Dead Ringer (2 page)

The hell with the mopes.

The hell with death and loss and moving on. This party was for Beamer, and she'd be damned if she'd disappoint ban. She raised her glass heavenward.

Here's to you, old man.
She tossed back half her drink and plunged into the crowd.

* * *

Finn stepped inside Beaman's house and grimaced at the full force of the sound. Tuxedos and gowns swarmed over the plush interior. He pushed his way past the laughing group gathered under the hallway's vaulted ceiling. Screaming to be heard over the noise, the party-goers paid no attention to him. Balloons and streamers lay in disarray over a gleaming black and white marble floor. He stepped over them, pushed some away.

Someone handed him a drink, but he set it down. He needed a clear head tonight.

The crowd thickened as he moved inward, black satin over white brocade. Well-fed men stood in clusters around marble sculptures. Wraith-thin women draped over expensive furniture. A few turned his way with an interested eye, but he ignored them.

A burst of laughter came at him from the sidelines, sharp as a gunshot. Somewhere someone was coking up, dropping Ecstasy or whatever designer drug was the trend of the hour. There was sex here, too. In the coat-room, the closet, in furtive corners, people mating like rats in a dark alley. And somewhere there was betrayal. Not his own this time, but it was here, he could smell it The knowledge rose up like a sickness, the haze of booze and smoke sliding over his shoulders like a coat he hadn't worn in a long while.

A banner that read "Bye-bye Beamer" spanned the living-room entrance. Inside, the room looked as though it had been packed into a dice cup, shaken up, and rolled out, furniture landing every which way. Green and gold striped sofas with green velvet pillows stood uncomfortably out of place against the edges. Gilt-edged mirrors still hung on the walls, but the marble-topped tables that should have been beneath them sat askew. A baby grand had been stuffed into a corner to make more room for the horde, which roiled, shifted, and all of a sudden split in two.

And then he saw her.

The hair was looser, the clothes outrageous, the face younger. But the resemblance was unmistakable.

A shaft of something almost like fear pierced him quick and sharp. Deep down he'd been hoping the pic-tures had been deceptive, that Roper and Jack and everyone else had gotten it wrong.

But they hadn't.

She held a drink in one hand, her lithe body undulating in an impromptu belly dance while a ring of men clapped and cheered her on. Thick blond hair fell in voluptuous waves around her face and shoulders. A clingy white skirt, shimmery with silver thread, hugged the curve of her hips and exposed the top of her navel. Although it reached her ankles and the knife-sharp heels she wore, the skirt was also slashed open to the top of her shapely thigh. Encased in a skimpy, sequined halter, her full breasts shone white and shiny as her skirt. Between the two, bare skin gleamed tan and supple, and exquisitely tempting.

Your mouth's watering, Carver.

No, it isn't.

He leaned into the living room's arched entrance and watched Angelina Mercer work the room. Her long, tanned leg swung sinuously in and out of the opening in her skirt. Her smooth arms wove above her head, her hips gyrated, her eyes glittered with the challenge,
Come get me if you dare.
He'd bet that every male in the room felt something move in his shorts.

Including him.

A final guitar chord screamed, and she upended her drink, downing every drop. "Here's to Beamer!"

Her crowd of admirers cheered. "To Beamer!"

Ample breasts rising and falling in breathlessness, she headed out of the male circle, skin glistening with exertion.

"More!" the crowd took up the cry, stamping their feet in time with the chant. "More, more, more!"

"You know what they say about too much of a good thing," she shouted over the blare of the next song. With a laugh, she threw herself at one of the men and gave him a loud smooch on the mouth. "Get drunk, everyone!"

And she whooshed out of the circle toward Finn.

He lounged against the arch, making no overt move to catch her attention. She'd notice him soon enough. Then the man she' d just kissed pulled her roughly back into his arms, and the problem of meeting her took care of itself.

She laughed and tried to squirm away, but the drunk had her fast. "Come on, baby, let's have a little more of that."

