Take Me Tonight (8 page)

“That doesn’t mean whoever broke in here today is a murderer,” he said. “Could just mean that your apartment was burgled by someone who isn’t a Blizzard fan.”

“That’s a little more radical than ‘Boo Blizzard,’ wouldn’t you say?”

He lifted one shoulder as if to say, Boston fans are tough. In the background, she heard the soft digital tones of a cell phone ringing, but not hers.

“Who’s the guy in the kitchen?” the detective asked.

“He was with me all day. Since morning.”

“I didn’t ask for his alibi. I asked who he was.”

“He’s—”

“John Christiano.” Johnny stood in the doorway and extended one hand. “I’m her friend.” He held up his cell phone. “I’m going to take this call outside.”

“Did he know your roommate?” Detective Cervaris asked when Johnny left.

“No. We just met recently.”

He opened the closet door with a handkerchief. “How’d you meet?”

“A blind date,” she said.

“Is this her stuff?” He eased some of the clothes aside, but there was very little room to move a hanger.

“Yes. I’m waiting for her parents to come and collect all her things. I imagine they’ll put the apartment on the market, since it belonged to her. Are you going to dust for prints?”

“Yeah, but don’t get your hopes up.” He glanced at the bed. “Didn’t I read that she OD’d?”

“Not on illegal drugs. She ingested a massive quantity of an herb called ephedra. They don’t consider that a technical overdose.”

“Ma huang,” he said. “Chinese stuff.”

“Yes, a derivative of that. It’s taken for weight loss.” Not that Keisha needed to lose an ounce, but all the dancers were obsessive about their Monday morning weigh-ins. Keisha spent most Sundays starving and drinking water to avoid Glenda’s wrath. They slavishly drank her carb-free weight-loss drinks and even reported their menstrual cycles to account for water-weight gain. Keisha had hated all that, but had been smart enough to cooperate to keep the bosses happy.

“Not very easy to commit suicide with that stuff,” the detective commented. “Of course, combined with enough caffeine and an energy drink or six, you could pretty much suffocate yourself, or induce a heart attack and stroke.” He gave her a questioning look. “Is that how she did it?”

“According to the medical examiner, yes. But she wasn’t unhappy,” Sage said again. “And she wasn’t…” Her gaze drifted to the wall. “A whore.”

His expression softened. “I’ll have some prints taken and we’ll run tests for hairs, trace evidence. I take it you’ve cleaned this room since the original crime scene investigation?”

“Yes. When will you take the evidence?”

“Today. Soon. Don’t leave,” he said, folding the paper she’d given him earlier with the information about Keisha’s computer she’d taken off the system disks in the drawer. “I’ll start running the serial number of the computer and see if it shows up in pawnshops. Are you sure nothing else is missing?”

“Her jewelry’s all there.” Sage pointed to the bureau. “And it’s expensive.”

“That was a twelve-hundred-dollar computer,” he said.

“True, but the Chanel watch is worth more.”

“What’s on the computer is sometimes more valuable. Credit card information, private e-mails.” He gave her a pointed look. “Compromising photography.”

“I’ve been through every inch of her computer and there were no naked pictures, if that’s what you’re implying. But there was something interesting.”

He tucked a hand into his trouser pocket. “I like interesting. What was it?”

She explained about takemetonite.com and the fact that Keisha had never shown up for her appointment. She gave him the information she had, and prayed like hell he wouldn’t track Johnny to the site.

“There could be a connection,” she said after he’d written it all down. “But I haven’t been able to find one.”

“I’ll check that out, and the investigation that took place when your roommate died,” he said. “In the meantime, please let me know if anything else is missing.”

Thanking him and taking his card, Sage showed him to the door, and saw Johnny standing about twenty feet away on the sidewalk, talking into a cell phone. Setting up a rescue for later tonight? Her stomach tightened just a little, but she pushed the thought out of her head. Back in Keisha’s room, she stared at the wall. The bed. The empty desk.

She’d never considered that it hadn’t been a suicide but she’d been focused on finding out why. Now she had to consider a whole host of possibilities.

Did this break-in mean anything? Maybe someone was looking for evidence he’d left behind? But then why write all over the wall?

Unless the message was directed at Sage.

With a shiver, she gave the room one more scan, then opened the closet door with her toe. Keisha’s closet was tiny, a remnant from the old building that had never been updated as the apartment had been over the years. She’d often complained about how she had to cram her clothes in there, and had to keep all her dozens of shoes, belts, and handbags under the bed.

Sage got on her knees and lifted the dust ruffle around the platform of the queen-size bed. The shoe boxes and storage containers were all out of order, as though they’d been rifled, although some were still stacked in twos. Stuart Weitzman. Manolo Blahnik. Prada. She hadn’t studied Keisha’s purchases and wouldn’t know if a Louis Vuitton bag was missing or not.

