiny copper, and checkered curtains. The furniture in the living room was old, comfortable, and well-worn. Baskets of cat and dog toys and a scratching post took up one full corner. A small artificial Christmas tree with presents underneath stood in the room's other corner. Sara turned on the tree lights as she peered at the name tags on the gifts piled under the tree. There was one for her and one for Carly and one for the Hawk. A long skinny box that had to be a fishing pole had the name Steven on it. Other small packages said Cosmo and Mandy. Nellie's cat and dog.
Back in the kitchen, Sara fixed herself a cup of tea. She was going to sit down and relax and pretend she didn't have a worry in the world. Then and only then was she going to take the bubble bath she had promised herself.
While she waited for the water to boil, Sara thought about her grand plans for the evening and the clean sheets she'd put on her new bed earlier in the day and the expensive bottle of wine she'd bought. Just in case. “Nobody gets it all,” she muttered as she carried her tea back to the living room. A soap opera where the heroines were in constant peril was something she could deal with. Hell, maybe she could learn something.
“Please, God, make this all go away. Let me get my boring, sane life back. I promise to do whatever You want, be whatever You want. Just make this all go away.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sandi Sims pawed through the mail that always arrived at the same time the
LA Times
arrivedâlate. Usually it was a good way to start the dayâcoffee, the mail, and the paperâif you were someone who started her day at two in the afternoon like she did. Today, though, she scowled when she saw the crackly white business letter whose return address said it was from Lord Enterprises. The catalogues, the resident mail, the utility bill, and the newspaper were tossed on the kitchen counter. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon and already she knew it was going to be a bad day. In many respects it could turn out to be the worst day of her life.
LA Times
arrivedâlate. Usually it was a good way to start the dayâcoffee, the mail, and the paperâif you were someone who started her day at two in the afternoon like she did. Today, though, she scowled when she saw the crackly white business letter whose return address said it was from Lord Enterprises. The catalogues, the resident mail, the utility bill, and the newspaper were tossed on the kitchen counter. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon and already she knew it was going to be a bad day. In many respects it could turn out to be the worst day of her life.
Stirring the sugar at the bottom of the cup, her eyes narrowed to slits, Sandi ripped at the crackly white envelope. Two green business checks dropped to the table. The letter was short, cold, and to the point. Adam Lord was retiring the Canyon River Band, effective immediately. A check for six months' severance pay and a check for a six-month premium for health insurance were enclosed. A reminder that a term life-insurance policy was paid in full until January 1 of the following year completed what Sandy referred to as a kiss-off.
Sandi reached across the kitchen table for her cigarettes and the portable phone. Smoke billowing upward, she dialed a number she had called a dozen times a day since Dallas Lord's death; Dallas's voice mail. It pleased her to tap into Dallas's voice mail. It was her way of staying on top of things. Adam received such interesting financial messages. So far, though, she hadn't learned a thing that would give her the edge where Sara Killian and the song were concerned. She punched in the code, pressed the appropriate buttons, and listened. She toyed with the two checks that totaled $25,000 as she listened to Adam Lord's messages. She scribbled notes on the back of the Lord Enterprises envelope.
Nothing was going right. By now she should have the song in her possession waiting for the highest bid to come through. She should be set for life. Instead she had a kiss-off letter and a measly twenty-five thousand dollars. If things didn't take a turn very soon, she would have to go back to pedaling her ass at two hundred bucks a night. Orâand she didn't even want to think about the orâshe could downsize, move to one of those cramped garden apartments, sell the pricey sports car and the condos, and get one of those tacky Hondas half the residents of LA drove. If she was forced to go on the prowl again, she'd need a complete new wardrobe. The twenty-five grand would be gone in the blink of an eye. She didn't allow herself to think about the hundred thousand dollars she had conned out of Dallas. That was her emergency nest egg, never to be touched. She shuddered when she envisioned herself driving into a Burger King drive-through trying to hide behind dark glasses in the tacky Honda. Not in this or any other lifetime!
It was ten minutes past three when Sandi emerged from her bedroom dressed for the day in a canary yellow spandex dress with matching spike-heeled sandals. The Chanel bag with the tools of her tradeâcondoms, cell phone, a state-of-the-art mini-tool kit she'd extracted from a lowlife on the race-car circuit, magnet, and assorted miscellanyâwere at the bottom of the silk-lined bag. A small pouch of expensive cosmetics, her checkbook, keys, cigarettes, and gold lighter were transferred from her everyday Gucci shoulder bag.
