The Real Mrs. Price (23 page)

“Are you going to tell me what's on that drive, man?” Roman asked Plato. “I've given up everything I know. I think it's only fair that you return the favor.”

“Fair is for kids. What do you think this is? Kickball?” Even his sarcasm was dangerous.

The sonofabitch was some kind of mercenary or assassin, and his kind didn't play well with others.

“Price is obviously sticking around to try and get his hand on that money. He's likely killed two men over it. I'd like to stop him before he kills two women.”

“Bunch of numbers,” Marlowe volunteered, ignoring the glare of the big guy. “Some symbols. But nothing that makes sense.”

“Could they be PINs?” Roman asked with reserved excitement.

She looked at Plato again. “Maybe? Why?”

Now it was his turn to keep quiet. Let Bigfoot over there know what it's like to get the silent treatment.

“She asked you a question,” he finally chimed in.

“What do you think this is?” Medlock responded callously. “
Jeopardy!
?” Dumbest comeback ever, but it was the best he could do under pressure.

Gargantua took a step and a half across the room, grabbed Medlock by his shirt, and raised him off the bed. “Answer the gotdamn question,” he growled, spraying spit in Roman's face.

In a weird way, Roman was enjoying this. Private investigator work, in and of itself, was boring as hell. You look for things and people on the computer and then you spend a whole lot of time in your car, driving, watching, waiting, and driving, watching, and waiting some more. This shit was epic. He was about to get his ass kicked by an international assassin, or maybe just a national one, but it didn't matter, because this was the stuff that sent adrenaline rushing through his veins, made his heart pound like a fist inside his chest, and scared him back alive.

“Fuck you,” he snarled.

Plato grabbed him by the waist of his pants, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him hard on the floor onto his back, then dropped that massive body of his down on one knee, planted firmly in Roman's chest.

Somewhere in the background was Marlowe's voice yelling, “Plato! Stop it!” or something like that.

“You talk or I crush your heart,” he threatened.

An ugly image of that giant's knee crushing his sternum flashed in Roman's mind. As exciting as this shit was and as alive as it made him feel, he wasn't quite ready to die yet.

“Account numbers,” he finally said tautly. “Lucy has account numbers given to her by Chuck Harris before he was killed. He told her that they were accounts that he suspected had money that Price was laundering. What was missing were PINs. I think Hilliard had those.”

Plato took his time getting up off Roman.

“Price has the account numbers?” Plato asked.

Roman pushed himself up off the floor and sat back down on the bed. “Yeah. I think that's how it worked. Price held the account numbers. Hilliard was the keeper of the PINs. They needed each other to access that money. My guess is that one or both of them got greedy.”

“Where are the account numbers?” Plato asked.

“I don't have them,” Roman said quickly. “They're with Lucy.”

“Get her on the phone,” Plato demanded.

“She's in the air, man.” Roman didn't like the look on this dude's face. Not that it had ever radiated friendliness, but he looked a bit more menacing than he had two minutes ago. “I can't call her.”

“This could be proof,” Marlowe said suddenly. She looked back and forth between the two men. “If we turn over the account and PINs to the police, then they could see what Eddie was doing, and they'd know that I didn't kill him.”

She was right. Those accounts provided some damning evidence against Price. All of a sudden, he wouldn't be viewed as a victim anymore. He'd be a potential murderer on the run.

She stood up and walked over to Plato. “That would work, right?” she asked desperately. “We could turn over all this account stuff, and I wouldn't be a suspect anymore.”

Plato wouldn't even look at her.

Marlowe turned back to Roman. “I have to go in for more questioning tomorrow,” she said, sitting next to him. “When does Lucy get in?”

Roman glanced at Plato. He couldn't tell her that.

“She could go with me,” Marlowe continued. “We could take the account numbers and the PINs and tell them everything we know. They'd believe both of us, Roman. And they could check those accounts, and they'd have to believe us.”

Roman shrugged. “They'd have to reconsider their stance on this murder thing,” he assured her as best he could. “They'd have to.”

