James Conway - In Cold Blonde

After his father lost all his money and went to jail, Ryan rejected that part of his life. It wouldn’t take much time on a shrink’s couch to find out how betrayed Ryan felt by his father’s fraud. His father putting money before everything, including Ryan. So Ryan enjoyed his monastic life of a small apartment and forty-year-old car. Money wasn’t an issue because he didn’t have any, didn’t make any, and didn’t want any.

But that was all a lie, Ryan realized. It had to be because Ryan found himself more and more obsessed with the Lotto ticket. How it could change his life, how it was going to change the life of so many of his friends and family.

So the answer to Syd’s simple question, You don’t really mean that, do you? Fuck the Lotto? was simple. “No, Syd, I don’t mean it. It’s become too important to too many people.”

Like your money grubbing ex-wife, Anne, thought Syd. And Tony Ramirez and his mother’s meatballs, Chen and his mother’s mortgage, Katz’s fishing boat, your fucking stepbrother’s horses and sadly, you too, my dear Ryan.

But Syd said none of this. What she did say was, “Exactly. So go to your meeting with Anne; I’ll call you if I come up with something. And I think I better sleep at home, tonight,” Syd said. “I promised Eleanor I’d meet her for dinner and it might go late.” Eleanor had been Syd’s partner at Vice, and they got together every couple of weeks.

“Okay,” Ryan said. “But I’ll miss you.”

“Me too, you.” But Syd wasn’t planning on meeting Eleanor for dinner. She had other plans for this evening.

Plans she hoped Ryan never found out about.

Blake Hunter rarely dated. There were much easier ways to get laid and he couldn’t stand the hassle of wining, dining and being charming just to get into some girls panties. Hookers were expensive, but as actor Charlie Sheen said, “I don’t pay them for sex, I pay them to leave.”

Blake hated being stuck with some girl in his bed all night, then having to be civil in the morning, giving them coffee or a muffin and, worst of all, driving them home.

He hadn’t had a real girlfriend since college and that was just fine. A long-term relationship wasn’t on his radar right now. And though plenty of young girls wanted to date him — he was, after all, the Prince of the paparazzi and therefore able to get ambitious actresses plenty of face time in the world’s most-read magazines — Blake decided it just wasn’t worth the effort. For a thousand bucks, he could do whatever he wanted to whatever flavor of luscious young lady he desired; professional women who were only there to satisfy their client with every sensual trick they knew, and having relieved him of all his precious bodily fluids, would happily leave.

So Blake’s deigning to have the blonde in the red bathing suit come back tonight was unusual. No doubt he could order up a girl just like her from Millie, his madam. But there was something intriguing about the girl, and it was always fun to actually seduce a woman. It was thrilling when a woman surrendered herself to you with genuine passion. Besides, the blonde was not only going to cook him dinner but she was driving herself over, so getting rid of her should be easy.

Blake worked at his computer, checking shots of Jennifer Lopez nipple slip while getting out of a swimming pool, when he noticed the time, six fifty-five. Shit, she was due at seven. He saved his work on Photoshop and hurried into the bedroom. He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV and started changing clothes as the news wrapped up. He was in his closet slipping out of shorts and into a pair of khakis, sandals and a Grateful Dead tee shirt when his synapses plowed through the meaningless blah blah blah of the newscast and focused in on the words “…Adam Devlin’s murder…”

Blake stepped into the bedroom in time to see the surveillance video from the Bel Air Regent Hotel and hear: “Police say this woman is a suspect in not only Adam Devlin’s murder, but also the murder of Colin Wood two nights ago and Orange County attorney Zachary Stone earlier this week. If you know the identity or whereabouts of this Lady in Red, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.”

Blake hit the pause button, freezing the image on his DVR.

Adam Devlin was dead, too? Murdered just like Colin? Blake had spoken to Adam just six months ago. One of Adam’s clients, a beautiful ice skater with four Olympic Gold Medals and a squeaky-clean-girl-next-door rep that had netted her millions in endorsements had been photographed giving the finger to an obnoxious paparazzi, Joel, as a matter of fact, Blake’s number one shooter.

Adam called Blake, asked him to kill the picture as a favor. Blake always liked Adam; they had great times in high school. So Blake did his old friend a favor and killed the picture. Now Adam was dead, too. What the fuck was going on?

Blake studied the frozen image of the blonde on his TV and a cold chill ran through him. It looked like that girl he met this morning in the red bikini. Her hair was down in the video and pulled back in a ponytail today, but it sure looked like the same girl who washed up on his beach.

Then with a jolt the implications rocked him. She’d killed Adam and Colin and now she wanted to kill him.

Kill him!

But who the hell was she? He studied her face. He didn’t recognize her, though he remembered thinking there was something familiar about her when they first talked.

Then he thought about her victims; Colin, Adam and an Orange County attorney… and then it hit him. Zachary Stone was the lawyer who handled the payoff to that girl from high school, Annie, Angie, no wait, Alice. Alice Waterman.

He studied the picture again. That woman looked nothing like Alice Waterman. Well, not that he really remembered what that slut looked like. But wasn’t she brunette and chunky? He could quickly check the video he made that night. He kept it, of course; he kept everything he shot.

But if she dyed her hair and lost weight… He studied the surveillance shot one more time, it could be her.

Could be, hell, it must be her, otherwise why would she be killing everyone who was there that night?

And what was with the damsel in distress act this morning? She must have been researching him. Knew where he lived, knew he liked to run in the mornings. She had to have been waiting for him in that kayak, waiting for him to take his run on the beach so he’d be able to rescue her.

But then why didn’t she kill him this morning? And then he remembered standing with her in the kitchen making her some more coffee and getting her an apple. She was standing behind him; he pictured the kitchen, the counter…the spice rack…the jar of utensils…and the knives. She was standing in front of the fucking knives!

He vaguely remembered sensing movement behind him when he bent over to get her that apple, but then Joel and the guys suddenly walked in.

Was she going to kill him then? Had the guys interrupted her, saving his life?

Now Blake was starting to get mad.

That bitch. She tried to kill him this morning, failed, so she was coming back tonight to finish the job. He picked up his phone, started punching in the number on the bottom of the TV screen, then stopped as an idea struck him. A brainstorm, actually.

There may be an incredible opportunity here.

It would be risky; she was a killer, after all. But she didn’t know that he knew who she was. And that should buy him both time and opportunity.

The doorbell rang. She was here. Decision time. The more he thought about his plan, the more he liked it. He hung up the phone.

Alice drove her Prius to Malibu. It was a gift from her parents when she got out of the Institute a month ago. She hated taking gifts from them since they were all bought with the blood money.