At the last second she flipped over the newspaper to scan the headlines; she always wanted to know what the prominent people in LA were up to. A small article on page four caught her eye. Carlisle Killian, the sister of cardiologist Sara Killian, was injured in an accident that totaled Dr. Killian's Jaguar. Foul play is suspected.
“Right car, wrong sister,” Sandi seethed. It was just her miserable luck that the wrong damn sister had the accident. As an afterthought she tapped into Dallas's voice mail a second time. She listened intently, scribbling furiously. The doctor was on the move! A smile stretched across her face when she broke the connection. She was back in business.
Sandi was locking the door when the phone rang. She reentered the apartment to pick up the phone on the fourth ring, a smile in her voice. She grimaced when she heard the voice on the other end. “I was just going out the door, love. Dinner? A surprise! I love surprises. Give me a little, teensy-weensy clue. You're right. It wouldn't be a surprise. The restaurant of my choice? Are we celebrating big or little? Big! I hate to ask this, lover, but what is in it for me? A life in the lap of luxury until I'm old and gray? In that case, I'm free all evening. A new outfit from the skin out! Are you serious? Of course I'm interested. Should I just have the store call you or send the bill directly? Do I have a limit? The sky! Goodness, it must be big! I know you're partial to red teddies with lots of strings and lace. I can come by around six for cocktails, or I can meet you at the restaurant. We haven't had an all-nighter for months. Are you sure you're up to it? Seven o'clock at the restaurant. I can't wait.”
Sandi sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. Living the rest of her life in the lap of luxury. No more scrambling, no more hustling. A man Ronald Iverson's age couldn't live forever, no matter how often he played tennis and ate fat-free food.
In the bedroom, Sandi peeled off the spandex dress. The spike-heeled shoes flew across the room. Five minutes later she was dressed in bib overalls, Nikes, and a dark blue windbreaker. A Dodgers baseball cap covered her long blond hair. Her designer sunglasses were replaced with aviator glasses, the kind all the young studs in LA wore to make themselves look important.
Outside in the parking area, Sandi's gaze swept the line of cars parked under the long slate roof. She knew which cars had the keys in them, which cars had the keys under the mat, and which owners were sleeping. More than once she had helped herself to a vehicle with no one the wiser. She was always careful to replace the gas and adjust the odometer. Today the pickings were exceptionally good. She had her choice of a hunter green BMW, a white Audi, or a slate gray Range Rover. Two of the owners had rolled in a little after six, which meant they would sleep till around seven before they were ready to party again. The owner of the Range Rover was in Arizona on location. If she chose the Audi or the BMW, she had a little over four hours to use the vehicle. If, on the other hand, she chose the Rover, she could drive it for weeks with no one the wiser. She opted for the Range Rover because she'd borrowed it before and liked the way it handled. Just yesterday she'd borrowed a dark blue Taurus to follow Sara Killian. She looked around the parking lot, but the Taurus was gone.
Sandi tossed a brown canvas Gap bag onto the backseat. The Chanel bag would have clashed with her outfit. She adjusted the seat, helped herself to one of the owner's cigarettes before she backed out of the parking space. She knew for a fact Jim Laker had had the car serviced before he left, and there was a full tank of gas. An outdoor adventurer, Laker had a ton of camping equipment in the back, all of it stacked neatly. He went off for weeks to cleanse his body and live off the land. In her opinion, Jim Laker was a nutcase, but he had a healthy trust fund, something she found hard to ignore.
Sandi was almost out of the parking area when a FedEx driver flagged her down. She stopped, her eyes wary. She crossed her fingers that the driver didn't know Jim Laker. Obviously her disguise wasn't the best. She waited for the driver to make his way to the Rover, an overnight letter in hand. “Sign here, Miss Sims. Nice vehicle.”
“Thanks. I like it.” She scrawled her signature as she tried to read the messy handwriting on the air bill. Frank Ryan. A squiggle of fear worked its way into her stomach. Why would Frank Ryan be writing to her? A quick glance into the rearview mirror told her she wasn't holding up traffic. She ripped at the tab, noticing that her hand was shaking. At a dead stop, Sandi shifted into park and took her hands off the wheel. She was so nervous she needed both hands to hold the single sheet of note paper. It was a short note on lined tablet paper, sloppily written. Her stomach heaved when she read the message.