"Let go of me." Rising panic edged her voice and Finn pushed himself off the entry. He strolled toward the struggling couple and casually placed an arm around the drunk, looking for all the world like his best friend. Except Finn tightened his grip, squeezing so hard that the drunk gasped in pain and dropped his hold on Angelina-Finn smiled. "You may want more, but the lady's bad enough." Before the guy could react, Finn spun him around until the drunk staggered dizzily and faced the center of the room. "Back to the party, pal." He gave the man a gentle shove, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Then Finn turned to the woman, whoraised an amused eyebrow at him. "Well, well, Sir Galahad Nicely done."

A cool one. Good. For what he wanted she'd need to be cool.

"Thank you." She extended her hand in a graceful arc, as though he should kiss it. Something on her left shoulder caught his attention-an odd-shaped beauty mark or tattoo-but before he could examine it, she levered herself closer and he found himself staring into a pair of ice-green eyes.

That's right, Angelina. Come to Papa,
"Not Galahad," he said.

"Robin Hood?' She poked him playfully in the chest with one long, slim, manicured finger. "Whoever you are, I don't know you." Her breasts brushed his arm, her perfume coiled around him, and the blood went straight to his groin.

Silently, he cursed his own weakness and winked at her. "Sure you do."

"Friend of Beamer's?"

"I knew him, yeah."

She appraised him, a shrewd expression on her face. "No. I don't think you did."

He smiled. "Friend of a friend."

She grinned back; she had his number now.
"You
are a party crasher."

He didn't deny it. "What's a party without a few uninvited ... friends?"

She dropped an arm lazily over his shoulder and looked up at him. Her hip grazed his. He forced himself to stand still and ignore the sweat starting at the back of his neck where her arm lay like a cool steel trap.

She smiled, her lips promising worlds. "Do you have a name... friend?"

A moment ago, he would have sworn her eyes looked bright, but up close the green was tinged with sadness. Weary eyes. Old eyes.

Where had he seen eyes like that before? He said, "Finn."

"Fin?" She threw him the 'that's weird' look he always got when he introduced himself.

"Yeah, Finn. Like in shark."

She laughed, throwing her head back. "Well, Fin," she gave his name mock emphasis, "sharks like to swim around in the cool and the wet, and you're all dry." She held up her empty glass, swirling the ice. "Me, too."

She told him what she was drinking and he went to find her a refill.

When he returned, she was gone.

Figures.

But chasing her was part of the game.

He found her outside on the deck where thick summer air drenched him in the overripe smell of damp soil and honeysuckle. A wooden railing surrounded the space on three sides and she was standing on it, leaning against the home's outer wall. Hands behind her back, face to me stars, she'd closed her eyes as if absorbing the moonlight.

Thirty feet below, the Mississippi River lay shrouded in woods and darkness, and the only thing separating her from the abyss was six inches of railing.

"Why don't you come down and join me?" All he needed was to have her break her cheap, beautiful neck.

"Where's my drink?"

He handed the glass to her, and she swallowed a third of the contents, laughing as some spilled down the side of her mouth. A ripple of distaste ran through him, but he kept it off his face while she wiped her chin with the back of her wrist and gazed down at him with excited eyes. "Why don't
you
join
me,
Mr. Sharkman?"

"Because someone needs to catch you when you fall."

"I won't fall." To prove it, she stepped away from the wall and began to pace the railing like a tightrope walker.

Jesus Christ.

Honed to stilettos, her four-inch heels barely found purchase. "See? Graceful as a cat." She giggled and almost lost her balance.

"Watch out!" He jumped toward her, but she righted herself, laughing.

"Nervous? Didn't know sharks had nerves."

Beneath his jacket, sweat glued his shirt to his back. Eyes fixed on her, he paced the length of the railing, following her highwire dance.

When she reached the middle, she raised her arms wide and cried out to the night. "Hallooo, Beamer!" She cocked her head, but no answer came. "Do you think he's out mere, doing the rumba in heaven? God, but that old man loved to dance."

"Did he?" He watched closely. Was she wobbling?