Sage reached under to push two shoe boxes to the side and the movement caused the top one to tumble, and the lid fell off. Paper fluttered to the floor.

No, not paper. Index cards. Poking her head farther under the bed, she lifted one, surprised that it adhered slightly to the hardwood floor. Like a…

Like a Post-it note, only the size and shape of an index card, all brightly colored. Exactly what Keisha had written her suicide note on.

She stretched her fingertips to grasp as many of the fallen cards as she could. She pulled out a handful and emerged from under the bed, dust tickling her nose.

Keisha’s distinctive handwriting was on every one. One sentence, no more:

Behind my face, there is nothing.

I’m scared of losing everything.

I sleep with rich men to boost my confidence.

Barely able to breathe, Sage read another one:

Sometimes I can’t go on.

“What are you doin’ down there, princess?”

Sage jumped at the sound of Johnny’s voice, and looked up to see him standing in the doorway. “Reading.” The word came out in a croak.

He took a step into the room, peering over her shoulder. “Reading what?”

“I’m not sure.” She held up one of the cards. “It’s like a whole stash of…suicide notes.”

Johnny crouched down next to her. “You mean, she wrote more of them? What were they, practice?”

Sage fanned the cards. “I don’t know. I just had no idea she was this unhappy.” Sighing, she leaned around him to look at the poster. “But I’m going to figure out what happened or die trying.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it, you’re not.”

She half smiled at the protective note in his voice. “It’s a figure of speech.”

She hoped.

Chapter
Eight

W
ithout warning, everything was bathed in darkness. Followed by a split second of surprised silence. Then a pinpoint of electric blue laser light bounced over the high gloss wood floor, then another and another, all moving rhythmically to a rumbling bass so deep, it had to be from a subwoofer the size of a small building.

Tha-bumba. Tha-bumba. Tha-bumba bumba bumba.

Someone screamed. Someone whistled.

Johnny slipped his hand into Sage’s and glanced at her, but her focus was straight ahead, her intensity palpable.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” bellowed an omniscient voice, through so many speakers the whole arena vibrated with every word. “Welcome to the Manzi Arena, home of the one and only, your New England Blizzaaaaaard!”

At the deafening cheer in response, Johnny squeezed her fingers and leaned close to whisper in her ear, “I’m a Knicks guy myself.”

She shot him a look, reminding him that although they held hands, and although they sat pressed next to each other in very expensive courtside seats, this was not a fun sports date.

This was a continuation of a quest that had started shortly after the crime technician left, after delivering the news that there were no fingerprints in Keisha’s room but that he’d taken what he could. Sage had jumped right to her computer, compiling lists of every single person her roommate had known, surprising Johnny with the fact that she’d already downloaded Keisha’s address book and had saved all of her e-mail from the month before she’d died.

The only thing that had surprised him more was her demand that they trade his fantastic dinner plans for a hot dog at Manzi Arena. He’d thought she was kidding, but then she’d produced a white envelope and he had no doubt that if he didn’t agree to go along, she’d be here alone.

The bass beat increased and the first notes of a familiar disco song shook the house into another frenzied cheer.

“Are you ready?” the announcer hollered. When the response wasn’t deafening enough, he screamed again, “Boston, Massachusetts, are you ready?”

Eighteen thousand or so gave him the hoot he wanted.

“Because there’s a snowstorm on the way!”

That elicited more madness and screaming.

“And this storm is smokin’ hot!” His voice rose to a crescendo. “They are twenty-two of the most beautiful, most talented, most mind-blowing women in the world, each and every one ready to melt…some…ice!”

Two sets of double doors burst open and a blast of steam and dry-ice vapor pervaded the basketball court. The music blared and the house rocked as the spectators stood, clapped, and stomped in approval.

Over the loudspeaker, a high-pitched voice whined, “Won’t you take me to…”

The shout was unified, and earshattering: “ ‘Funkytown!’ ”

Sage stood, like everyone else, pulling Johnny’s hand so they could see over the one row in front of them. Through the smoke and fog, two lines of glittery girls in sprayed-on white leather hot pants and silver halter tops fanned out like liquid mercury across the floor.

Legs kicked in unison, long hair in every shade ever invented swung left to right in a synchronized wave. Twenty-two dazzling smiles lit the arena as a shower of blue and white spotlights sparkled over whipcord-toned thighs, cantaloupe-shaped asses, and an endless display of nature’s finest creations—helped by a few plastic surgeons.

