Authors: Meg Gardiner

Jericho Point (41 page)

BOOK: Jericho Point

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He took a look, eagle-eyed, and gave us the thumbs up. Jesse blew out a breath.

I stood up. ‘‘Give me the keys and I’ll get it.’’

He kept looking at the sky. ‘‘Maybe this time. I think this may finally scare him straight.’’

I saw the wish in his eyes. My heart sank.

I could keep quiet about what P.J. had confessed. I could protect Jesse’s fragile reconciliation with him, and hope that this disaster did indeed scare P.J. straight.

P.J. had let Brittany die out of fear and misplaced love for Sinsa Jimson. If I told the sheriffs, P.J. would go to jail. If I told Jesse, it would drive a stake into his heart. After everything that he had been through, how could I do that to him?

He looked up at me. His lips were nearly as blue as P.J.’s had been.

P.J. had lured a trusting friend to her death. If I didn’t speak for Brittany, nobody would.

And I knew that Jesse was strong enough to take it, and would hate me for doing anything else. I had to tell the truth. And it might end everything with him, right now.

He sensed my distress. He took my hand. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

I sat down and told him.

Strange light shot the sky. Sunlight raking green oaks and black clouds. Dragon-red bougainvillea shimmering along the fence in front of my house. Hot yellows in front of a charcoal wall of cumulus. I dug my hands into my jeans pockets, watching Marc toss his duffel bag in the back of his pickup.

Devi had taken the truck only as far as Lavonne’s house. Which was where she was now reduced to living, at her parents’ insistence. She didn’t argue the point.

Marc sauntered up to me, putting on his aviator shades.

‘‘Tough day for flying,’’ I said.

‘‘Would be.’’ He panned the horizon. ‘‘But not if you got above it.’’

‘‘Then here’s to high flight. Clear skies and a tail-wind,’’ I said. ‘‘Take care of yourself.’’

He nodded.

‘‘I’ll see you,’’ I said.

‘‘That you will.’’

Smooth and fast, he had me in his arms, tilting my head back, kissing me. Cool as anything, and taking his time. Pressed to his chest, I felt my heart pound.

‘‘Just so you know,’’ he said.

And so I did. Marc Dupree never sneaked in under the radar. He smiled a dazzling smile and drove away.

He headed into the sun. I was giving him a wave, shading my eyes with one hand, when the Mustang turned onto the street. They both stopped. I heard them exchange a good-bye.

When Jesse pulled up to the curb, the stereo was pounding. Springsteen, ‘‘Born to Run.’’ The Big Man’s sax practically shattering the windshield. Jesse put down the window.

‘‘Ready to go?’’ he said.

‘‘Not quite. Get out.’’

He scrunched his mouth, nonplussed. I held his door open, leaning on the frame, and he pulled his hardware from the backseat.

‘‘Did you see P.J.?’’ I said.

He nodded, avoiding my eyes. ‘‘He’s going to plead. They’re offering accessory after the fact to murder.’’ He got out of the car. ‘‘He’ll do a year in county.’’

Considering everything, it was a light sentence. Jesse backed up. We faced each other, silent. He couldn’t say he was glad, and I couldn’t say I was sorry. This was how it was. And how it was between us. No ifs, no going back, no somedays. Only forward.

I took the envelope from my pocket. ‘‘Trade.’’

‘‘For what?’’

‘‘Keys.’’

‘‘Delaney?’’ He took the envelope, perplexed, and opened it. ‘‘It’s a check.’’

‘‘My best offer. Take it or leave it.’’

‘‘What’s this for?’’

‘‘I’m buying the Mustang. It’s for sale, right?’’

‘‘You’re serious.’’

‘‘Had to get rid of that pain-in-the-ass Explorer sooner or later. And this pony needs a good home.’’

‘‘You’re sure you want to spend the money on this?’’ He looked at the check. ‘‘I know you turned Lavonne down on the job offer.’’

I’d spoken to her an hour earlier. I was honored by her offer, I said, but preferred to work on my own. She took my decision graciously. And I felt free— as if the wind were at my back and the skies open above me.

‘‘I’m sure.’’ I held out my hand. ‘‘Deal?’’

That look was skewing Jesse’s face. He leaned back, ran his gaze over the low black lines of the car, and handed me the keys.

‘‘Pink slip’s at home. And I get to borrow it until I buy another ride,’’ he said.

‘‘And I get to take a test drive.’’

