Michael Prescott: Deadly Pursuit

Leaning forward, resting his elbow on the long mahogany bar, he gave the woman a look at his white smile.

“You don’t mean that?” he asked quietly.

“But I do. I envy you, living in L.A. That’s a real city. You can do things.”

“Phoenix isn’t a real city?”

“Well, sure it is, but…” She giggled. “ You know.”

He liked her laugh. He liked everything about her. She was exactly his type. Blue eyes, smooth skin lightly dusted with freckles, blond hair. About twenty-seven, he’d guess; eight years younger than himself. The tight blue dress showed a lot of leg and cleavage and, when she bent toward him, offered a glimpse of her white breasts.

She’d been sitting alone at the bar when he alighted beside her an hour ago. He’d bought her three cocktails so far. She was drinking vodka, straight, and though she held her liquor surprisingly well, the drinks were having an unmistakable effect.

“Personally,” he said, “I like your town.” He sipped the slush of gin and ice in the bottom of his glass. “Nice and clean. Feels safe.”

“If you lived here, you’d know different.”

“It’s not safe?”

“Not hardly.” Her sudden intensity brought out a Southern dialect only partly scrubbed away by years spent far from home. “Why, my girlfriend Erin, she was out walking two-three weeks ago, just after dark, and these Mexicans-not that I’ve got anything against them in general…”

“What did they do to her?”

“Stole her purse. Yanked it right off her arm and started running.”

He grunted disapproval.

“Nobody’s safe anymore.” She tipped her glass to her mouth, and he watched the lazy swallowing motion of her throat. “Here-or anywhere.”

His gaze drifted away from her to take in the rest of the bar. The place was crowded, doing good business on a Friday night, even at this post-midnight hour. Two overworked waitresses, bearing trays laden with fresh drinks and dirty glasses, maneuvered through the crush of people in the dim ambient light. Cigarette smoke soured the air, diffused by the ceiling fans and the humming air conditioner.

He returned his eyes to her face. “Sorry to hear about your friend. Even so, Phoenix is considerably safer than L.A.”

“Safer maybe-but a lot more boring.”

“I’m sure you know ways to have a good time.”

A grin flickered at the corner of her mouth. “I might.”

She studied him. He endured her frank inspection without flinching. He knew he made a good impression, sitting relaxed at the bar in his conservative brown suit and open-collared shirt.

He pictured himself as she was seeing him: the sharp planes of his face, the crisp white line of a vaguely wolfish smile, hazel eyes that squinted coolly in a way that was both promise and warning.

These were assets he knew well, assets he’d exploited throughout his life-ever since high school, when in his senior year he had been voted Prom King, Class Stud, and Most Likely to Succeed. He knew the rare secret of appealing to both sexes. Men found him instantly likable and unthreatening; women found him sexy.

“You planning to be in town long?” she asked, still watching him, appraising his face as he had appraised hers.

“Only for the weekend.”

“Business?”

“Pleasure.”

She hooted. “Honey, nobody comes to Phoenix in August for fun.”

“I do.”

“It’s hotter’n Hades in the daytime. Doesn’t cool down much at night, either.”

“I like my nights hot.”

She looked down at her hands, thinking about that. Slowly her gaze traveled up the length of her glass, then higher, and met his eyes. “Sometimes… so do I.”

He let her words hang in the space between them, gathering weight.

“You live around here?” he asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard above the background clamor.

“Mile away.”

“Alone?”

“My roommate’s out of town for the weekend, getting banged by her boyfriend in Santa Fe.”

“Doesn’t seem fair she should have all the luck.”

“Maybe she won’t.”

He touched her hand, let his index finger slide slowly over her knuckles, then gently caressed her thin and delicate wrist. “You’re a very beautiful lady.”

The compliment, and his slow stroking, lifted a blush to her cheeks. “You L.A. guys…”

“What about us?”

“You know.”

He traced faint whitish lines in the smooth skin of her forearm, watched them fade like contrails in a cloudless sky. “We’re operators? Hustlers? Is that it?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “Sure.”

“You’re right.” He teased the sleeve of her blouse. “We have to be. The women there-they’re jaded. Tough. Not friendly. Not… trusting.”

She answered with a soundless laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“Like I should trust you?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Mike. Mike Allen. How about you?”

“Veronica Tyler. Folks call me Ronni.”

“That’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Actually… so are you, Mike.”

“You don’t want me to be lonely tonight, in a strange city all by myself, do you, Ronni?”

“If I walked away, you wouldn’t be lonely for long. You’d charm some other sweet young thing.”

“I don’t want some other sweet young thing.”

She took his hand. “That’s good, mister. ’Cause you’re getting me.”

He paid for the drinks, adding a standard tip. He let Ronni Tyler lead him out of the bar.

They emerged into the balmy night. Downtown Phoenix rose on their left, bright and stark, the tall buildings aglow. Traffic hissed past on Second Street. Somewhere a car radio howled a Garth Brooks tune.

“How’d you get here?” Ronni asked.

“Delta shuttle from LAX.”

She blinked at the answer until it made sense to her. “No, silly, I mean, how’d you get to the bar?”

“Took a cab. My motel’s in Scottsdale.”

“My place is closer.”

“You’ve got a car?”

“Heck, yes. I’m a regular career woman, you know?” Unsteadily she guided him down the street. “Eight to four, Monday through Friday, First Interstate Bank.” She pronounced it Innersate. “I’m an assistant manager.”

“That’s good. Real good.”

“Oh, yeah, fantastic. What’re you, some hotshot movie exec or something?”

“Nothing like that. I’m in sales.”

“Sales?” She made a breathy sound, not quite a hiccup. “Should’ve figured.”

They reached a blue Toyota Paseo parked at the curb. She let him in on the passenger side, then climbed behind the wheel.

“Sure you’re all right to drive?” he asked.

“I’m okay. It’s only a mile from here, like I said.”

She started the engine and eased into traffic. He noted with some relief that she had used her directional signal. Apparently she really was sober enough.

“You’re not from around here originally,” he observed, just to make conversation.

“No. From South Carolina. Little town called Bennett.”

“Nice?”

“If it was, I guess I wouldn’t be in Phoenix, would I?”

“Point taken.”

She turned onto Jefferson Street. “No, honestly, it’s not so bad. Nice country. But there’s no work to find, and no young people. No life, you know? That’s what I’m always looking for. Life.”

The car hummed a tuneless air, strip malls and billboards swept past, downtown receded.

After exactly a mile the Paseo hooked left onto a residential street lined with apartment complexes and elm trees. Ronni Tyler swung the Toyota into the parking lot of a five-story building identified by a lighted sign as Saguaro Terraces.