“Sure you can. Just shut up and listen. I’m in room 33. I’ll only be here tonight. Tomorrow I move again. But before I do, there’s something we need to discuss. One hour, Gladstone. If you’re not here by then, I call the police. Are we clear?”

  Andy took a deep breath. “We’re clear.”

  The line went dead.

  Twenty minutes later, Andy sat in his RAV4 in the parking lot of the Cross Keys Motel, his eyes fixed on Del’s room. There was a light on inside, but the curtains were closed. Del was right about one thing. The motel was a dump.

  On the drive over from the Times Register Tower, Andy had only one thought. Del Irazarian was a thorn in his side, one that would never go away. Not unless Andy did something about it. With just one phone call, Del could single-handedly torpedo his world. As much as Andy hated himself, he hated Irazarian more. Del’s cocky self-assurance, his sweaty, fleshy body, and his swaggering belief that no rule ever applied to him—all twisted something deep inside Andy. There was only one way to deal with Irazarian. Perhaps it was a truth his unconscious had recognized months ago, but it had taken his conscious mind longer to grasp.

  Opening the glove compartment, Andy removed the .38. His hand shook as he pressed it into the pocket of his jacket. There was no other way. It was a revelation, but Andy saw now that there was something more basic to his soul than self-loathing. Survival topped everything.

  Sliding out of the front seat, Andy left the mini-SUV unlocked. He approached the motel room door with caution, looking around to make sure nobody was watching. Breathing deeply, he gave a soft rap.

  “Hey, man, we’ve been waiting for you!” Rick put his arms around Andy and slapped his back. “We’ve already killed one bottle of champagne. We were about to start on the second. You got here just in time.”

  Rick’s grinning face and boisterous welcome made Andy feel like he’d walked into a carnival. Lights and sounds assaulted him. He felt that Rick and his wife were leering at him, zooming in and out, like the faces in a distorted, fun-house mirror.

  “Hey, pal, you look like you could use a drink,” honked Rick. Another slap on the back.

  “Is something wrong?” chirped Anika.

  Andy took off his coat. “A drink. Yeah. I’d like a drink.”

  “The champagne’s right this way.” Rick disappeared into the living room.

  “What’s that on your cuff?” chirped Anika, pulling him off balance, tugging his sleeve.

  Andy looked down. “Nothing. I cut myself. It’s nothing.”

  Jazz blared in the background.

  Andy raised his hands to his ears. “Can you turn that CD down?”

  “You okay?” honked Rick, adjusting the volume on the stereo. “God, it’s so good to see you! You’ve lost weight.” He cackled, his mouth opening wide like a braying mule’s.

  “We ordered a pizza,” shouted Anika. The music swelled again.

  Andy dropped into a chair. A glass appeared in his hand. He stared at it a moment before drinking it down like water.

  “Slow down,” shrieked Anika.

  “No, let him drink,” yelled Rick. “He needs to catch up.”

  More champagne appeared in his glass.

  The doorbell chimed.

  “That must be the pizza,” shouted Rick. “The party has officially begun!”

  27

  The sound of a car door slamming propelled Chris off the couch. It was going on seven in the evening. She hadn’t heard from Phil all day. She assumed that Barbara was on the horn to him as soon as Chris left her house. But Chris was past caring. She’d already packed a bag and after she had it out with Phil, she planned to split for good.

  She realized, too late, that she had no job, no apartment, no money in the bank—nothing without Phil. But she did have the diamond ring and the gold band he’d given her, and she planned to hock them, get whatever she could for them. She still couldn’t bring herself to believe that he’d had anything to do with Bob Fabian’s or Ken Loy’s murder, but she did see him now for the lying cheat that he was.

  A key was thrust into the front lock, and a moment later, Phil’s dark silhouette pushed into the foyer. “Chris, goddamn it! Are you here?”

  She’d been sitting in the dark. Snapping on a lamp, she said. “Yeah. I’m here.”

