Plates of eggs Benedict flew, splattered. Shouts of protest. He hustled on, bellowing, “She’s going to be sick!” whenever anyone tried to interact with him, and burst out the kitchen entrance. He loped past the Dumpsters, toward the corner and the hotel parking lot.
He dragged her into the shrubbery, still doubled over, and let her drop, right next to a big fiberglass instrument case that he’d planted there four o’clock the previous morning. It was for an upright string bass, and big enough to carry a slender, curled-up, drugged woman.
He made barfing, choking noises, for the benefit of any employees who might have poked their heads out of the kitchen, but it was probably overkill, after the mess he’d made in there. They’d be too busy scrambling to clean up and replace orders to pay attention to him.
He snapped open the case in feverish haste and followed his carefully planned choreography. Rip off goatee and wig. Shove them into the case. Shake out his own shaggy dark hair. Strip off jacket. Replace with a fringed yellow leather jacket. Mirrored aviator sunglasses.
He scooped up the D’Onofrio woman, dumped her slight, limp weight into the wide part of the case, folded and tucked her limbs until she fit. Curled up like a chick in an egg. Soft and helpless. Prey.
He did up the fastenings, peeked out of the bushes, and yanked the rolling case onto the asphalt. Walking, oh so nonchalantly, toward his car. He glanced at his watch. From restaurant table to parking lot, barely over three minutes. Good show. He forced himself to stop grinning. Wouldn’t do to get sloppy, or too self-satisfied, or overexcited.
Time enough for excitement later. When it was time to indulge.
A big-name showcase was about to begin. Liam had gotten stuck in the crowd. He shoved his way through the crush, having finally extricated himself from Mandrake’s clutches. Something inside him was pulled so tight, it hurt like a bastard. When that part snapped, he did not know what would happen. He just knew he didn’t want it to happen in public.
A high-pitched commotion was taking place. He tried to wiggle around it, but the press of bodies filing into the hall was too thick. It was the blonde, the singer who was married to the butthead. She was having a snit fit. He didn’t particularly want to know the details, but someone was wheeling a fucking piano into the hall. It blocked his way.
“…can’t believe that guy! That asshole! Can you believe what he said to me?” She caught his eye and promptly directed her outrage toward him before he could turn and shrink away unnoticed. “He shoved me!” she shrieked. “How dare he?”
“Calm down, baby. Don’t freak. There are concert presenters all over the place,” the butthead pretty boy was muttering desperately.
“Calm down? Screw you, Petey! I was, like, attacked in public, and all you can say is just calm down?” She turned her bug-eyed blue gaze to Liam. “He shoved me!” she repeated. “I almost fell!”
“Who shoved you?” Liam asked.
“The producer asshole, but you know what? I bet he wasn’t a producer at all. I mean, he didn’t look like one. He didn’t have that Hollywood gloss. And he was big and fat, and he had bad breath. Like, nobody’s fat with bad breath in Hollywood! And why would he want to talk to Nancy, and not me? I mean, I’m the talent! She’s just—” Enid struggled for a word sufficiently dismissive—“administrative help!”
First the hairs on his back prickled, and then icy cold talons sank into his gut. Big fat guy. Bad breath. Wanted Nancy. Shit.
He grabbed Enid’s shoulders so hard, she squeaked. “Did he go with her? Where did he go?”
She goggled at him. He gave her an impatient little shake.
“Do you mind?” she sniffed, wrenching away. “He went after her, toward the restaurant. She’s welcome to him. Rude son of a bitch.”
“What does he look like?” Liam demanded.
“Hey!” the butthead Peter blustered. “Don’t touch my wife!”
“Fuck off,” Liam said, not bothering to look at him. “What does he look like? Hair color, eyes? Talk to me, goddammit!”
Enid was starting to look scared. “Um, black hair?” Her voice had gotten small and uncertain. “A goatee, and, um, a black leather jacket.”
He lost the rest, already forging through the crowd amidst shouts and grunts of protest. Fear propelled him toward the restaurant.
He’d lose too much time if he stopped to get the gun and load it. He jogged through the restaurant, checking all the tables. No Nancy.
Think, meathead. Think. The door to the kitchen burst open. A harried-looking waitress came bursting out. Behind her, there was some sort of commotion in the kitchen. People were yelling. Good enough for him. He pushed his way through the swinging door. A woman caught sight of him and ran forward, holding up her hands to bar his way.
“Hey! No customers in here!” she yelled. “Get back!”
“What happened in here?” he demanded.
“It was gross,” a round-faced girl standing near the entrance confided. “This lady was sick to her stomach, and the guy gets the bright idea to drag her through the kitchen? That’s so unhygienic! The Board of Health could shut us down for—hey! Where are you going?”
Liam barreled through the people. He slipped, arms flailing, in a long, harrowing slide down the straight-a-way between two rows of range tops, in a slippery skid of yellowish sauce, barely keeping his feet.
He pitched out the door, reeling. Loading bay, garbage. No movement. He took off, heart thudding, for the parking lot.
A harried mother pushing a stroller. A young couple. A retirement age man and his blue-haired wife getting out of a sedan, arguing. Their voices floated over. A big guy in a yellow fringed coat rolling a string bass behind him. No black-haired guy, no black jacket. No Nancy.
He looked again. Nothing else moved. The man and his wife passed. Their babble did not penetrate his mind. He stared at the parking lot, feeling with all his senses. Doubts niggled. Maybe Nancy was in the hall, safe and sound, conducting her business. And he was out here chasing phantoms created by his own overheated brain.
And maybe not. Big fat guy. Bad breath.
He gave the yellow-coated man a second look. The guy slowed to a stop and looked around. Sun glinted off his mirrored sunglasses. He looked at Liam for a second, and turned away, but when he started to move again, he was moving slightly faster. Dragging his big instrument case. It rattled and bumped behind him.
The case. The fucking case. Oh, sweet suffering Christ.
He took off running. The guy was opening the hatchback of an SUV. He heaved the instrument up and into the back of it, slammed it shut. Glanced at Liam racing toward him. Dove for the driver’s seat.
The motor roared. Brake lights came on. Liam was shouting, screaming. The SUV started to pull out. It had to stop and correct. Liam flung himself at the back of the vehicle, yanked at the latch of the hatchback.
It opened. The guy had been in too big of a hurry to lock it. Liam flung himself inside, next to the case. It lay there like a deformed coffin in a hearse. The guy screamed back over his shoulder.
Liam scrabbled for something to grab on to as the guy backed up again, with a violent burst of speed, and then braked abruptly.
Liam slid out the back, dragging the case with him. It toppled, rolled, rocked on the asphalt. Bam, the asshole took a shot at him. Liam flung himself to the side. Zing, another bullet ricocheted off the asphalt.
A car window exploded. Glass rattled, tinkled. The case was still lying right behind the vehicle’s tires. The SUV had stopped moving.
Liam guessed the filthy fuck’s intentions and leaped to heave the case out of harm’s way right before the SUV roared into reverse and ran it down. They landed between parked cars in the opposite row. He flung himself onto the case, landing with a bone-wrenching thud, in case the bastard stopped to shoot again. Shouts, screams. People had heard the gun.