Johnny barely saw the array of female flesh. In his mind’s eye, he was still examining nearly two dozen neon-colored sticky-backed index cards, each bearing a one-liner rich with self-doubt, misery, and personal anguish.

Evidently, being one of the most beautiful, most talented, most
mind-blowing women
in the world wasn’t enough to make Keisha Kingston a happy cheerleader. And no matter how much Sage had stared at the bleak message left by the intruder, and how hard she clung to the belief that the words
Whores must die
somehow proved that Keisha hadn’t taken her own life, those index cards told a very different story.

He hadn’t had a chance to tell Lucy about the suicide notes. While Sage had talked to the detective, he’d checked in with the home office. After hearing about the break-in, his boss’s edict had been clear: Stay with Sage, protect her, and maintain your cover. No timeline, no explanation, and no room for a single question. And no word on the identity of her benefactor.

“I wonder where Ashley is,” Sage whispered. “She’s usually the third to the left.”

In that spot, a dark-haired girl kicked and shook and smiled so hard, he thought her face might break each time the vocals pleaded they “talk about it, talk about it.”

“I saw her this morning,” Sage told him. “She wasn’t sick.”

“Who else do you want to talk to?” he asked.

“Vivian Masters.” Sage pointed to a tall, breathtaking girl in the second row. “She’s one of the few other women of color on the squad, and I know she and Keisha were close, but she’s never called me and didn’t come to the memorial service.”

He recognized Vivian from the poster, a stunning Beyoncé type, a magnificent blend of the best of several races, with slanted golden eyes and skin the color of creamy latte. “Is she on the list that Glenda gave you?”

She shook her head. “We’ll have to catch her at the exit, when they leave.”

“They walk out of here at night alone?”

“They have security and a private exit, but I know where it is.”

“Funkytown” hit the big finale. The front row of girls bent back in a gymnastic spine-twisting pose, and the back row kicked over them, then turned and touched their toes, wiggled their rear ends, and finished with over-the-shoulder looks of invitation.

“What do these women get paid?” he asked Sage as they sat down.

“Not much.” She reached for her soda and sipped through the straw. “I think it’s ninety a game,” she said after swallowing. “They don’t do this for money.”

“Fame?”

She shrugged. “More like notoriety. And access to hot clubs, opportunities to model, make special appearances. They all have day jobs.”

The Snow Bunnies bounded off the court and the lights dimmed again, and this time the crowd got even louder. As the starting lineups for the Chicago Bulls and the New England Blizzard were introduced, Johnny studied the sidelines.

In the first row behind the women he saw the hawk-eyed face of Glenda Hewitt and, beside her, a tall, lanky man who split his attention between a handheld electronic device and the backsides of the cheerleaders.

“What was Keisha’s day job?” he asked.

“She had a trust fund from a very rich father, but she worked for a florist as a cover.”

He turned to her. “A cover for what?”

“All the Snow Bunnies are required to have a job, so she worked part-time for a florist in Boston. Very part-time.” She smiled humorlessly. “Like she showed up once a month and picked a free bouquet for the apartment.”

“What did she do the rest of the time? Shop?”

“She mentored underprivileged girls in Jamaica Plain. And, yeah, she hit the malls regularly.”

At the quarter break, the girls danced and Sage pulled out a piece of paper with names typed on it. “This is the list Glenda gave me. The ones I’m officially allowed to talk to.” She was pointing out who was who to him when Johnny sensed someone coming toward them.

In the aisle, he met intense gray eyes set deep in a tanned, lined face, a shaved head, and a barrel chest that advertised a commitment to bench-pressing. The guy looked like he was in his fifties or more, but he exuded confidence, money, and authority.

In a move most people would have missed, he checked out Johnny, then shifted his attention to Sage and broke into a wide smile. “There’s the best reporter in Boston.”

She turned and beamed, extending both arms and stepping past Johnny to get into the aisle for a warm hug. “Oh, hello!”

The man held her close, then pulled back to look at her. “It’s wonderful to see you, dear.”

“You, too.” She held both hands and leaned toward him, affection in her body language. “Johnny, this is Dr. Garron, a good friend and one of my best sources.”

Johnny instantly recognized the name from the story he’d read in
Boston Living
magazine. There hadn’t been a picture, because he would certainly have remembered Alonzo Garron, the former head of obstetrics and gynecology at Mass General and the key source for Sage’s story about insurance fraud at the hospital.

“I’m John Christiano,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand.

“I see you have better seats than I do,” the doctor said to Sage, a tease buried in a slightly Hispanic lilt. “I guess I don’t know the right people.”

“They’re buttering me up,” she said, tilting her head toward the court. “I’m doing a story on the Snow Bunnies.”

The doctor drew back. “I shudder to think what evil you will expose there.” His lips twisted into a half smile. “But it should make for very provocative reading.”

