Over the Line (5 page)

Alice's reflection stared back at her from the window over the sink. Stringy brown hair. Sallow complexion. Old, faded eyes. She'd been pretty once. Not pretty like Janey, but pretty enough.

Now look at her. She was used up and worn-out. A drunk. How had this happened to her? She'd had such big plans. She was going to be something ... someone important. She hadn't meant to be an unwed mother with a baby to feed and bills to pay. She hadn't intended to become a drunk.

And she hadn't intended to survive by the knife of deceit, trickery, and threats.

God, what a mess she'd made. Of everything.

"I'm sorry, Janey," she mumbled. "I'm so, so sorry."

Then as she had almost every night of her adult life, she passed out. This time, instead of at a seedy bar or under a sweaty body that reeked of booze and bad decisions, it was with her head on the kitchen table, her hair wet from the pool of tears she hadn't wanted to shed and that the Beam hadn't been able to stop.

The next night, Monday, July 10th, 2:00 a.m., Blue Heron Boulevard, West Palm Beach

Edwin Grimm lay on his back on a queen-sized bed in an upscale hotel that cost him three hundred plus a night. Compared to his six-by-six cell and his lumpy cot at the correctional facility in San Luis Obispo, California, it was a bed fit for a king.

Freedom was not free. Neither was the skill of the high-priced hooker he'd sent packing after he'd gotten his rocks off a few minutes ago. She'd been blond like Janey. Petite. Pretty. The similarities ended there.

But he'd needed some relief, so he'd made do. And he'd already repented for giving in to the demon lust. He'd found Jesus in prison and Jesus forgave. Now he could just lie here and relive seeing Janey again.

His ears were still ringing. The concert tonight had been one loud, wild blast of a ride—just like the night before. God, he'd missed it. These past three years, he'd missed the rush of rocking to Janey's beat. Groovin' on that smoky, sultry voice.

Watching her incredible body.

She'd learned some new moves while he'd been in stir. He stared at the program he'd sprung for to the tune of twelve bucks. Pocket change now that he had access to his bank accounts again. There was a great head shot on the cover. She looked so fine. Back in the joint, he'd liked to lie at night, quiet like this, and look at her pictures. He'd found them in magazines in the prison library, ripped them out, and taped them with care onto the scarred metal bed frame above him. Some were old and dog-eared at the corners. Some were ripped and taped together. Bastard guards. Couldn't leave a man's private possessions alone.

Private possessions.
Like he'd really had any in that hellhole. Just those pictures of Sweet Baby Jane. And his memories of how she had smelled, how huge her deep brown eyes had gotten when he'd paid his little visit to her house three years ago. If only he'd had time to touch her. It would have all been worth it.

He worked his hand down inside his briefs and thumbed his cock. Despite the hooker's expert manipulations, thinking about Janey got him rock hard again.

It had been a damn long time since that night. Damn long years of his life wasted. Just because he'd wanted to see her. Smell her. Touch her. She hadn't understood.

She would soon. This time, he'd make her understand. He just had to deal with some bothersome obstacles first.

He rolled to his side, laid the program with a full-length centerfold photo of his Janey on the pillow beside him. Touched a blunt index finger to her face, eased it along the curve of her breast. He could still hear her sing. Could almost smell her now. Could come just staring at those ripe, vixen lips.

Vixen.
He liked that word, he thought, slowly working his dick. Female fox. That's what it meant. He'd looked it up in the prison library after some slick Nancy-boy reporter had called Janey that. A vixen.

That dumb-fuck reporter had been right about that one thing, but he didn't know anything else about Janey. Edwin knew. He knew everything. He wished someone would have asked him tonight at the concert.
Hey, Edwin,
he wished they'd say,
what do you know about Sweet Baby Jane?

He'd tell 'em. He'd tell 'em that she was as sweet as her name even though they dressed her up like a slut. He'd tell 'em that she'd grown up without a daddy in a dozen low-rent trailers all up and down the state of Mississippi where her momma drank like a fish and washed other people's clothes along with doing a little back work to make ends meet—most often they didn't. He'd tell 'em that Janey was loyal. That she took care of her mom even though she'd never been a mom to her.

Yeah, he knew everything about her, even before she made it big. And oh, had that little girl made it big. Even bigger than when his high-priced gutless wonder of a lawyer had let the Los Angeles D.A. whip his ass on their defense case three years ago and he'd ended up in San Luis Obispo.

Yeah, Janey coulda been a runaway. Coulda been a street whore like her bitch of a mother. But she was too good. Too sweet. Too smart. She'd gone to school. She'd worked summers bussing tables until she'd hitched a ride to one of them amusement parks and tried out for a singing job when she was sweet sixteen.

That was where it all started for her. Singing her little heart out on a stage to entertain snot-nosed brats. One of those brats had been there with her granddaddy. Granddaddy the record producer.

Yeah. One mighty smart record producer. Jack Swingle had seen talent. Real talent. And now Janey was a star.

As big as they got.