Marlowe looked like the weight of the world had just been lifted off her shoulders. “This could be over,” she said, relieved. She kept looking to Plato for some kind of acknowledgment, but he was coming back empty, like the woman wasn't even in the room. “It could be over.”

Over? Sure, Roman concluded, staring at her oversized boyfriend, but probably not in the way she'd hoped.

 

The One You Need

S
HE HADN
'
T BEEN ABLE
to sit still after Roman left.

“Let's get out of here,” he told her. “Let's ride.”

Marlowe hadn't missed Plato's lack of response to the suggestion of turning over those account numbers and PINs to the authorities. So he wasn't happy about it, but it was the only thing that they could do. That money was illegal, and Eddie had broken the law. He was on the run because he'd gotten caught.

“I keep thinking that Tom Hilliard might've been that man that I saw Eddie kill in my yard,” she said introspectively.

They were on the highway, headed south. Plato hadn't said a word since they'd left.

“Eddie wanted it to look like he was the one who was dead,” she said, drawing a natural conclusion. “That's why he burned him in that car. Do you think he knew that you were after him?”

“No,” he said simply.

This whole ordeal was nearly over, and she hadn't felt this good in a very long time. Marlowe was determined not to let Plato's mood ruin this feeling for her. “It's going to feel so good to have my life back,” she said, staring out the window.

She'd taken little things for granted before all of this had happened, like being able to go to the grocery store or go to Belle's for dinner. She missed dancing.

“I'm going to have to burn so much sage in my house,” she said absently. “The place is filthy with foul energy. You can't let it sit too long. You have to get rid of it before it settles.” They drove for another mile before she finally got sick of the silence. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I'm listening to you talk about your sage and your life.”

“I'd think you'd be happy for me.”

Happy. A relative term.

“You didn't know me before,” she started to explain. “You'd dig the hell out of me if you knew me before all this mess happened.”

“More than I dig you now?” He smirked.

“I'm serious.” She smiled. “I'm fun when I'm not suspected of murdering my husband or being attacked by him in the middle of the night.”

“I've seen you fun.”

“No, you've seen me drunk, which doesn't happen a lot. I don't need to get drunk to be fun, unless I'm—”

“Suspected of murdering your husband,” he finished the sentence for her.

“Exactly. I like to dance and to laugh and eat. I like people, even though most folks around here are scared to death of me.”

“You give them reason to be.”

“No. They fear what they don't understand. I get it. They appreciate the things I do for them, but we've got an understanding. I don't flaunt those things for everybody else to see, and they pay good money for my services.”

“So you are a fortune-teller.”

“I read tarot and palms.”

“And bones.”

“Only on very rare occasions,” she explained. “And I make potions.”

“Like?”

“Love, herbal Viagra, remedies for skin conditions. But the bulk of my money comes from beauty products, lotions, and soaps and shampoos. People dig organic.” They passed a sign that said “Tyler.” She asked, “Where are we going?”

“South.”

“I know that. But where south?”

“Austin,” he said simply.

“Austin? What the hell's in Austin?”

“We will be.” He looked at her and smiled. “Soon.”

“For what?”

“Dinner.”

*   *   *

They stopped off at a department store, and he bought her red stilettos and a clinging black dress with a neckline so low that if she coughed you'd see her navel. For himself, Plato purchased a black sport coat, crisp white shirt, and dress shoes. He upped his game, too, and took her to a trendy sushi place.

“You don't strike me as a sushi lover,” she said, smiling across the table from him.

“Man cannot live off burgers alone,” he said, using chopsticks like he'd been born with them in his hands and raising
unagi
to his mouth.

Marlowe stared at him, fascinated. “How is it that you can be so Neanderthal worldly and wonderful one minute and turn into a total monster the next?”

That smug look on his face was a prime example of the asshole in him. “I'm versatile.”

She found herself staring affectionately at him. “That's the least of what you are.”

“You look lovely, by the way. Or did I tell you that already?”