  He stepped into the room, his face black with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I thought I was your wife,” she said, turning to face him. “You lied to me, Phil. You told me Barbara was nothing to you.”

  “She isn’t!” With his heavy work boot, he kicked a wicker chair across the room.

  “That’s not what she told me.”

  “Hell, woman, would you give me some credit? Barbara has cancer. She found out two weeks ago. I couldn’t just dump her.”

  Chris stared at him.

  “And now you nearly killed her!”

  Coldly, Chris replied, “I don’t believe you.”

  “You want the doctor’s report? I can get it for you if that’s what it will take.”

  “You’ve been with her, Phil. You aren’t just ‘friends.’ She has your ring.”

  “Okay, okay. I didn’t tell you everything. I wanted to let her down easy.”

  “You’ve had the entire last year to let her down easy.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “She said you live in an apartment not far from her house.”

  Anger rolled off him in waves.

  “You go antiquing with her. Is that where you’ve been when you’re not with me?”

  He took a step toward her. “You don’t want to do this, Chris.”

  “I don’t think I’ve done anything—except love you. Is this how you repay me for that love? Is it!” And she had loved him, everything about him. But more than anything else, she’d loved the idea of him. And that’s where she’d made her biggest mistake.

  “Nobody pries into my life.”

  “You were going to keep Barbara a secret from me forever?”

  “Why not? I would have taken care of the situation in time.”

  “She’s a situation? Do you hear yourself?”

  Phil’s eyes flicked to the suitcase next to the couch. “You’re leaving me?”

  “I don’t think I have a choice.” There. She’d said the words out loud, but she felt pulverized by them.

  “We all have choices, Chris.”

  She looked down at the pool of yellow light spilling from the lamp on the end table. “I don’t want to go.” Admitting weakness was probably a mistake, but she was so tired of his lies.

  “Then don’t.” In an instant, he was by her side, holding her, stroking her back. “Don’t leave me, Chris. It would kill me.”

  She stood woodenly in his arms. “You’ve lied to me so many times. How can I ever believe you again?”

  “Do you believe I love you?”

  She felt a tiny crack in her resolve. “Yeah. I thought you did.”

  He kissed her fiercely, her lips, her eyes, her neck. “Just trust me. I’d never hurt you. If you believe nothing else, believe that.”

  He pulled her down on the couch.

  Pushing away from him, Chris said, “Will you answer one question for me? And . . . will you be absolutely truthful?”

  “I promise.”

  “The night Loy and Fabian were murdered, you never left the parking lot, right? You were just out there sleeping in the car.”

  He took hold of her hand. “I swear it. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a killer. Look, Chris, you’ve got to understand something about me. I run a construction company. Construction isn’t, well, it isn’t a gentleman’s profession. A lot of rough stuff happens. Sometimes I make it happen. Some people think I’m a badass. Maybe I am. But I did try to make that clear to you from the beginning. I’m a hard man. But I love you, more than anything in this world.”

  “Is . . . is that why Del Irazarian is calling you? It is him, right?”

  He smoothed the hair back from her forehead. “Yeah.”

  “He’s the one who got fired from the Times Register. Did you meet with him?”

  “This morning.”

  “He seemed interested in what you’ve got locked away in a mini storage garage on Old Mill Road.”

  Phil smiled at her. “The guy’s totally discredited. He’s pissed at the world because he thought he was God’s gift to the newspaper business, and it turns out he’s just another media thug. Nothing he says about me would ever stick.”

  “What could he say about you?”

  “Just his usual lies. He thinks I’m involved with drugs. Honey, I’m not. I swear it. You know how I feel about that crap. I drink, sure. Hell, sometimes I drink too much. But drugs? I’m not that stupid.”

  Chris hesitated. She felt more conflicted at this moment than she’d ever felt before in her life. “What do you have stored there?”

