Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

Carolyn rolled atop Lawrence once more, straddled him, feeling his interest in her Pamela Anderson body rapidly reviving. And she thought: We sure do have a fall guy, Lawrence. You. An ex-con out of work, a man with a great motive to rob Stan — and kill him in the process.

“I think it’ll work,” he said.

“I think it will too,” Carolyn said. And started to chew on his lower lip.

Sensuous curves...

The car gently rocking back and forth.

It was Thursday, another overcast spring evening, and Carolyn was wearing a long-sleeved navy blouse and a pleated skirt that ended halfway between knee and ankle. A couple of the assistants in the hospital office had looked at her with surprise. No cleavage today, no thigh, no straining buttons. The AquaNet had remained capped and her hair was pulled back in a plain ponytail. She’d decided that after she made the anonymous call to the police reporting one man shooting another in a green Cadillac, she’d have to speed back home and prepare to be the demure, innocent widow. A costume change might be hard to manage in time.

She found herself in an odd state: nearly aroused. The sashaying of the car, the cool air on her skin. And, she had to admit, the thought of Stan dying turned her on.

So did getting her hands on his money. He was such a miser. He wouldn’t even buy her the damn Lexus. It had to be a lease.

Thinking about Lawrence too.

Such a great lover.

But a better fall guy.

Too bad, Larry.

It wouldn’t be easy, though. She couldn’t call the cops from the car phone, of course; there’d be a record of the call. So she decided to pick the place for the hit herself. This would make sense to Larry — she was the native; he wouldn’t know the area. She’d suggest that he drive Stan to Cardiff Falls. There, the county road stretched through a steep valley. A mile up the road was a convenience store with two telephones outside.

She’d follow them and after Larry’d killed Stan and gone to meet her she’d slip out of her car and flatten the rear tire of Stan’s Cadillac with the kitchen knife she had in her purse (she’d let the air out of the spare tire that morning). Then she’d leave Lawrence there and speed to the store, make the call to the cops and race home. Lawrence’d be trapped in the valley. It would take him forty minutes to get out on foot; the cops would be there in minutes.

Perfect.

Her thoughts segued again to the Heritage Hotel, where her husband was right at the moment.

She pictured them in bed together.

Pictured his girlfriend: Loretta Samples... Lorrie... an unremarkable woman. Blonde, boringly pretty. When Carolyn had stalked them to the mall, Lorrie was wearing a ludicrous black floppy hat and was walking close to Stan with his elbow seated hard against her chest. They’d braked to a fast stop in front of the banshee wife. Oh, had Carolyn enjoyed that little scene.

Lor-rie...

What were they doing at this minute? Carolyn wondered, gripping the Lexus’s steering wheel so hard her fingers cramped. Drinking wine? Was he kissing her feet? Lying on top of her and hooking his longish brown hair behind his ears?

Then Lawrence’s motel loomed and she braked hard. She pulled past it, like they’d agreed, and he stepped out from behind a row of bushes and climbed into the car before it stopped moving.

“Go,” he said.

She sped back onto the road.

She’d expected that he’d be dressed in, well, killer clothes. Like a commando, maybe. At least a black sweater and jeans, or something. But he was just wearing one of his business suits under the elaborate trench coat. His tie was printed with tiny yellow fish. Ugly, tasteless. For some reason this made her feel better about turning him in.

“You’re sure he’s at the hotel?”

“He called and said he was going to be late for dinner. He had a meeting with Bill Mathiesson.”

“And he doesn’t?”

“Not unless it’s in London, which is where Bill is this week. According to his office.”

Lawrence gave a bitter laugh. “You gonna lie, lie smart.” He looked at his watch. “What do you know about his girlfriend?”

Another heat flash of jealousy coursed through her. “She’s got small boobs and needs a nose job.”

“She married too?”

“Yeah. She’s just like Stan. Rich bitch. Inherited daddy’s money and thinks she can get away with anything. They deserve each other.”

“Well, let’s hope she leaves the room first. Witnesses’re no good.” He pulled on tight-fitting cotton work gloves.

“Don’t you wear rubber gloves?”

“No,” he said. “Cloth is better. No fingerprints inside. To trace you to the gloves.”

“Oh.” She supposed that Lawrence Anderson Smith, aka the Lincoln Man, aka the Lovemaker, had been very good at collecting debts.

He opened the glove compartment and took out the pistol. Carolyn glanced at it. They all looked alike to her. Black, dangerous.

He clicked it open. She saw there were six bullets in the six chambers. Lawrence asked, “Did you wipe it?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

He laughed. “You just... wipe it.” He pulled a Kleenex from the box on her dashboard and carefully wiped the metal.

“There,” she said. “There it is.”

Ahead of them was the hotel. The red Vacancy light pulsed unappealingly. It was a seedy place. (Carolyn insisted that her lovers take her to bed-and-breakfasts. Or at least the Hyatt.)

She parked on the street, with a view of the parking lot. There was Stan’s Cadillac. She wondered which car was Lorrie’s.

“Oh, there’s a good place I know to do it,” she said, as if she’d just thought of the idea. “Cardiff Falls, Route Fifty-eight. It’s about five miles from here. It’s real deserted. Just keep going on Maple Branch about a mile to the Mobil station then turn left. That’ll be Route Fifty-eight.”

“Good.” He nodded then said, “You stay right here. I’m going to hide in the bushes. I’ll get him in the Caddie and drive there, find a place by the side of the road. You follow us.”

Carolyn took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Afterwards, you drop me at my hotel and go home. When he doesn’t show up tonight, call the cops. Remember, don’t overact when you find out what happened. It’s better to look stunned than hysterical. Sort of zoned out.”

“Stunned not hysterical.” Carolyn nodded.

Then he leaned forward and gripped her neck hard, pulled her lips to his. She kissed back, just as hard. She enjoyed a kinky little shiver, feeling the gloves on her neck. Maybe she’d have to play dress-up sometime with Don. Or some other lover. Maybe leather would be fun...

He released her and she looked into his eyes. “Good luck,” she said.

He climbed out, crouched beside the car, looked around. The street was deserted. Still hunched over, he ran through a wedge of shadow beside the hotel and disappeared behind a row of boxwood.

Carolyn laid her head against the leather rest and clicked on Lite FM.

Now, finally, the nervousness descended like a spray of cold rain. The horror of the evening unfurled within her and her hands began to quiver.

What’m I doing? she wondered.

The answer came to her: what I should’ve done a long time ago. Suddenly her uneasiness turned to rage. I hate these damn clothes, I want to be dressed up, I want to be going out for nice wine and martinis, I want that idiot Stan out of my life, I want to get the whole thing over. I want—

Two sharp cracks from the hotel.

Sitting forward, staring into the parking lot at Stan’s Cadillac.

Two more bangs. They sounded like gunshots.

Lights went on in some of the hotel windows.