Better Off Dead. Meryl Sawyer

he’d taught her. Don’t become careless just because nothing has happened for almost a year.

      “Ben?” she said when he answered with a grunt that was supposed to pass for hello. “Guess what? I sold the Rising Sun necklace.”

      “No way!”

      “Yes. Way. I love saying I told you so.”

      “I made the right decision,” he said in his deep baritone, and she could almost see him fiddling with the turquoise beaded strip of leather that cinched back his sleek, black hair into a ponytail at his nape. “Your gallery shows my work—”

      “Showcases your art.”

      He grunted again. “I’ll make more money with you than I did at the other gallery.”

      We’ll both make more money, she silently added. “I need two, three—whatever you’ve got—large important pieces.”

      “My work takes time…inspiration.”

      Lindsey studied the hand-hewn beams, vigas, that supported the ceiling in the historic building. Ben Tallchief received most of his “inspiration” in the horizontal. Not only was he a talented artist known for his inventive work with hand-forged silver, but he was a world class womanizer.

      Most nights he could be found at the Pink Adobe’s bar, picking up female tourists who couldn’t resist a “real” Indian who was tall and drop-dead gorgeous. He’d gone to UCLA on a football scholarship and graduated with honors. He’d returned to his hometown to teach art at the Indian School where promising young artists from the pueblos studied.

      From his West Coast days, Ben Tallchief had a surfer’s attitude about life. Laid back. She could almost hear him telling her, “Chill, Lindsey. Chill.”

      Maybe he was on to something, she decided. She’d spent her life on the fast track. Look where it had gotten her. A cell without walls.

      “Get me what you can, Ben, as soon as possible.”

      The shop bell tinkled and a couple from the Midwest sauntered in. She smiled at them, but doubted they would buy anything. The man was in his early thirties, but he’d already lost the battle of the bulge. His stomach stretched his Ohio State T-shirt so much that the seam on one side had popped and a patch of skin showed through.

      He had the worst comb-over she’d ever seen. Six or seven strands of light brown hair went from ear-to-ear. His expression told her he was “in tow” and his wife was the shopper. The plump blonde was inspecting the earring case more intently than Lindsey had expected when they’d walked through the door. Maybe Lindsey was wrong, and the woman would buy something.

      It was a guessing game that Lindsey indulged in each time a customer walked through the door. Were they lookie-lou’s or buyers? Could she predict what they would do? She’d kept a tally on the pad beside her telephone. She’d been right almost ninety percent of the time. Not bad, she decided, knowing probability the way she did. Actually, her predictions were phenomenally correct.

      “I’m sorry. What was that?”

      Ben had been talking, but something was niggling at the back of her mind and she hadn’t heard him.

      “Do you think I should make more sugilite pieces or turquoise?”

      “Sugilite,” she replied without hesitation. The stone ranged from pale lavender to deep plum and looked spectacular when set in silver. “It’s unique. Most tourists seem to be drawn to those colors.”

      “You got it. I’m just waiting for divine inspiration.”

      “Hustle over to the Pink Adobe and pick up some…inspiration.”

      “Why don’t you meet me there?”

      It wasn’t the first time Ben had come on to her. The last thing she needed was to become involved with one of her artists.

      “Sorry. I already have plans.”

      “Too bad. We could discuss, you know, my work.”

      “I’ve gotta go. Customers are here looking at your jewelry.”

      She hung up the telephone. For practice, she reached forward and switched on her cell phone concealed in the letter rack. She pressed the autodial button that called the cell phone in her skirt pocket. That telephone was off, but anything said in the gallery would be recorded on her voice mail that was set to run for hours.

      “Are you from Ohio?” she asked as she walked up to the couple.

      The woman looked up from the earring case. “We live in Indianapolis. Bud went to Ohio State. He never lets you forget it.”

      The man smiled, his eyes cold blue marbles in his fleshy face. “What can I say? It’s a great school.”

      A sense of unease lurked in the back of her mind. “I went to UCLA—another great school.”

      She was surprised at how easily the lie came from her lips. Her undergraduate studies had been at Duke, but when WITSEC created a new ID for her, they had chosen UCLA. It was so big that even if she ran into someone from her class, they wouldn’t necessarily have known each other.

      The man smiled again, his soft chin sinking into the fold of flab at his neck. “We just drove in from Albuquerque. Is there a good place to eat around here?”

      Something in the reptilian part of her brain clicked, and a chill coursed through her, but she refused to allow her face to reflect her feelings. “You just drove in? Was there a lot of traffic?”

      He chuckled. “Not compared to L.A. Right, honey?”

      “Right,” she replied without turning around.

      A frission of alarm waltzed across the back of Lindsey’s neck as she realized what had been bothering her. Hadn’t she seen this couple walk past the gallery shortly before Derek arrived?

      Trust your instincts.

      That’s what Derek had taught her. A depth charge of fear exploded in her chest. Move! Get out of here!

      “You know, Casa Sena is the best restaurant in the area. I just had lunch there today. You won’t get in without a reservation, but my neighbor next door is the owner’s cousin.” She was making this up as she went and managing to sound convincing. “I’ll get you one of Romero’s cards. Give it to the hostess and you’ll get in without a problem.”

      “That would be great. Right, honey?”

      “Sure. Whatever.”

      Lindsey walked through the connecting door into Romero’s gallery. Inside, she picked up her pace and bolted out the back door. She sprinted down the alley, rounded the corner, and dashed for a dark side street. Only a breath separated her from debilitating panic.

      No one was around, and the soft summer night seemed unusually quiet. In the distance, she heard the lonely wail of a coyote, urging his pack to pounce on some small animal—probably a rabbit.

      I’m the rabbit, she thought.

      She stood, panting, wondering what to do next. Verify. Don’t panic until you know if you’re imagining things or not.

      She slithered behind a cluster of lilac bushes and hid in the shadows of a rambling adobe home where no lights were shining from the windows. She jerked her cell phone out of the pocket in her skirt. Maybe she’d imagined all this. She punched autodial for her voice mail.

      Lindsay picked up the conversation from the point when she’d asked where the couple in the gallery was from. Their voices had a hollow ring, but just as Derek had shown her, the cell had acted as an open mike. She listened—a full minute behind real time.

      “What happened to her?” Lindsey heard the woman ask after a static-filled pause.

      “She probably can’t find the card.”

      He sounded casual enough. Maybe she’d