Read Online Killer Summer by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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own business, plays by his own rules. Is rough in bed—and she likes it.”
Fiona punched him in the arm. His wine sloshed, nearly spilling, and they both laughed.
“ She’s the rough one,” Fiona said. “Wants all the attention all the time. Insufferable. Fired from the evening news in some backwater TV market like Bakersfield.”
“More like Atlantic City,” Roger said.
“Exactly! Skipped college for a shot at showbiz. Failed miserably. Married three times, no kids. Loves dogs.”
“Little dogs . . . yappy little dogs she dresses like dolls.”
“Perfect!” Fiona finished off the glass of wine. “See? You’re good at this.”
For a moment, there was something between them, something she found dangerous and seductive at the same time. But the feeling threatened her as much as excited her, and it ruined the moment for her.
“You okay?” he asked.
Just then, there was a commotion at the entrance on the far side of the tent. A woman charged through the crowd, stopping only a few feet from them.
W alt signaled the volunteer hostess and pursued the crasher himself. He reached out for the rushing woman’s arm but missed.
The woman was dressed casually, and inappropriately for this crowd, in department-store jeans, a green polo, and brown Keens.
Intrigued by what the woman might want with Remy, he gave her some distance. He knew he stuck out in his uniform, but no one seemed to notice him.
Coming within earshot, Walt was disappointed that the confrontation between the crasher and Remy lasted only seconds. Remy had rebuked her immediately, turning his back on her. But she was determined, pulling a pen out of the purse slung over her shoulder and scribbling something on a cocktail napkin. Interrupting Remy a second time, she pressed the napkin into his unwilling hand.
“Call me,” she said.
Remy leaned in close to her and apparently said something disagreeable. Her head jerking back as if slapped, she turned and hurried out an opening in the tent’s wall, a move Walt had not seen coming.
He tried to catch up with her but became tangled in the crowd. One didn’t push around members of this set. He politely squeezed his way through the throng, making for the opening. He was several steps past one couple before stopping abruptly to get a better look at the woman’s face. Ignoring the hair and makeup, the outfit that made her look like a copper-topped battery, he realized she reminded him of someone. It took him a few seconds too many to wonder if she wasn’t the woman in the Hailey crosswalk, the woman caught on the traffic cam. The camera was too high up the pole and too far away to get a decent shot at any face, and yet . . .
His moment of hesitation cost him.
He caught Brandon’s eye, hand-signaling him over other people’s heads to get going out of the tent.
Brandon, who’d seen Walt pursuing the party crasher, took off.
Then Walt looked back for the woman in the copper top.
Gone.
Not for the first time in his life, he cursed his short stature. In a sea of six-footers, he was forced to lift up to his toes and crane his neck. The Duracell battery and her man were moving away from Walt but in no particular hurry. He took a step in that direction, then heard Brandon speaking in his right ear bud.
“She’s getting into a car, Sheriff. What do you want me to do?”
Grabbing the handset clipped to his epaulet, he answered, “Wave her down and stop her, if you can.”
“No way.”
“Get the plate, then. Take down the registration . ”
“Ten-four,” Brandon mumbled.
Walt glanced back toward his quarry as another volunteer hostess blew into a microphone and began making introductions. Walt again lifted to his toes, searching for Miss Duracell.
Not seeing her or her escort, Walt hurried back out of the tent. He caught up to Brandon, describing the woman’s copper outfit as the two jogged over to the sea of parked SUVs.
The couple was nowhere to be found.
“How’s
Fiona punched him in the arm. His wine sloshed, nearly spilling, and they both laughed.
“ She’s the rough one,” Fiona said. “Wants all the attention all the time. Insufferable. Fired from the evening news in some backwater TV market like Bakersfield.”
“More like Atlantic City,” Roger said.
“Exactly! Skipped college for a shot at showbiz. Failed miserably. Married three times, no kids. Loves dogs.”
“Little dogs . . . yappy little dogs she dresses like dolls.”
“Perfect!” Fiona finished off the glass of wine. “See? You’re good at this.”
For a moment, there was something between them, something she found dangerous and seductive at the same time. But the feeling threatened her as much as excited her, and it ruined the moment for her.
“You okay?” he asked.
Just then, there was a commotion at the entrance on the far side of the tent. A woman charged through the crowd, stopping only a few feet from them.
W alt signaled the volunteer hostess and pursued the crasher himself. He reached out for the rushing woman’s arm but missed.
The woman was dressed casually, and inappropriately for this crowd, in department-store jeans, a green polo, and brown Keens.
Intrigued by what the woman might want with Remy, he gave her some distance. He knew he stuck out in his uniform, but no one seemed to notice him.
Coming within earshot, Walt was disappointed that the confrontation between the crasher and Remy lasted only seconds. Remy had rebuked her immediately, turning his back on her. But she was determined, pulling a pen out of the purse slung over her shoulder and scribbling something on a cocktail napkin. Interrupting Remy a second time, she pressed the napkin into his unwilling hand.
“Call me,” she said.
Remy leaned in close to her and apparently said something disagreeable. Her head jerking back as if slapped, she turned and hurried out an opening in the tent’s wall, a move Walt had not seen coming.
He tried to catch up with her but became tangled in the crowd. One didn’t push around members of this set. He politely squeezed his way through the throng, making for the opening. He was several steps past one couple before stopping abruptly to get a better look at the woman’s face. Ignoring the hair and makeup, the outfit that made her look like a copper-topped battery, he realized she reminded him of someone. It took him a few seconds too many to wonder if she wasn’t the woman in the Hailey crosswalk, the woman caught on the traffic cam. The camera was too high up the pole and too far away to get a decent shot at any face, and yet . . .
His moment of hesitation cost him.
He caught Brandon’s eye, hand-signaling him over other people’s heads to get going out of the tent.
Brandon, who’d seen Walt pursuing the party crasher, took off.
Then Walt looked back for the woman in the copper top.
Gone.
Not for the first time in his life, he cursed his short stature. In a sea of six-footers, he was forced to lift up to his toes and crane his neck. The Duracell battery and her man were moving away from Walt but in no particular hurry. He took a step in that direction, then heard Brandon speaking in his right ear bud.
“She’s getting into a car, Sheriff. What do you want me to do?”
Grabbing the handset clipped to his epaulet, he answered, “Wave her down and stop her, if you can.”
“No way.”
“Get the plate, then. Take down the registration . ”
“Ten-four,” Brandon mumbled.
Walt glanced back toward his quarry as another volunteer hostess blew into a microphone and began making introductions. Walt again lifted to his toes, searching for Miss Duracell.
Not seeing her or her escort, Walt hurried back out of the tent. He caught up to Brandon, describing the woman’s copper outfit as the two jogged over to the sea of parked SUVs.
The couple was nowhere to be found.
“How’s
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