"Poor Beamer." Her voice caught.
Tears?
He would have thought her incapable of it

To prove his point, she laughed again, shouting into the chasm below. "Did you hear that, Beamer, you old coot? Poor you!" She giggled and wavered again. "Whoops ..." Her arms pinwheeled.

Fear spiked; he'd had enough. Fastening one hand on the back of her halter, he pulled her toward him. Her drink went flying and she landed with a thump in his arms.

"Hey... what'd you do that for?"

"You want to kill yourself, do it on someone else's watch." She twined her arms around his neck and smiled lazily up at him. "You're the only one who would have missed me."

"What about all your 'friends' in there?" He nodded back toward me party still raging inside.

"All party crashers. Like you, Sharkman." She snuggled up against him.

He tensed, trying not to like the feel of her bare midriff beneath his fingers. Or the curve of her hip or the view down the front of her tiny halter. She wiggled, settling in.

"Mmm, I like sharks." Her eyes dosed, tfcen opened again. "Big, black-haired sharks"-her head drifted onto his shoulder-"with ocean eyes, and sharp, cruel mouths."

He looked down; she was asleep. And suddenly he knew why the party smelled familiar and where he'd seen that sick-and-tired look he'd observed in her eyes.

His wife.

* * *

Angelina put a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the morning light.

Who the hell opened the curtains before she was awake? Slowly, she sat up. Groaned.

God, was that her tongue or a ball of wool?

Staggering off the bed, she stumbled on the floor and looked down.

Her Versaces were still strapped to her feet.

In fact, everything she'd worn the night before still clung to her body.

Holding on to the headboard, she undid the tiny straps and slid out of the torturous heels. What in God's name had ever possessed her to buy the things, let alone wear them?

Beamer liked them.

Yeah, good ole Beamer. Sweet, tender, lovable Beamer. He'd loved buying her clothes.

Tears threatened, but she sniffed them away.

Why couldn't you have stayed a little longer, Beam?

Someday she was going to find a young man, one who'd stick around more than a few years.

Fat chance.

What young man would let her have her own bedroom and make no demands except that she look good and bring a little fun into his life?

Before she could stop it, a picture of Beamer's crumpled body rose in her head, and with it the panic that had rushed up her throat. She remembered the frantic phone call, trembling fingers pushing 911 and screaming for an ambulance. Before it came a squad car arrived, complete with a uniform who asked a lot of questions and acted as if he didn't believe her answers.

Not that she expected any different. Not from a cop. They'd looked at her the same way all those years ago when they refused to believe the truth staring them in the face.

She shuddered, then pushed the memories away.

Through the bathroom door she heard the shower turn on. Who was that?

She thought back to the night before. Who had she ended up with?

A picture of sharp blue eyes and a grim mouth rose in her head.

Sharkman?

But she still had her clothes on, so they couldn't have... Or maybe they could.

She didn't remember.

She didn't want to remember.

No more, party girl You promised Beamer.

Sorry, Beam. But like I told you, promises are made to be broken.

Sighing, she padded out of the bedroom. The sight that greeted her was enough to depress a saint, let alone a wicked witch like her. Empty bottles, half-filled glasses swimming with cigarette butts, dead balloons. Beamer's banner tilted into the living-room archway, hanging by a string.

God, she was tired of her life. The weight of it thudded behind her eyes like a wake-up call. She fingered the edge of the banner and it sailed down to the floor.

Who are you going to be now, party girl?

She thought briefly of the fruitless search for the one person she truly belonged to. Not the pale, timid woman who had raised her, but the one who had birthed her. Not the one who had cowered in the face of a small town's blindness, but the one who would have stood up for the truth. Who would have thumbed her nose at them all. Just like her daughter.

But the records were sealed, and not even Beamer's millions had been able to unlock their secrets, though the old goat had tried.

Pushing aside a pleated shirt and tuxedo jacket, she plopped on the couch with a sigh. She had to figure out her next move. Beamer was gone, which meant the house was gone. Time to make some changes.

You'll never change.

I used to be smart once.

Yeah, and look where it got you.

She shut off the voices arguing inside her head. Too early in the morning for self-reproach.

Besides, she had to pee.