  His smile broadened. “Oh, sweetheart. Just construction stuff. An old truck. Nothing that would interest you, or anybody else, for that matter. Now, let’s stop all this arguing and fighting. You’re the woman I married. You’re a tiger, and that’s something I love about you.” His expression turned serious. “But remember, Chris, don’t ever pry into my life again. There are things about me that need to remain private. Even from you. If you can live with that, then stay. If you can’t, then I guess you better leave.”

  He slipped his arms around her and kissed her softly.

  She hated herself, but she felt so warm and safe with his strong arms around her. “I’ll stay,” she said.

  “Good girl.”

  28

  On Thursday morning, Sophie was in the bathroom putting on her makeup when Bram burst in.

  “Listen to this!” He was still in his pajamas.

  Turning to him, she saw that he had the front page of the paper in his hands. “You look like someone died.”

  “Someone did. Last night. That reporter from your paper. He was shot at a fleabag motel in South Minneapolis.”

  “Irazarian?” Sophie, like everyone else at the Times Register, had assumed he’d left town, possibly headed for New York to negotiate a deal. Now that he’d achieved a certain illicit fame, all the big publishers were probably beating down his door to get him to write a memoir.

  “And listen to this,” said Bram. “The police have examined the bullet. Looks like he was shot with the same gun that killed Loy and Fabian.”

  “Let me see that,” said Sophie, grabbing it out of his hands. She read down the column, looking for the exact way the statement was worded. “It says—and I’m quoting a policeman now—‘It was the same gun used in the shootings of Loy and Fabian.’ ”

  Bram rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes. I forgot. Bob Fabian’s still alive. Long live conspiracy theorists.”

  “Tell me this,” said Sophie, spritzing herself with cologne, then turning and pushing Bram back into the bedroom. “Why are they always so careful to never say Bob is dead? There’s a reason, Bram. The simplest explanation is, he’s still alive.”

  Bram flopped backward onto the bed. “Ridiculous.” He did a prom queen wave, looking up at the ceiling. “Hi, Bob. How’s it going?” Glancing back at Sophie, he said, “Can we put that aside for a moment?”

  “Gladly.” She bent down and removed her red leather pumps from the closet.

  “I told you about the voice message I got from Chris yesterday while I was doing my show.”

  Sophie could hardly forget. Chris had admitted to Bram that she’d lied to the police. She hadn’t been with Phil at the theater the entire time on the night Bob and Ken Loy were shot.

  “What I didn’t tell you was that she promised to call me last night. She never did.”

  “And you think . . . what?”

  “There has to be a reason why she didn’t call. I’m worried about her, Soph. I mean really worried. That’s why I phoned her house a few minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “Nobody answered. Remember, Phil gave her a black eye, so I have no doubt that he’s capable of much worse.”

  Pressing her feet into her shoes, Sophie said, “Maybe you better call Al.”

  “What if Chris went home last night and told Phil she was leaving him? She was sure mad enough when she called me. That guy’s been two-timing her since the day they first met. Suppose she said she planned to tell the police about how she’d lied to them. If he figured his alibi was about to go south, he might freak and do—God, who knows what he’d do?”

  “Then, like I said, it’s time to call the cops,” said Sophie. She didn’t say it out loud, but if Phil turned out to be the one behind the shootings, that meant Andy was off the hook. Sophie hoped that was the case, not only for Andy’s sake, but for Anika’s. Except, if Phil was the one, that could mean Chris was in terrible danger.

  Following Sophie out into the dining room, Bram said, “What I don’t get is Irazarian’s part in all this.”

  “Well,” said Sophie, picking up Ethel and giving her a kiss on her muzzle, “he was an investigative reporter until everything blew apart at the paper. Some of his stories had to be legit. Maybe he had something on Phil.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever it was, if Phil killed him, it had to be dynamite.”

  “Maybe Irazarian was blackmailing him.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.” She set Ethel down, then slipped her arms around Bram’s waist. “Wish me well?”