“No. You didn't. But thank you.”

The playfulness left his eyes, and his expression turned more serious. “What would you like to do after this?”

“Since I'm celebrating my nearly newfound freedom,” she replied, smiling, “I think I'd like to dance.”

“How'd I know that you were going to say that?” He smiled back.

*   *   *

She had no idea if he'd planned to come to this place or if the two of them had just gotten lucky. It was a hole-in-the-wall blues club with a live band. The place smelled of stale smoke, whiskey, and old furniture. The floors creaked, the liquor was cheap, and the dance floor small. He held her close the whole time. They didn't even have to move. The music moved them, swaying their bodies slowly back and forth. They must've stayed like that for hours, and it was just fine that they did. This time, her drink of choice was Cherry Coke, because she wanted to be sober and remember every detail of this night and of him.

People make promises to themselves all the time that they have every intention on keeping but usually break. Abstinence from him had been her promise to herself. Of course, she knew even before they'd finished dinner that she wouldn't be able to keep it.

“You think with yo' heart, Marlowe. Not with yo' head.” Shou Shou's words came back to haunt her, but the old woman was right. The heart added flavor and aroma and colors to life. All the decisions made from the head were various shades of gray, sounding the same, feeling the same. Marlowe lived with too many mistakes to count, but while she was making them, she had loved them all with a passion unrivaled by anything resembling sound reasoning and common sense. She had no doubt that he was one of those mistakes, and for the time being, Marlowe had made up her mind to savor every inch of his big, beautiful self.

*   *   *

He sat on the sofa in their Austin hotel room, overlooking the river, still wearing his nice suit, and he was such a good-looking man. Marlowe peeled her dress off, slowly, and stood before him in the pink satin bra-and-panty set he'd bought for her earlier.

He leaned back, studying every one of her curves.

“This is the last time,” she told him with conviction.

“Then let's make it memorable.”

Marlowe reached behind her back, unlatched her bra, and let it slide down her arms and fall to the floor. She slipped her fingers between her panties and her skin, slid them down over her hips, past her thighs, down to her ankles, and stepped out of them. Slowly, she strolled over to him, stood in front of him, and waited. He took off his jacket, unbuckled his belt, and unzipped his trousers, then reached for her, holding her by the waist, and pulled her down onto his lap, where she straddled him.

A sensual kiss bonded them. His kisses were magical, slow and languid, his flavor rich and warm. His moans soothed her, reassured her, and entranced her. Plato traced his fingers down the center of her back to her hips and then cupped her behind and pulled her body closer to his, pressing his growing erection between her thighs. His lips were addictive. Marlowe talked a good game, but the truth was, she had no willpower against him, and he seemed to know it, even if she didn't want to admit it. He was an intense lover, thorough and probing. Plato liked it deep, his kisses, his thrusts. He craved passion, a fact that he hid behind sarcasm and teasing.

She missed the moment when he slipped into a condom, but Marlowe moaned with the satisfaction of being filled with this man. She felt safe in his strong arms. Marlowe wrapped both arms around his neck and held on to him as if he really did belong to her. He pushed so hard into her that it ached, but a good ache, a satisfying and complete ache. She was wide open for him.

She pushed back to look into his eyes. Plato's dark eyes bored into hers so intensely that it scared her, hypnotized her. He knew the power he held over her, and he relished it. But she didn't care. If he was her fate, then so be it. If Marlowe had sacrificed her soul to him, then okay. As her orgasm began to build deep inside her, Marlowe's breaths quickened. She grabbed hold of the back of his neck, and he stiffened. Plato held her by her hips and let Marlowe have her way with him, use him, fuck him, and chase down that orgasm like it was the last one she'd ever have.

“Aaaaaah!” Marlowe cried out when she came, pulled herself to him, and held on. Her body rocked. The warmth of her pooled between them, and in the frenzy of her orgasm her only recourse to staying conscious, staying present in this room with him, was to grab hold of his face and to kiss him until she could find her center again and reclaim her soul.