Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

entered the building, offered the woman at the desk a smile, then walked past as if she knew where she was going, had been at Grandview a hundred times before. She’d been blind. Her brain fed with images of Auggie calling the police, or sneaking through the back corridors, looking for an escape, or something.

      And then she’d caught him on the phone and she’d nearly come undone.

      Who are you talking to? she’d wanted to scream. Luckily, her voice had sounded normal when it came. A bit strained. But normal.

      And he’d answered her easily. She’d scarcely been able to remember because she’d been consumed with thoughts of his mouth and tongue and hands working on her skin, and she’d focused on his lips and couldn’t think!

      And then the phone rang again and it was about Everett LeBlanc, and he’d guided her outside and they’d had a conversation and she still couldn’t think, but something that shot through everything was the feeling that she was being played and nothing was what it seemed.

      He was looking at her now. Those eyes intense.

      She remembered the way he’d sighed and groaned and laughed softly at different moments of their lovemaking.

      Lovemaking . . .

      “There’s something wrong with me,” she blurted out, unable to stop herself. “There must be. I feel out of control.”

      He glanced away from her, as if it hurt to look at her.

      “What about your girlfriend?” she asked. “What was it like with her?”

      “Ex-girlfriend,” he reminded her. He looked back at her. “It wasn’t like this.”

      She collapsed against the Jeep seat, spent. She was still holding his phone and she saw him look at it, slide a hand her way, palm up, asking for it. She put it into his hand, careful not to touch his skin. She was way, way too susceptible.

      “This isn’t going well,” she said on an expelled breath.

      “Isn’t it?”

      “No.” She choked out a laugh. Then shook her head. “Are you going to call the sister and ask about Navarone?”

      He hesitated a moment, then said, “She told me to Google him. I think that’s what I’ll do.” And then, “We need to talk to your brother.”

      A shiver slid down her spine. She was trusting him some, but it felt dangerous.

      He glanced at the Jeep’s clock, said, “Let’s get something to eat,” then pointed the nose of the vehicle back on the road. As they sped away from Grandview Senior Care, he said, somewhat ominously, “We don’t have much time left. I want to find out as much as I can before things change.”

      “Before things change . . .” she repeated.

      He slid her a look, a frankly assessing look that was full of repressed sexual energy. Her heart jolted. So, he was feeling it, too. She gazed back at him, suddenly wanting to pull over and make love in the Jeep. As fast and furious as possible.

      As if picking up her vibe, he hit the gas and growled low, “Look at me like that again, and we won’t make it back to the house.”

      With that she sank back into the seat and wondered if she were truly losing her mind.

      Chapter 16

      The mood around the station Sunday afternoon was gloomy and restrained. Gretchen was on the phone to missing persons, trying to get a lead on the new vic, George was looking through Zuma Software records, though more desultorily now than before, as he’d become convinced there was nothing there, and September was still reviewing her meeting with Camille Dirkus and the woman’s belief that the shootings were drug-related. There was the smell of revenge and retribution to her insistence, however; Camille was distraught over her son’s death and she wanted to blame both Kurt Upjohn and Aaron Dirkus’s roommates for everything.

      It didn’t help that both Upjohn and Jessica Maltona had taken a turn for the worse.

      September walked down the hall to the water cooler and poured herself a cup. She stood in the hallway, smelling the scents of floor wax and Pine-Sol, drinking slowly. She hadn’t liked the way Gretchen had handled Camille Dirkus; she was too brash, too impatient, too everything. Camille hadn’t appreciated the treatment, either, and her short, blond hair had bristled as her pinched mouth bit out answers and finally spewed her theory about the drug operation. She was certain Kurt Upjohn and the roommates had sparked a retaliation from a bigger fish up the chain. That’s who they should be looking for. Not wasting time talking to her!

      When September and Gretchen related Camille’s theory to D’ Annibal, he’d taken in the information and, from what September had gleaned, had asked Wes Pelligree to look into it. Personally, she didn’t think it was the root cause of the shootings, but maybe . . .

      Returning to the squad room, she overheard a few of Gretchen’s terse remarks into the phone, then tuned her out. She and Gretchen were never going to be simpatico; they were just too different. As she looked out the window, her mind drifted again to the woman’s body found in the field. DO UNTO OTHERS AS SHE DID TO ME. The words, carved into the vic’s skin, were an extra violation that bothered September deeply.

      “Okay,” Gretchen said, slamming down the receiver. She leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her curly dark hair. “From the description, I think our vic is one Emmy Decatur. Her roommate called her into missing persons this morning. She and the roommate, whose name is Nadine, work at a tanning salon in Laurelton. The Indoor Beach.”

      “Let’s go,” September said, glad to get moving again.

      “Helluva way to spend another Sunday,” Gretchen muttered, heading for the door.

      “Overtime,” George said from his desk, not looking up, to which Gretchen merely snorted.

      They got to The Indoor Beach in twenty minutes. It was at the end of a strip mall, painted a virulent shade of puce, and announced in big black words across the front window: TAN, TAN, TAN!!! IMPROVE YOUR APPEARANCE!!! IMPROVE YOUR LIFE!!!

      There were two young women behind a podium that served as the reception desk. They both looked vaguely at September and Gretchen, their thoughts clearly elsewhere. Their attention sharpened when Gretchen showed her badge and asked, “Nadine Wilkerson?”

      The taller of the two started as if she’d been goosed. She had light brown, straight, flattened hair, the kind that comes from seriously removing the curl through a procedure. “That’s me . . . are you here about Emmy?” she asked tremulously.

      “Do you have a picture of her?” Gretchen asked.

      “Oh, God, have you found her?” She looked ready to faint.

      “Why don’t you sit down?” September suggested, motioning to one of two white, wicker chairs for waiting customers. Nadine walked on wobbly legs and collapsed into the chair. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

      “We don’t know anything yet,” Gretchen said.

      The other girl said, “Oh, golly.” She was blond and petite with a dark tan that looked like it had been painted on. Maybe it had.

      “I’ve . . . uh . . . I’ve . . . got a picture . . . in my purse?” Nadine said. She sat a moment longer, then stood up and walked around a partition. A moment later the sound of a locker slamming shut was heard, then she returned with a snapshot, which she handed to September.

      In the picture were two girls in bikinis waving from a boat. One was Nadine; the other was their victim. September handed the photo to Gretchen, who said, “Do you know how to get in touch with Emmy’s parents?”

      The color drained from Nadine’s face. “Ohhhh . . .” she cried, collapsing back in the chair. “It’s her. It’s her. Oh, God, God, God!”

      The other girl said, “Oh, golly.”