God, he'd missed her. He'd be seeing her again soon, though. Was in the process of clearing the way.

Edwin imagined Janey riding him hard and finished himself off with a deep, guttural grunt.

"I'm coming for you, honey," he whispered, then grinned at his little joke since, technically, he'd already come.

Oh, he had so much more he wanted to give her. So much he wanted to say to her. So much he had to make up for.

This time Janey would understand how he felt about her because this time he was going to make sure she knew what he was capable of doing for her.

He picked up the phone. Made an important call.

Same night,
 
U.S. Highway 45 truck stop,
 
Tupelo, Mississippi

"Does it... bother you?"

The voice on the other end of his cell phone was hushed, shaken, and, if Alex didn't miss his guess, something else.

The slight tremor, the rise in pitch, told him there was also some vicarious excitement going on here. A thrill provoked by the kill. No doubt about it: He was dealing with a very sick fuck. But then, most of his clients were.

He stood in the wide hallway on a cracked gray tile floor between the minimart and the men's John, glaring at a bank of banged-up metal lockers. "Last I knew, you weren't paying me to be bothered. You're paying me to do a job. It's done and I want the rest of my money."

This was the first job Alex had ever done for this client. The cash was good. The method of payment wasn't. Half up-front, the balance after the completion of the job. But first, the client insisted on this little blow-by-blow account. Alex had to put up with these annoying questions as the scent of diesel, grease, grits, and smoke clung to his shirt like a cheap whore.

"There has to have been a time... a time when it bothered you. Death ... it's so final. So ... irreversible. And yet..."

An outside door opened, letting in a suffocating, muggy heat along with the cush and squeal of air brakes and the grind of shifting gears as an eighteen-wheeler pulled into the truck plaza.

"And yet what?" Alex growled, way past impatient.

"You really feel no guilt? No sense of wrong?"

He grunted out a chuckle. "No pity for someone's dearly departed?"

"There's no need to laugh. This is difficult enough."

That did it. "Difficult for who? I was the one who had to wait. Sit in the dark and the rain in this mosquito-infested swamp town. I took the risk. I pulled the trigger."

In this case the "trigger" hadn't been his Sig but a 1979 Pontiac.
Had
to be a '79 Pontiac Lemans. Green. His client had even told him where to find one. Like he said. A real sick fuck.

No one would find the car now. He'd driven it off an embankment. The Lemans was lost somewhere outside of town, stuck at the bottom of the Tombigbee River, sunk hood deep in silt.

Christ. Alex didn't know why he was wasting his time talking. He'd never have contact with this joker again. Yet. . . something about this particular client provoked a sort of morbid fascination. It took all kinds. But this was a first for Alex.

Disgusted and feeling mean with it, he decided to employ the old axiom and give the client what they wanted. "You want to hear about the crunch of bones and spray of blood when she hit the windshield?" Alex asked in a hushed voice so no one passing by could hear him. "How her skull cracked like a ripe melon? Want me to tell you how her body crumpled, then slid off the hood before I ran over it?"

"How about her eyes? You want me to describe how they widened in shock, then surprise, just before I plowed into her?"

"No. Please. That's ... not necessary."

Alex had figured the gory details would put an end to the questions. He wanted his payment. And he was weary of the chitchat. Patience was a virtue that was far overrated.

But then, so was virtue as a concept.

"Just tell me the damn locker number and the combination," he demanded. "Let's get this over with."

Finally he got what he needed.

Alex located the locker, spun the dial, and opened it up. It was a damn good thing the envelope was there. After counting out the bills, he pocketed them, wiped the locker clean of prints, and headed outside.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

"Wait. Don't hang up. I have another job for you."

Alex shoved out the door of the truck stop and walked from stale, poorly conditioned air into what felt like swamp water. Now this
was
interesting. "Lotta people must have pissed you off, huh?"

"Do you want the work or not?"

Head down, he dodged a trucker walking a mongrel dog and headed for his car. "You got the money. I've got the means." He was, after all, a businessman.

Five minutes later, he had the next target, the details of the job, and a nicely negotiated price. All was well in his world.

Yet as he drove through the thickness of the southern night, a sharp, unexpected memory of his first kill surfaced with the clarity of a newscast. It had been almost ten years ago now. After the first gulf war. After he'd left the force. Yeah, that first professional job had been a rush, a real power trip. And yeah, he'd felt a trace—but just a trace—of guilt at the time. That was a long time ago.

Now a kill was a kill. Now there was just power in the process. And in the cat-and-mouse game of evading the law he used to uphold.

There was one other major perk. The money stockpiling in his Grand Cayman bank account went a long way toward making up for the occasional pang of guilt... and the recurring nightmares.

Chapter 3

Tuesday, July 11th, 3:00 p.m. Backstage dressing room, West Palm Beach

"Ms. Perkins?"

Janey was perched on the edge of the sofa in her dressing room, studying the blocking for a new number they'd added for tonight's concert when Jason Wilson poked his head into the room.