‘‘Fair enough.’’

‘‘Get in.’’ I opened the door and dropped into the driver’s seat. ‘‘I can use the gas pedal, right?’’

‘‘Yeah. Just remember, it’s a lot more responsive than the Explorer. Where are we going?’’

I fired up the engine. Waited while he got in the passenger seat.

‘‘Lunch?’’ I said.

He closed the door. ‘‘And dinner.’’

‘‘We’d better throw in breakfast, too.’’

‘‘You need a long stretch of empty highway to really open it up.’’

I put my hand on the gearshift. ‘‘How about Vegas?’’

I believe that he was trying not to smile. He put on his wraparound sunglasses, changed the track on the stereo, and turned it all the way up. Springsteen’s guitar chimed, hanging in the air, the chord refusing to resolve, until the band came crashing in, piano and drums hitting the offbeats, propelling the song hard, and higher, and soaring. It was ‘‘She’s the One.’’

‘‘Drive,’’ he said.

I put the pedal down.

Read on for an exciting preview
of Meg Gardiner’s brand-new thriller,

THE DIRTY SECRETS CLUB

Available wherever books are sold
or at
penguin.com

Fire alarms sang through the skyscraper, piercing and relentless. Under the din people poured across the marble lobby toward the doors, dodging fallen ceiling plaster and broken glass. Outside, Montgomery Street crackled with the lights of emergency vehicles. A police officer fought upstream to get inside. The blonde was ten feet behind, struggling through the crowd.

The man in the corner paced, head down, needing her to hurry.

People rushed by him, jumpy. ‘‘Everything crashed off the bookshelves. I thought for sure it was the Big One.’’

The man turned, shoulders shifting. The Big One? Hardly. This earthquake had just been San Francisco’s regular kick in the butt. But it was bad enough. On the street, steam geysered from manholes. And he could smell gas. Pipes had ruptured under the building. The quake was Hell saying,
Don’t forget I’m down here—you fall, I’m waiting for you
.

He checked his watch. Come on, girl, faster. They had ten minutes before this building shut down.

A fire captain glanced at him. He was tall and young and moved like the athlete he was, but nothing clicked in the fire captain’s eyes, no suspicion, no
Is that who I think it is?
Out of uniform he looked ordinary, a plain vanilla all-American.

The blonde neared the doors. She stood out from the crowd, platinum sleek, hair cinched into a tight French twist, body cinched into a tighter black suit. A cop stuck out an arm like he was going to clothesline her. She flashed an ID and slid around him.

He smiled. Right under their noses.

She pushed through the doors and walked up, giving him a hard blue stare. ‘‘Here? Now?’’

‘‘It’s the ultimate test. Secrets are hardest to keep in broad daylight.’’

‘‘I smell gas, and that steam pipe sounds like a volcano erupting. If a valve blows and causes a spark—’’

‘‘You dared me. Do it in public, and get proof.’’ He wiped his palms on his jeans. ‘‘This is as public as it gets. You’ll supply my proof.’’

Her hands clenched, but her eyes shone. ‘‘Where?’’

His heart beat faster. ‘‘Top floor. My lawyer’s office.’’

Upstairs, they strode out of the express elevator to find the law firm abandoned. The fire alarm was shrieking. At the receptionist’s desk, a computer was streaming a television news feed.

‘‘. . . minor damage, but we’re getting reports of a ruptured gas line in the financial district . . .’’

The blonde looked around. ‘‘Security cameras?’’

‘‘Only in the stairwells. It’s bad business for a law firm to videotape its clients.’’

She nodded at a wall of windows. The October sunset was fading to dusk, but downtown was ablaze with light. ‘‘You plan to do this stunt against the glass?’’

He crossed the lobby. ‘‘This way. The building’s going to shut down in’’—he looked at a red digital clock on the wall—‘‘six minutes.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Emergency procedure. If there’s a gas leak the building evacuates; they shut down the elevators and seal the fire doors. We have to be out by then.’’

‘‘You’re joking.’’

The wall clock counted down to 5:59. He started a timer on his watch.

‘‘Yeah. I was meeting with my lawyers when the quake hit. It limits damage from any gas explosion.’’ He pulled her toward a hallway. ‘‘I can’t believe you’re scared of getting caught with me. Not Hard-girl.’’

‘‘What part of ‘secret’ do you not you get?’’

‘‘If we’re caught, they’ll ask what we’re doing here, not what we’re hiding in our pasts.’’