  “Why? Hey, how come you’re all dressed up and looking like a million bucks?” He nodded to her red suit.

  “Dressing well makes me feel more powerful.”

  “And you need to feel powerful because . . . ?”

  “I have a meeting with my father this morning.”

  “In your office?”

  “Well, it used to be my office. It’s just a guess, you understand, but I think he may want it back.”

  “Great. Let him have it.”

  Sophie shook her head. “I never thought I’d say this about my dad, but his instincts aren’t what they used to be when it comes to the hotel business.”

  Bram hugged her tight. “You go fight the good fight.”

  “What are your plans?”

  He shrugged. “Try to find Chris, I guess. If I can’t, I’ll take your advice and talk to Al.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  On the way downstairs, Sophie stopped on the mezzanine level. She hadn’t taken any time for breakfast, so a fresh blueberry muffin from the Fountain Grill called to her. As she stepped off the elevator, she noticed a familiar form leaning over the brass railing, looking down at the main floor.

  Sophie’s heart sank. It was Nathan.

  She was about to duck into the restaurant when he turned around.

  “Sophie.” He grinned.

  “Nathan, hi. What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked her up and down.

  “Nathan?”

  “Hmm? You look wonderful this morning, Soph. Really spectacular.”

  “Thanks. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing at the hotel?” She tried to sound friendly—not like an interrogator in a prison camp— but she was totally fed up with him.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Margie.”

  She should have guessed.

  “Hey, what do you say we have a cup of coffee together?” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  “Sorry, Nathan. I don’t.” She started to walk away.

  “Don’t be like that, Soph.”

  She stopped. Turning back to him, she said, “Nathan, quit pushing me. If you’re here to see Margie, that’s fine. But I’m not part of the deal.”

  “You’re so cold. What’s wrong?” He walked up to her, sniffing the air. “You’re wearing that perfume again.”

  She made a mental note to throw the bottle away. “Did Elaine call you? She wanted to ask you to be her maid of honor.”

  “Nathan, listen to me. I won’t be attending your wedding. Neither will Bram. We both wish you and Elaine the very best, but—”

  “But you’ve got to be there. My whole family is coming. If you don’t attend, they won’t know what to think.”

  She gave a mock knock on her head. “Earth to Nathan. Are you listening? That’s wonderful that your family is coming, but I won’t be there.”

  His grin returned. “You’ll change your mind.”

  She threw up her hands. “Whatever,” she said as she walked away.

  Sophie could smell her father’s cigar in the hallway outside her office. She’d argued with him about it, but it was one room where he insisted he be allowed to light up. As she crossed the threshold, the stink grew worse. Her father sat behind her desk, wearing a crisp white shirt and tie, red suspenders, and a golf cap. He was tapping on the computer keyboard, but acknowledged her presence by moving the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other side and nodding to a chair.

  “Dad, can you put that thing out, at least while we talk?”

  His eyes flicked to her. “Hell, you’re as bad as your mother.”

  “I take that as a compliment. What are you working on?”

  “The list. What else?” He finished tapping, lifted his chin to read more clearly through his bifocals, then sat back in his chair and turned to her. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, he said, “We’re going to revolutionize the hotel business in this town.”

  “And how will we do that?”

  He slapped his hands together, then rubbed them gleefully. Narrowing one eye, he said, “Like I’ve said a hundred times since I’ve been back, I learned a thing or two about hotels while Pearlie and me were on our round-the-world tour. I took lots of notes. And here’s what I’ve come up with.”

  Sophie steeled herself for the reading of the list.

  “We gotta think big here, Soph. Think out of the box, if you catch my drift. We’ve got to get beyond the whole minibar thing. There’s lots more we can do for our guests than just provide them with peanuts when they’re in the mood.”

  “Okay. Like what?”

  He winked. “I am so hip sometimes, I amaze myself. What do you say if our weekend package also includes a choice of tattoo or piercing—that and a deluxe room.”