frickin’
“Classy. My employer could take a lesson from them.”
“Well, unlike the fine gentlemen’s establishment that employs you, these escort services are always, without exception, a cover for prostitution. I really don’t get it. This woman had a good job. A roof over her head. How can a woman with options do something like that to herself?”
“It’s more common than you’d think.”
“Oh, God, don’t tell me—”
“Relax. I’m talking about the girls at work. They’re doing dry humps in the VIP lounge for a hundred bucks. Fifty of that goes to the house. Another twenty-five gets tipped to the waitresses and people like yours truly who don’t have to get groped. By the time those girls are done paying percentages and the flat fee to the house to work, they’re lucky if they’re not in the hole on a slow night. Inevitably a few of them see customers on the side for a little more action.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Try not to judge, little sis. That’s always been your weak spot.”
“Kind of hard to be in my business and not have the occasional streak of judginess. You can’t be throwing people in a cell if you think it’s all relative.”
“If you want, I can ask around at the T&A Cafe about this service. Prestige Parties?”
“Yeah.” She handed the ice cream carton back to him, and he growled when he saw the empty bottom. “I’m hitting the sack.”
She had removed her contacts, washed her face, and moved on to the brushing of her teeth when she heard the phone ring, followed by Jess’s voice saying, “Come on up.” She spit out the minty foam before yelling toward the living room.
“Please tell me you didn’t invite company for the night.”
“I wouldn’t say I invited it, but when contacted, I didn’t exactly decline the offer.”
“Jesus, Jess.” She used her hands to make a sipping cup beneath the faucet and rinsed. “You can’t just assume I’m not coming home. Now where the hell—”
“Relax, El.” He was pulling on his jacket. “The company’s not for me. Captain America texted a few minutes ago to see if you were back yet. I guess it was supposed to be a surprise. Gag. And really, I know you two are on the road to being that old married couple at Denny’s every night, but seeing how he’s trying to be so romantic and all, you might want to put in a little effort.” He pointed a scrutinizing finger up and down her general person.
Ellie was no longer in front of a mirror, but looking down, she got the gist. Blue flannel pajama bottoms. Extra-large David Bowie T-shirt. The slippers her mother had given her, adorned with plush green frog heads. Not to mention her hair was pulled back in a red terry-cloth sweatband and her face was slathered with overnight cream. She heard a tap at the door.
“Off with you,” Jess said. “I’ll buy you some time.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“You sure?”
“Sis, when are you going to figure out that I can always find a place to sleep?”
Ellie dashed into the bathroom and slid the band from her hair while she wiped at her face with Kleenex. She threw the slippers and the sweatpants in the bathtub. By the time she heard Jess say good-bye to Max, she was ready to emerge—just her and her David Bowie T-shirt—for some well-deserved privacy with Max Donovan.
From the look on his face when he saw her, he didn’t mind the attire. His smile—and every activity that followed—kept her mind off Tanya Abbott, Megan Gunther, Katie Battle, Sparks, her lieutenant, all of it. She and Rogan had big plans, but not until tomorrow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
8:15 A.M.
She takes a triangle stance in her stall at the firing range. The sound of gunfire echoes through the cold room. She levels her Glock in front of her, fixes the torso of the paper target in her sights, and locks her right elbow to prepare for the recoil. She pulls the trigger but nothing happens. She tries again but, again, nothing. She pulls the trigger once more, and this time, the weapon falls from her hand.
“Hatcher.”
She turns to find Robin Tucker standing behind her.
“You’re not ready, Hatcher. You knew you weren’t ready, but you came here anyway. And now everyone is pulling their weight except you. Take a look at Nick’s work.”
Ellie hears a rumble as a paper torso in front of the adjacent stall flies in her direction like a ghost. Six holes form a tight cluster in the middle of the target’s chest.
“Excellent shooting.”
She turns to see Nick Dillon, the head of security for Sparks Industries. He kisses Tucker on the cheek and gives her a playful tap on the ass. She giggles in delight.
Ellie hears another rumble. She sees another target being pulled in from the end of the firing range. More rumbling. More targets, all with centered shots. She fumbles for her Glock on the floor and makes one more futile attempt to fire. She hears another rumble as her own target moves toward her. She looks at the paper and sees the gloating sneer of Sam Sparks.
“Ellie.”
She holds her hands in front of her to keep the paper from swallowing her.
“Ellie.”
She feels hands on hers, pushing her arms closer to her body.
“El, your phone.”
Ellie opened her eyes to see her bedroom ceiling. In bed next to her, Max let out a tired groan. “You okay? You were waving your arms around. Thought you were going to coldcock me for a second.”
She heard another rumble from the nightstand as her vibrating cell phone crept against the maple top.
“Hatcher,” she said, not bothering to check the screen before answering.
“This has to be a first.” It was Rogan.
“Hmm?”
“Me waking
“Yeah?” She rubbed an eye with her free hand, trying to knock out the grogginess of sleep.
“I pulled the records for that cell phone number we had for Tanya Abbott. No calls in or out since the night before Megan’s murder, and no current signal.”
“She must have known to turn it off so we couldn’t track her.”
“Smart girl. I also checked out the calls she’s made in the months since she moved in with Megan. Not a lot of use.”
“You found some calls to Stacy Schecter, I assume?” Ellie sat up in bed and pulled up the comforter to cover her chest.
“Yeah. Another familiar name, too.”
“Not Katie Battle?” Ellie asked. A call between Tanya Abbott and Katie Battle would bring their mutual connection to Stacy Schecter full circle. A direct connection between the two would also strengthen Rogan’s suspicions that Tanya’s sudden disappearance was related to Katie’s brutal murder the night before. But it wouldn’t be that straightforward.
“Nope,” Rogan said. “Someone else.”
“You’re killing me.”
He paused for dramatic effect. “Paul Bandon.”
