Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty. Tess Gerritsen

Nate says Lassiter didn’t go home.”

      “He died?”

      “He never left the country.”

      She leaned forward, her whole body suddenly rigid with excitement. “He’s still here in Nam?”

      “Was a few years ago anyway. In Cantho. It’s a river town in the Delta, about a hundred and fifty kilometers southwest of here.”

      “Not very far,” she said, her mind obviously racing. “I could leave tomorrow morning…get there by afternoon…”

      “And just how are you going to get there?”

      “What do you mean, how? By car, of course.”

      “You think Mr. Ainh’s going to let you waltz off on your own?”

      “That’s what bribes are for. Some people will do anything for a buck. Won’t they?”

      He met her hard gaze with one equally unflinching. “Forget the damn money. Don’t you see someone’s trying to use both of us? I want to know why.” He leaned forward, his voice soft, coaxing. “I’ve made arrangements for a driver to Cantho first thing in the morning. We can tell Ainh I’ve invited you along for the ride. You know, just another tourist visiting the—”

      She laughed. “You must think I have the IQ of a turnip. Why should I trust you? Bounty hunter. Opportunist. Jerk.”

      “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” cut in a cheery voice.

      Dodge Hamilton, drink in hand, beamed down at them. He was greeted with dead silence.

      “Oh, dear. Am I intruding?”

      “Not at all,” Willy said with a sigh, pulling a chair out for the ubiquitous Englishman. No doubt he wanted company for his misery, and she would do fine. They could commiserate a little more about his lost story and her lost father.

      “No, really, I wouldn’t dream of—”

      “I insist.” Willy tossed a lethal glance at Guy. “Mr. Barnard was just leaving.”

      Hamilton’s gaze shifted from Guy to the offered chair. “Well, if you insist.” He settled uneasily into the chair, set his glass down on the table and looked at Willy. “What I wanted to ask you, Miss Maitland, is whether you’d consent to an interview.”

      “Me? Why on earth?”

      “I decided on a new focus for my Saigon story—a daughter’s search for her father. Such a touching angle. A sentimental journey into—”

      “Bad idea,” Guy said, cutting in.

      “Why?” asked Hamilton.

      “It…has no passion,” he improvised. “No romance. No excitement.”

      “Of course, there’s excitement. A missing father—”

      “Hamilton.” Guy leaned forward. “No.”

      “He’s asking me,” Willy said. “After all, it’s about my father.”

      Guy’s gaze swung around to her. “Willy,” he said quietly, “think.”

      “I’m thinking a little publicity might open a few doors.”

      “More likely it’d close doors. The Vietnamese hate to hang out their dirty laundry. What if they know what happened to your father, and it wasn’t a nice ending? They’re not going to want the details all over the London papers. It’d be much easier to throw you out of the country.”

      “Believe me,” said Hamilton, “I can be discreet.”

      “A discreet reporter. Right,” Guy muttered.

      “Not a word would be printed till she’s left the country.”

      “The Vietnamese aren’t dumb. They’d find out what you were working on.”

      “Then I’ll give them a cover story. Something to throw them off the track.”

      “Excuse me…” Willy said politely.

      “The matter’s touchier than you realize, Hamilton,” Guy said.

      “I’ve covered delicate matters before. When I say something’s off the record, I keep it off the record.”

      Willy rose to her feet. “I give up. I’m going to bed.”

      Guy looked up. “You can’t go to bed. We haven’t finished talking.”

      “You and I have definitely finished talking.”

      “What about tomorrow?”

      “What about my story?”

      “Hamilton,” she said, “if it’s dirty laundry you’re looking for, why don’t you interview him?” She pointed to Guy. Then she turned and walked away.

      Hamilton looked at Guy. “What dirty laundry do you have?”

      Guy merely smiled.

      He was still smiling as he crumpled his beer can in his bare hands.

      

      LORD, DELIVER ME FROM THE jerks of the world, Willy thought wearily as she stepped into the elevator. The doors slid closed. Above all, deliver me from Guy Barnard.

      Leaning back, she closed her eyes and waited for the elevator to creep down to the fourth floor. It moved at a snail’s pace, like everything else in this country. The stale air was rank with the smell of liquor and sweat. Through the creak of the cables she could hear a faint squeaking, high in the elevator shaft. Bats. She’d seen them the night before, flapping over the courtyard. Wonderful. Bats and Guy Barnard. Could a girl ask for anything more?

      If only there was some way she could have the benefit of his insider’s knowledge without having to put up with him. The man was clever and streetwise, and he had those shadowy but all-important connections. Too bad he couldn’t be trusted. Still, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to take him up on his offer. Just the thought of working cheek to cheek with the man made her stomach dance a little pirouette of excitement. An ominous sign. The man was getting to her.

      Oh, she’d been in love before; she knew how unreasonable hormones could be, how much havoc they could wreak, cavorting in a deprived female body.

       I just won’t think about him. It’s the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong situation.

       And definitely the wrong man.

      The elevator groaned to a halt, and the doors slid open to the deserted outdoor walkway. The night trembled to the distant beat of disco music as she headed through the shadows to her room. The entire fourth floor seemed abandoned this evening, all the windows unlit, the curtains drawn. She whirled around in fright as a chorus of shrieks echoed off the building and spiraled up into the darkness. Beyond the walkway railing, the shadows of bats rose and fluttered like phantoms over the courtyard.

      Her hands were still shaking when she reached her door, and it took a moment to find the key. As she rummaged in her purse, a figure glided into her peripheral vision. Some sixth sense—a premonition of danger—made her turn.

      At the end of the walkway, a man emerged from the shadows. As he passed beneath the glow of an outdoor lamp, she saw slick black hair and a face so immobile it seemed cast in wax. Then something else drew her gaze. Something in his hand. He was holding a knife.

      She dropped her purse and ran.

      Just ahead, the walkway turned a corner, past a huge air-conditioning vent. If she kept moving, she would reach the safety of the stairwell.

      The man was yards behind. Surely the purse was what he wanted. But as she tore around the corner, she heard his footsteps thudding in pursuit. Oh, God, he wasn’t after her money.

      He