Russell Andrews - Hades

Justin suddenly remembered the folded piece of paper in his pocket. He fished it out and unfolded it. Mike Haversham had gotten the info Justin had wanted. Ellis St. John had rented a car on Thursday afternoon, the day he disappeared and the night Evan Harmon was killed. Haversham had gotten the make-a blue Mustang convertible-and the license plate number. Justin made a mental note to thank Haversham when William Holden wasn't around. He reached for Abby's wrists again.

"Is Ellis St. John capable of murder?" he asked her.

"Oh god, no."

"Why not?"

"He's just"-she was unable to come up with the right words-"he's just not. Why would you even ask about him?"

"Because he's missing."

She looked confused. "Missing? You mean he's run away?"

"Or someone's taken him away. I haven't been able to find him."

"Does that have something to do with Evan?"

"I don't know. I think it might."

They were both silent for a moment. Justin knew that Holden wouldn't give him much more time.

"Abby, is there anything you know about Evan's murder? Anything you're not telling me?" he asked.

"No."

"If there is, tell me now."

"There isn't. I don't know a thing."

Now he slid his hands off her forearms, and her arms fell to her sides. Abigail swallowed. A hard swallow. "Do you want to know anything about Kelley?" she asked quietly. "I mean, about me and Kelley?"

"No." And when she looked at him curiously, he said, "That's personal. That can wait."

"This is business?"

"This is business."

"I think I'm going to need some help here, Jay."

"I think you are."

"Will you help me?" When he didn't answer, she said, "I didn't do it. I didn't do it, and I don't know anything about it."

Again, he didn't respond, sat stoically, not dismissing her claim, not embracing it. Just wondering if he could believe the woman standing next to him. And what the ramifications were if he decided he could.

Abby cocked her head, spoke as if she weren't the one whose life was on the line, as if she was genuinely curious about his decision, as if whatever he decided would tell her what she wanted to know about him. "Will you help me?"

"I'll find out what happened. Whatever it is, whoever it is, as long as you understand that."

"I understand," Abigail Harmon said. "Business, not personal."

"No," Justin Westwood told her. "This one's personal, too."

Li Ling was naked.

And she was always happy when she was naked.

Having no clothes on was freeing to her. It was like shedding an outer skin. Like discarding some final form of repression and restraint. Being unclothed was exhilarating to her.

Togo also wore no clothes. He was lying next to her on the bed, his perfect body half visible, half hidden by the tangled sheets. They had made love three times, and she knew she had exhausted him. Drained him. Even astonished him, after all this time. She was not drained, though, not yet. She watched him sleep, gently put her hand over his heart, felt his chest move up and down. She traced a silver-painted nail across his chest, shuddering with delight as she felt his smooth skin and the tautness of his muscles. She moved her hand between her own legs. Watching Togo sleep, she pleasured herself. Her expression didn't change. She barely moved, but she came quickly and suddenly and whatever tension remained in her body and her mind was now gone.

Ling swung her legs out of bed and in one motion was standing. She enjoyed the feeling of the rough carpet on her bare feet, took a moment to spread her toes and rub them against the coarse fiber. She walked across the room to where the man was sprawled. He, too, was naked but he was not feeling any pleasure. Ling didn't even know whether or not, at this point, he was even feeling pain. He was probably beyond feeling anything.

She nudged him with one toe, and his body moved ever so slightly. She stood above him, put her bare foot on his neck. She stayed still, feeling the faint pulse from his neck vibrate against her sole. The vibration seemed to pump life into her body. Her touch seemed to stir him, too; his eyes fluttered but she couldn't tell if he could see her. She hoped so.

She bent over, her foot pressing down a little harder on the neck, the pulse feeling stronger against her skin, and she jabbed her finger downward, one quick movement, and then the pulse was gone. She straightened up slowly, luxuriously, as if coming out of a bubble bath, enjoying the way her spine curved upward, one vertebra at a time until she was upright and rigid. She jostled the man with her toes, but this time there was no movement, no fluttering of the eyes.

The man's name had been Ronald LaSalle. It was a meaningless name to her, a meaningless life. She did not know why his words had been important nor did she care. She cared only that he had talked, as she knew he would. And that he had told the truth, which there was no doubt he had. He had, very quickly, told them what they had been required to find out. There had been no need to put him through the agony he had endured before he died.

But sometimes, Ling understood, one did not do things strictly from need.

And with that, she smiled and went back to the bed. She stood on the mattress, her weight barely making an indentation, and this time she put her foot on Togo's neck. When his eyes slowly opened, he saw her standing above him in the position of power and dominance. He did not change his expression, but she saw that he instantly grew hard.

"We have time to make love one more time," she told him. She nodded toward the body of Ronald LaSalle. "And then we must finish our job."

His head moved, a slight nod, she could feel the movement under her foot. She clenched it slightly, gripping his neck with her toes, and she wondered when the day would come when Togo, too, would be as helpless and powerless as the dead man on the other side of the room.

She watched as he finally smiled up at her. She smiled, too, and then she dropped down next to him, straddled him, clenched her legs against his sides as tightly as she could squeeze. She leaned over, her bare breasts lightly grazing his smooth chest.

They made love once again while she thought of life, and the joy it brought, and of death, and the exquisite pleasures that could bring as well.

And she thought of the fact that because of what this man, Ronald LaSalle, had told them, she and Togo now had more work to do.

And sometimes work could be the best thing of all.

At 9 P.M., Justin was slouched in his living room on Division Street. The news vans and reporters had disappeared, as had a quarter of a bottle of Jack Daniel's and two bottles of Pete's Wicked Ale. The reporters had given up and stopped loitering around his property about forty-five minutes earlier. The JD and brew were still available. Justin was trying to decide now whether or not to go for a third bottle of Pete's.

He'd been online and seen the way Evan's murder was being treated, so he was prepared for the onslaught of publicity that was sure to break the next morning. AOL news, running a story from the Associated Press, was playing it up big. The assumption was that Abigail had set up her two lovers to murder her husband, and that was made clear by the headline: threesome not enough for millionaire murderess. The story went on to detail her affair with Kelley: how he had been hired as a contractor to redo part of the Harmon mansion-that was clearly the official description of the home from now on, "the Harmon mansion"-and how Abby had gradually succumbed to Kelley's charms. Justin learned details he had not been privy to, some relevant to the case against Kelley and Abby, some not. Kelley had worked on the house for the better part of a year. The job was supposed to take four months but had stretched to twelve. Abby was receiving credit for the extension; the story said that Evan had wanted Kelley to stop working, but that his wife kept finding more and more for him to do. The AP made it sound as if the extra work was sexual. Justin supposed that was possible, but he also knew that contractors had a way of overstaying their welcome. It was their nature. Start one job, get money up front, get partway through the work, take on another job with more money up front, spend less and less time finishing up the original job as the back-end money becomes less and less important. He dismissed the idea of Abby keeping Kelley around for sexual purposes. It didn't make sense. If she wanted to have an affair, she wouldn't want him hanging around her home. She'd want Kelley close by but separate-just the way she'd had with him.