"Start, goddamn you," she ordered, and it did. Like a charm. On a dime. It was improved, if anything. About time she got a break. She threw the truck into reverse, spun the wheels futilely, then rocked the fucking thing back and forth until she'd worked her way out of the snowdrift and was heading the right way, down the same road the minivan had taken. Its red taillights glowed in the distance as Marta rattled behind. She passed strip malls and fast-food joints, and stopped for traffic lights at regular intervals. The minivan didn't stop for a single red light.
"You after the big story, you jerk?" Marta called after the minivan, though it hurt her jaw to shout. "It's snowing, is that the story? It's white? It's cold? It falls out of the sky?"
Another traffic light turned red, but the mini-van tore past it. If Marta had time, she'd stop the van and take the reporter's name. She flashed on the face behind the wheel. A face framed by dark hair, with conventionally pretty features. Large eyes, upturned nose. Who did she think she was? Then Marta realized she knew the woman.
It was Alix Locke, the reporter who'd covered the Steere trial. Alix had been all over Marta and reported about her every day in the newspaper. Alix was the one giving the mayor a hard time at his press conference. Why would Alix be rushing to the Jersey shore? She covered only the major news stories, like Elliot Steere and City Hall. Was there news that important at a beach resort? In winter?
Marta turned the knob on the car radio again, but it was still dead. Maybe there was major flooding or a boardwalk washed away in the storm. But that wasn't Alix's type of story. She didn't do weather or features, only hard news. What was going on?
Marta ignored the traffic light and kept the mini-van in sight. A rotary was coming up fast. The mini-van chose the first exit without slowing down, even though snow covered the sign. Marta had to check the map but it was dark. She didn't want to lose the mini-van, but she didn't want to take the wrong turn. She fumbled for the flashlight as the truck approached the rotary and groped a cylinder rolling back and forth in the seat. She held it up. A stick of Old Spice deodorant. She threw it down. The rotary was coming up.
Marta went fishing again and came up with the flashlight. By then, the minivan had disappeared into the snow flurries. Marta couldn't read the sign even up close and was forced to come to a full stop to see the damn map. She rested the map on her lap and aimed the flashlight's beam on the coastline to Long Beach Island. Surrounding it were the Pine Barrens, acres of them. The road Alix had taken led to Long Beach Island.
Marta flicked off the flashlight, hit the gas, and followed down the highway. There was no one on the dark snowy road until Marta spotted Alix way ahead. Marta thought as quickly as whiplash allowed. Why was Alix going to Long Beach Island? Why had she been so certain of where she was going, even with the sign obscured? Alix had evidently been to Long Beach Island many times before.
Marta accelerated, hoping to catch the minivan. What did she know about Alix? That she was young, sexy, and pretty. That she was single, because she'd mentioned that to Marta once, trying to find some common ground to get the exclusive. No doubt about it, Alix was an aggressive reporter. A star.
Marta tested her theory. Alix Locke and Elliot Steere; the two were a perfect match. Good-looking, driven, and successful. And Alix appeared to be heading for Long Beach Island, where Steere owned a beach house. It couldn't be just a coincidence, could it? Was Alix Locke Elliot Steere's lover?
Marta hit the gas. It was certainly consistent. Alix had featured Steere's defense in her articles and had even been criticized for favoring the defense. Marta had assumed the good press was because of her, but maybe it was because of Steere. He was the main beneficiary.
It was a trial lawyer's hunch, but Marta sensed her theory was right. Alix was a thorn in the mayor's side, and the mayor was Steere's nemesis. Marta remembered the press conference on TV, at which Alix had badgered the mayor. Maybe that was to further Steere's goals. And Alix and Steere would have to keep their affair a secret for fear of compromising Alix's job and jeopardizing her reporting on Steere.
Marta sputtered past sugar-frosted maple, pine, and scrub oak trees. She felt certain she was heading in the right direction. Alix was going to lead her to Steere's beach house and maybe to the clues she was looking for. At the very least, Marta could confront Alix. Demand the truth. Demand justice.
Marta's spirit surged. She felt energized. Justice! She hadn't known that was what she was searching for, but since the murder of the guards, something had changed. If it had been jealousy in the beginning, it was different now. Now she wanted the truth about the murder Steere had committed and she had defended. Now she wanted to bring Steere to justice. Working his mistress over would be icing on the cake. Marta could still have fun, couldn't she?
The truck barreled ahead. Beside the highway, white birch trees dipped their heads, their branches laden with wet snow. Marta used to love birch trees. She grew up among them in the woods. Slender and warmly white, their bark etched with lines as inky and precise as a fountain pen's. Marta tried to remember the last time she'd been in the woods or, for that matter, anyplace that didn't have valet parking. Her life had changed so much and she'd left so much behind, the good with the bad. It took the birches to remind her of what was good.
The truck plowed forward under a starless black dome of sky. In time, there seemed to be more sky than before. Marta knew why: she used to enjoy studying nature until she realized it wasn't billable. The trees were getting shorter, the scrub pines punier by the mile. It meant the amount of sand in the soil must be increasing. She was getting closer to the beach.
Marta kept her eye on Alix's minivan and trailed her through the Pine Barrens, then past hospitals, gas stations, and marinas, and finally over a concrete causeway to Long Beach Island. Unless Marta missed her guess, Alix Locke would lead her to the front door of Elliot Steere's beach house. The only thing Marta didn't know was:
Why?
27
Penny Jones was trying to aim his hunting rifle out the white Grand Cherokee, but his hand was shaking too much. The dope he'd smoked had worn off and he wasn't totally into this job. Shit, he'd hunted since he was a kid. Deer, pheasant, all kinds of shit, but not a person. Penny never killed nobody before. This time he had to. He had to prove himself to get back with Bogosian. It was once in a lifetime.
Penny rested his rifle in the crook of his arm, steadied his elbow on the door, and squinted down the sight. There was a shitload of snow and his eyes kept watering on account of the cold. He told himself not to think. Just cap her and not think. The snow was coming down but Penny thought he could get a clean shot. He'd only get one shot with the noise this motherfucker would make.
Penny blinked his eyes clear. There were two lawyers in the street, skiing. The lawyer in the front was tall and the one in the back was short. The big lawyer was already out of range because Penny had dicked around. He targeted the short one in the back, closer to him. She couldn't ski anyway. Survival of the fittest, right? If Penny took one out, it would keep the other busy. Two birds with one bullet, right?
Penny waited for his shot. He told himself it was no big deal to whack this broad. Fuck, she was a lawyer. They should give him a medal. Penny got a bead on the blue coat at the end of the barrel. He aimed through the snowflurries at the middle of her coat, directly at her heart.
Fuck. Wait. He wasn't ready. He needed the Jeep in a better position to make a fast getaway. Plus it was too fuckin' quiet. He set the rifle on his lap, pulled nearer the side street, then braked, leaving the car in drive. He took aim with the .30-.30 stuck in the crook of his arm, feeling the weight. Bearing down. Watching the target through the snow. The short lawyer was still in range, skiing into the light of a streetlight. Good. The blue coat reminded him of a bull's-eye. A nice, easy target.