“This will be a fluffier piece than I usually do,” she said apologetically. “How is your new practice going?”

“Fantastic.” He held up a clenched fist to underscore his exuberance. “If I invite you in for a tour, will you write nice things about it?”

“As you know, I don’t usually write nice things,” she said, laughing lightly. “But I can send you some business.”

He reached forward and took her hand again, sending Johnny to sharp attention. “I may take you up on that, Sage,” the man said softly. “And tell me, how’s everything? Are you coping?”

Sage shrugged. “Every day gets a little better.”

“I worry about you,” he said, his eyes warm and sympathetic.

Who was this guy? A source? A friend? Johnny watched the extended eye contact between them. He was something, that was for sure.

Oh. Oh, of
course
. Johnny could have smacked his forehead. This man was the secret Bullet Catcher client. He had the money, the clout, and, clearly, the interest.

“And what do you do, Mr. Christiano?”

As if he didn’t know. “I’m a—”

“Chef,” Sage said quickly. “He’s a phenomenal chef.”

“Really?” Garron looked interested, and amused. Like he was in on the secret. “Where do you work?”

“I’m between gigs now,” Johnny said coolly. “On the hunt for something new.”

“Are you trained?” Garron asked.

“CIA.” Would Garron get the double entendre?

“Ah, the Culinary Institute,” Garron said, nodding in approval. “You should talk to Hendrick Kane at the Ritz-Carlton. I believe they’re looking for someone.”

“Thanks,” Johnny said. Was this an order from a client or just a clever way to keep his cover? “I’ve heard good things about Kane’s work. I’ll check into that.”

“You should,” Sage agreed, her eyes bright.

“Call me.” Garron handed him a business card. “I’ll put you in touch with Hendrick. We go way back.”

“Thank you.” Johnny pocketed the card without looking at it. He would later, after he talked to Lucy and impressed her with how quickly he had sniffed out the client.

The second-quarter buzzer sounded, and Garron kissed Sage on both cheeks, whispering something in her ear that Johnny didn’t catch.

When they sat back down, he could have sworn she was glowing.

“Nice guy,” he said vaguely.

“He is,” she agreed. “A great doctor who took a huge risk.”

“Didn’t he lose his job because of that article?”

She shook her head and reached for her drink. “He quit and started his own practice.”

“He likes you,” he said quietly. “Was his interview as pleasant as my first one?”

She almost choked on her sip of Coke, but managed to swallow and glare at him.

“What? He likes you.” Johnny pulled out the card. Dr. Alonzo Garron, General Obstetrics and Gynecology. “Is he your gynecologist?” he asked.

“No, I go to a woman.” She glanced at the card. “But I’ll refer some friends to him, if I can.”

He repocketed the card and buried a smart-ass comment about who the good doctor really wanted in his stirrups. After all, he might be the good
client
, too.

“You know, Johnny, maybe you ought to call him. Maybe you should talk to the guy at the Ritz.”

“Oh, honey.” He took her hand and smiled. “You want me to waste all my talent in the kitchen of some hotel?”

“It’s a good company, a great hotel, and it’s—”

“Respectable.”

“Beats rescuing.” She notched an eyebrow in challenge.

“So, what are you saying?” he asked, laying a possessive hand on her thigh, the denim warm, her muscle tight. “Would you like me better if I had a different job?”

She looked him right in the eyes. “Yes.”

It would be so easy. So easy to tell her the truth, explain that he was a Bullet Catcher, here to protect her. Then they could act on this electricity and finish what they’d started in bed the night before.

He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch gray eyes staring down at him from ten rows back. As much as he wanted to return a nonverbal message, he resisted. The client wanted to remain anonymous and wanted the protection to be covert, for whatever reason. Johnny’s job was to find ways to stick around and offer that protection.

“I’ll call the Ritz tomorrow,” he promised.

Ashley stuffed her hands into the warm pockets of her satin Snow Bunnies jacket, tucking herself into the shadows of the arena exit, listening to the pattern of cheers reverberating from inside.

How dare that bitch punish her by putting in an alternate? After all the extra work she’d done for those damn
team-building
exercises? And what good did it do? They each wanted what the other one had. All this fake bonding and unification, fantasy kidnapping and stupid word games, all the sharing and baring of souls—did it help? Hell no. Every girl on that squad hated the next one.

Half of them were happy that Keisha was out of the picture because she was the best-looking one on the team, and everyone knew it. And now she had to get Victoria Brandt signed up. That wasn’t going to be easy. About a month ago, when Glenda had said Vicky was “ready” for her turn, the little bitch had practically clawed Ashey’s eyes out when she had suggested she go for it.