her cell phone from her purse and
thumbed through the contacts then hesitated. Couldn’t they trace
her calls if she used it? With all of Morgan’s contacts, could he
know she was trying to reach Andrew and stop her before she could
get on a plane? She stared at the lifeline in her hand. A lifeline
or a direct tracking devise right to her. She was reluctant to toss
it in the trash and damn scared to use it. The phone was off but
she heard that you could no longer pull out the battery or the SIM
card. Even off, Morgan could find a way to track her. Could Marco?
The phone suddenly vibrated with an incoming call.
The phone clattered to the desk and Clarissa’s
heart stopped. It was Morgan’s private number. She searched
frantically for a place to throw the phone. Then she spotted a
paperweight on the desk. It was an onyx globe the size of a fist
carved into a bowling ball. Without much thought she brought the
ball down as hard as she could on the phone repeatedly until it was
smashed. Then she buried it in the trash can next to the desk under
the refuse of potato chip bags and empty greasy hamburger and
French fry containers. She slumped back into the chair to catch her
breath. Smart move or not, now she was truly alone.
She reached for the land line phone on the
desk and started to punch the keypad. Abruptly she hung up. It was
too much of a risk. Virginia was too loyal to Morgan. Clarissa
ripped off one of her broken acrylic nails that was barely hanging
on and dropped it on the floor. She ran the rest of the chipped and
broken ones through her hair. She had to go someplace. There was
only one thing both she and Virginia had in common. Both hated
Marco Camponello. Perhaps that in itself was enough to elicit
Virginia's help without her immediately calling Morgan.
"Make your call yet?" the guard asked as he
stuck his head in the office.
"Line's busy," Clarissa lied.
“You got AAA? You can have that wreck towed
over to Mac’s garage down on Roscoe .If you don’t, cops’ll tow it
and then you’re in for a big bill, impounds and all.”
“I just left a message for my husband,” she
lied again. “He’ll take care of it.”
“Well, you can’t wait for him here. I’m off
shift in a few.”
“That’s alright, thanks. I’ll call a
cab.”
“You can call but you gotta wait outside. Cabs
out here can take an hour or more this time of night. Where do you
live?" he asked.
Clarissa hesitated. The man's eyes took in her
jewelry at a glance and then met her gaze with stern
eyes.
"Wilshire District," she replied.
"I get off in about five minutes," he smiled.
"I live in Inglewood .It’s just down the 405. I can drop
you."
"No thanks. I'll get a cab."
"Suit yourself, lady. You got to wait outside
then. I gotta lock up."
Clarissa's stomach turned and her heart
pounded. "You sure it wouldn't be too much trouble to drop me off?"
she said, and prayed that she wasn't trading Marco for some other
kind of peril. She would gladly give the guard the diamonds she was
wearing to get away from the hunter outside.
The guard was true to his word as his battered
old white Ford Ranger pickup truck rattled down the alley behind
the manufacturing plant and across the railroad tracks where the
Jaguar sat with its crushed fender and shattered windows. Clarissa
let her handbag slip to the floor then pretended to search for it
until they were well past the industrial park. The guard was silent
as the night during the half hour ride back over the hill to Los
Angeles, and let her off in front of Virginia's high-rise condo.
She gave him fifty dollars for his trouble and he took it without
so much as a word.
The soles of her running shoes pounded the
rubber runner of the treadmill to the forceful, jarring beat of
Cajun music blaring from the speakers. The light gray, sleeveless
leotard was soaked with sweat and the cold night breeze that blew
in from the open patio door gave Virginia little relief. She had
been running full out
thumbed through the contacts then hesitated. Couldn’t they trace
her calls if she used it? With all of Morgan’s contacts, could he
know she was trying to reach Andrew and stop her before she could
get on a plane? She stared at the lifeline in her hand. A lifeline
or a direct tracking devise right to her. She was reluctant to toss
it in the trash and damn scared to use it. The phone was off but
she heard that you could no longer pull out the battery or the SIM
card. Even off, Morgan could find a way to track her. Could Marco?
The phone suddenly vibrated with an incoming call.
The phone clattered to the desk and Clarissa’s
heart stopped. It was Morgan’s private number. She searched
frantically for a place to throw the phone. Then she spotted a
paperweight on the desk. It was an onyx globe the size of a fist
carved into a bowling ball. Without much thought she brought the
ball down as hard as she could on the phone repeatedly until it was
smashed. Then she buried it in the trash can next to the desk under
the refuse of potato chip bags and empty greasy hamburger and
French fry containers. She slumped back into the chair to catch her
breath. Smart move or not, now she was truly alone.
She reached for the land line phone on the
desk and started to punch the keypad. Abruptly she hung up. It was
too much of a risk. Virginia was too loyal to Morgan. Clarissa
ripped off one of her broken acrylic nails that was barely hanging
on and dropped it on the floor. She ran the rest of the chipped and
broken ones through her hair. She had to go someplace. There was
only one thing both she and Virginia had in common. Both hated
Marco Camponello. Perhaps that in itself was enough to elicit
Virginia's help without her immediately calling Morgan.
"Make your call yet?" the guard asked as he
stuck his head in the office.
"Line's busy," Clarissa lied.
“You got AAA? You can have that wreck towed
over to Mac’s garage down on Roscoe .If you don’t, cops’ll tow it
and then you’re in for a big bill, impounds and all.”
“I just left a message for my husband,” she
lied again. “He’ll take care of it.”
“Well, you can’t wait for him here. I’m off
shift in a few.”
“That’s alright, thanks. I’ll call a
cab.”
“You can call but you gotta wait outside. Cabs
out here can take an hour or more this time of night. Where do you
live?" he asked.
Clarissa hesitated. The man's eyes took in her
jewelry at a glance and then met her gaze with stern
eyes.
"Wilshire District," she replied.
"I get off in about five minutes," he smiled.
"I live in Inglewood .It’s just down the 405. I can drop
you."
"No thanks. I'll get a cab."
"Suit yourself, lady. You got to wait outside
then. I gotta lock up."
Clarissa's stomach turned and her heart
pounded. "You sure it wouldn't be too much trouble to drop me off?"
she said, and prayed that she wasn't trading Marco for some other
kind of peril. She would gladly give the guard the diamonds she was
wearing to get away from the hunter outside.
The guard was true to his word as his battered
old white Ford Ranger pickup truck rattled down the alley behind
the manufacturing plant and across the railroad tracks where the
Jaguar sat with its crushed fender and shattered windows. Clarissa
let her handbag slip to the floor then pretended to search for it
until they were well past the industrial park. The guard was silent
as the night during the half hour ride back over the hill to Los
Angeles, and let her off in front of Virginia's high-rise condo.
She gave him fifty dollars for his trouble and he took it without
so much as a word.
The soles of her running shoes pounded the
rubber runner of the treadmill to the forceful, jarring beat of
Cajun music blaring from the speakers. The light gray, sleeveless
leotard was soaked with sweat and the cold night breeze that blew
in from the open patio door gave Virginia little relief. She had
been running full out
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