‘‘Fair point.’’ She hurried alongside him, eyes bright. ‘‘Were you waiting for an earthquake before you did this?’’

Good guess—this was the third minor quake in the last month. ‘‘I got lucky. I’ve been looking for the perfect opportunity for weeks. Chaos, downtown—it was karma. I figured seize the day.’’

He rounded a corner. A glass-fronted display case along the wall had cracked, spilling sports memorabilia onto the floor.

She rushed past. ‘‘Is that a Joe Montana jersey?’’

His stopwatch beeped. ‘‘Five minutes.’’

He opened a mahogany door. Across a conference room the red embers of sunset caught them in the eyes. The hills of San Francisco rose in front of them, electric with light and packed to the rafters like a stadium.

He shrugged off his coat, took a camera from the pocket and handed it to her. ‘‘When I tell you, point and click.’’

He crossed the room and opened the doors to a rooftop terrace. Kicking off his shoes, he strode outside.

‘‘You complained I was using the club as a confessional. You told me I was seeking expiation for my sins, but said you couldn’t give me absolution,’’ he said.

Deep below them, the building groaned. She walked outside, breathing hard.

‘‘Damn, Scott, this is dangerous—’’

‘‘Your dare was—and I quote—for me ‘to offer a public display of penitence, and for Christ’s sake, get proof.’ ’’

He pulled his polo shirt over his head. Her gaze seared its way down his chest.

Now,
he thought. Before his courage and exhilaration evaporated. He unzipped and dropped his jeans.

She gaped.

He backed toward the waist-high brick railing at the edge of the terrace. ‘‘Turn on the camera.’’

‘‘You came commando-style to a meeting with your lawyers?’’

Naked, he climbed onto the brick ledge and stood up, facing her. Her lips parted. Thrilled to his fingertips, he turned to face Montgomery Street.

A salt breeze licked his bare skin. Two hundred feet below, fire and police lights flickered through steam boiling from the ruptured pipe, turning the scene an eerie red.

He spread his arms. ‘‘Shoot.’’

‘You have got to be kidding me.’’

‘Take the photo. Hurry.’’

‘‘That’s not penitent.’’

He glanced over his shoulder. She was shaking her head.

‘‘
Bad?
You tattooed
Bad
on your tailbone?’’

His watch beeped. ‘‘Four minutes. Do it.’’

‘‘You’re a badass?’’ She put her fists on her hips. ‘‘You get all torn up about a nasty thing you did in college, and want to unload it on us—fine. But you can’t tattoo some preening jock statement on your butt and call it repentance. That’s not remorse. Hell, it’s not even close to being dirty.’’

Frowning, she stormed inside.

He turned around. ‘‘Hey!’’

Was she leaving? No, everything depended on her getting the photo. . . .

She ran back out, holding a piece of sports memorabilia from the display case. It was a jockey’s riding crop. He swallowed.

She whipped it against a potted plant with a wicked crack. ‘‘Somebody needs to take you down a notch.’’

He nearly whimpered. She wanted points, too. This was even better.

Snapping the crop against her thigh, she crossed the terrace. Evaluating the ledge, she unzipped her ass-hugging skirt, wriggled it down, and stepped out of it.

‘‘It’s time to make your act of contrition,’’ she said.

In the tight-fitting black jacket, she looked martial. The stilettos could have put out his eyes. The black stockings ran all the way to the tops of her thighs. All the way to—

‘‘What’s that garter belt made from?’’

‘‘Iguana hide.’’

‘Jesus, help me.’’

‘‘I have a drawerful. I got them in the divorce.’’ She held out her hand. ‘‘Don’t let me fall.’’

‘‘I won’t. I have perfect balance.’’ He felt crazed and desperate and
God
, he needed to get her up here, now. ‘‘I get paid four million dollars a year to catch things and never let them drop.’’

A wisp of her blond hair had escaped the perfect ’do. It softened her. He wanted her to put it back in place. He wanted her to put on leather gloves and maybe an eye patch. He pulled her up on the ledge beside him.

She gripped his hand. Her smooth stocking brushed his leg.

He could barely speak. ‘‘This is penance?’’

‘‘Pain is just one step from paradise.’’

She looked down. Her voice dropped. ‘‘Christ. This is asking for a heart attack.’’

‘‘Don’t joke.’’

She looked up. ‘‘No—I didn’t mean it as a crack about David.’’

BOOK: Jericho Point

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