“Someone has been asking questions about you. A fax came into the office with your picture. I told them I didn't know you. It's a good thing you told me your real name or I would have spilled the beans. Call me. There is more.”
The brief note was signed, Frank.
Her breathing ragged, Sandi backed up the Rover, then maneuvered the truck back into its original parking space. Her heart pounding, she whipped out her cell phone to dial the number on the note. Frank himself answered the phone.
“I got your letter. What is going on?”
“There was some private dick asking questions about you a few days ago. He wanted to know everything the guys knew about you. I gotta tell you, kid, I was the only one who recognized you. You're lookin' good these days. Most of the old guys are gone. You know how this business is. Besides, no one wants to get tangled up in someone else's misery. Everyone on the track is allergic to cops of any kind, especially private dicks. Are you in some kind of trouble, kid?”
“Not that I know of. I was singing with the Canyon River Band when Dallas Lord died. At the moment I'm out of a job. Dallas wrote one last song that was never recorded. His brother is trying to find it.”
“And you don't know a thing about it right, kiddo.”
“Actually, Frank, I do know a thing or two about it. Dallas wrote the song for me when we were . . . together. Things went awry and he got himself mixed up with some doctor who took care of Billy Sweet when he died. I think she either stole it or in a weak moment Dallas gave it to her because he was angry with me for breaking things off. The brother, who is a real buttoned-up guy, is like a wet hornet. If I had that song, I'd be sitting pretty right now. The breaks just never seem to come my way. How are things at the track?”
“Same old same old. If that guy comes back or more faxes come in, how do you want me to handle it?”
“Don't tell them anything, Frank. I don't want some suit screwing up any job offers that come my way.”
“That was a terrible thing about the singer. Stay in touch, Sandi.”
“You too, Frank. Thanks for sending the letter. I guess I need to start paying attention to what is going on around me.”
“If you ever find that song and sell it, spread the wealth. I'm getting too old for all this shit.”
“Count on it. Can we keep this just between us, Frank?”
“Sure, kid. Why else do you think I called you?”
“Thanks again, Frank, and Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you, kid.”
Sandi wiped the sweat beading on her forehead with her sleeve. She counted to twenty-five before her breathing returned to normal. So Adam Lord wasn't as dumb as she thought he was. Who else but Adam would hire a private detective to check into her background? Did he suspect she was behind Sara Killian's break-in? She hadn't left any clues, and she knew how to cover her tail. She slammed her clenched fist into the armrest. “I want that goddamn song!”
The sky opened up the moment Sandi steered the Rover into traffic, making it almost impossible to see. She took the first turnoff she came to, electing to find her way via side streets so she wouldn't risk having an accident. By the time she swerved into Nellie Pulaski's complex it was so dark and gloomy she had trouble seeing the building numbers. She drove through the parking area three times looking for the Jeep Sara Killian had been driving the day before. On her fourth go-round she realized the doctor might have gone out or stashed the Jeep somewhere else. Well, there was only one way to find out. She circled the lot again looking for an out-of-the-way space where the Rover would be safe and not noticed.
Sandi parked the Rover carefully before she climbed over the backseat. Somewhere in the back there was probably a rain slicker. If she went out in this deluge, she'd be soaked in seconds. She rummaged until she found a yellow-lined brown poncho and struggled into it, making mental notes as to how the things had been packed by Laker. At the last second she picked up a black ski mask and stuffed it inside her windbreaker.
Sloshing through the rain, Sandi searched out Nellie's building. She had no trouble opening the door that led to a small lobby and a bank of mailboxes. The building seemed exceptionally quiet. Buildings like this usually had thin walls, through which stereos and televisions could be heard. Maybe this was a senior building where elderly people lived. It would certainly account for the lack of bicycles and baby carriages that were usually parked in the lobby. Nevertheless, didn't seniors have hearing problems? Televisions and stereos would be louder. There were also no cooking odors of any kind. She wondered if it meant anything. Another few minutes were used up as she tried to assess the situation. She decided none of it was important. The time was four-thirty.
Her ear to Nellie's door, Sandi spent a good five minutes listening to total silence beyond the doors. She squinted, trying to see through the small magnified peephole in the middle of the door. With nothing directly in her line of vision, Sandi withdrew the small pick in her tool kit. She fit it into the cheap lock. Within seconds the dull brass knob turned in her hand. She squinted again as she looked through the peephole. Nothing had changed. There was no sign of Sara Killian or the person named Nellie.
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