sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies at the lunch buffet table. Marilyn headed in the other direction.
“You’re doing great, Marilyn,” said her consultant.
Marilyn forced a smile. She knew she was lying. “Thanks. If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to lie down for about a half hour. Clear my head.”
“Excellent idea. We won’t go much longer today. I promise.”
“Good,” she said, then headed back to her bedroom.
The walk down the hall was her first real opportunity to think. The effect was immediate. Her headache was back before she even reached the bedroom door.
She stepped inside the master and closed the door. This time she locked it.
The bedroom was her sacred sanctuary, a place for retreat. More than any other place, it reflected her own tastes and preferences. Here, she didn’t need the power look of her corner office. She didn’t even feel the decorating constraints that governed the rest of the house, where furniture was arranged to accommodate party flow and rugs were selected on the basis of whether they were resistant to red wine and shrimp sauce. This was her space, and hers alone. There had been men, of course, some of whom she wished she had never invited. But that was the point. Pleasant or not, they had been invited. This morning’s fax was altogether different. In this room, nothing could have been more intrusive.
She opened the top drawer of the nightstand and removed the fax. The choice of venue was interesting. Cheesman Dam. It wasn’t the makeout spot Cherry Creek Dam was for Denver teenagers in the fifties, but it was one of the more remote spots to watch the proverbial submarine races. Marilyn hadn’t been there in over forty-five years, since she was fifteen. Her one and only visit. She and her boyfriend, Joe Kozelka, on a double date with Joe’s friend Frank and some ditz named Linda. The four of them had taken a day trip down to Pikes Peak in Frank’s car, as Joe didn’t have a license yet. Two other couples followed in another car. On the way back to Boulder, they stopped at Cheesman Dam, sharing a bottle of hundred-proof Southern Comfort as the sun set. They ended up staying longer than they’d planned. Longer than they should have.
The headache was getting worse. Her temples were throbbing, and a blinding light pierced her eye. It felt like a migraine. She tried to focus on the pillow across the room, but it only made her dizzy. Her mind swirled with memories. She shook her head, trying not to go there, but it was too late. The woozy feeling, the blurred vision — it was much the way she’d felt more than four decades ago on that warm summer night in the back seat of Frank Duffy’s Buick…
“I’m drunk!” Marilyn snorted as she laughed, smiling widely.
“I’m glad,” said Joe. He took a swig straight from the bottle of Southern Comfort, then moved closer.
Marilyn scooted forward. The view through the windshield brought a gleam to her eyes. Cheesman was an old stone masonry dam that rose more than two hundred and twenty feet above the streambed below. Tonight, the moon hung low over the gaping canyon. Bright stars blanketed the sky. They glistened off the placid waters of the reservoir behind the dam. With all she’d had to drink, it was hard to tell where the stars ended and their reflection began. “So pretty,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Joe. “Frank, why don’t you and Linda go first.”
Frank was resting comfortably behind the wheel, his girlfriend’s head on his shoulder. “I don’t want to go for-”
Joe thumped him on the back of the head, knocking sense into him. Frank looked back and glared, then smiled thinly. “You know,” said Frank, “I could use some air. Let’s go, Linda.”
The door opened. Frank and his date slid out. The door slammed shut. Marilyn and Joe were alone in the backseat.
“Let’s go, too,” said Marilyn.
He took her arm and stopped her. “Have some more to drink.”
“I don’t want any more.”
“Just have some.”
“It’s making me kind of sick.”
“That’s because you’re mixing in too much Seven-Up. You have to drink some straight whiskey. If you don’t get the right balance, you get sick. Come on. Drink up.”
“I don’t think I can drink it straight.”
“Don’t think about it. Just chug it.” He handed her the bottle. She hesitated. He tipped the neck toward her, helping it along. “Go on. Trust me, Marilyn. Just trust me.”
She brought the bottle to her lips. Her head went back. The whiskey touched her lips. It burned her throat. She wanted to stop, but Joe held her head back and kept the bottle in place. She swallowed once, twice. She was losing count. The burning stopped, but the whiskey kept flowing. She was feeling dizzy, then totally numb. She pushed the bottle away. She blinked to focus, but Joe was a blur. He was smiling and moving closer. Her mouth moved, but she couldn’t even form a sentence in her head, let alone with her lips. Her body tingled, then she lost all sensation as her head rolled back and the lights went out…
Marilyn opened her eyes. She was lying on the bed. The headache had lessened somewhat. Slowly, she sat up and glanced across the room. She could see again. Her gaze landed upon the fax machine across the room. The receiving bin was empty, which came as a relief. No more threats.
It was a threat, she’d decided. On the heels of her appointment, there was no other way to interpret it. The timing could not be coincidence. The header on the fax said it was from the 719 area code, which included Piedmont Springs. At the lunch break she’d confirmed it was from a drugstore in Prowers County, one of those places that will let anyone send a fax for a couple of bucks. She figured it had to be from someone in the Duffy family, which could not be good. True, the message was vague. It didn’t say, “Do this, or else.” But it didn’t have to be explicit to be threatening. And she knew what she was supposed to do if ever she felt threatened.
She drew a deep breath, then picked up the phone and dialed Joe Kozelka.
57
Sheila was beginning to worry. Rusch wasn’t happy with her work. One little mistake — a stupid cocktail glass left behind in a Panamanian hotel. It was such a tenuous link to Kozelka anyway. Even if the FBI got a match on her fingerprints, they would still have to make her buckle under pressure and finger Kozelka. She was no snitch, but her roots as a hooker must have made Rusch nervous. Clearly he was assuming she would deal with the FBI the way she used to deal with him.
Everything was negotiable.
Her survival instincts were kicking in. When Rusch had said they would “reevaluate,” she knew what that meant. If the frame-up didn’t keep Ryan Duffy from taking that glassful of fingerprints to the FBI, Sheila was dead. One way or another, Rusch would make sure she was never subjected to FBI interrogation.
Sheila herself had been reevaluating things all afternoon, ever since she and Rusch had stopped to rest in a cheap roadside hotel. It was time to get out of Dodge. But not without a piece of the action.
Late Sunday afternoon, she picked up the phone in her hotel room and dialed Ryan Duffy. She tried his clinic, but no one answered. She tried his mother’s house and hit pay dirt.
“Remember this voice?” She used the same seductive voice she’d used in Panama.
Ryan felt a chill. He was alone in his mother’s kitchen, standing by the counter. “Where have you been?”
“Closer than you think. I’ve got something for you.”
“What?”
“Your father’s gun.”
His pulse quickened. “I want it.”
“How bad? Or should I say, how much?”
“Are you saying it’s for sale?”
“That’s a keen grasp of the obvious you’ve got there, Doc.”
“How much?”
“A bargain. According to my sources, you’ve got another two million dollars cash somewhere. Just a hundred grand is all I want.”
