Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

I thought about Rosemary and Christopher Thomas. How they had lived and died in a marriage of convenience. That was their hell, at least Rosemary’s hell. But somehow I’d gotten sucked into it, had inadvertently become another one of Christopher Thomas’s victims, right along with so many others.

Haile Patchett didn’t want to get caught by the police. She’d do whatever she could to avoid being locked up. But crime was in her blood. The danger, the fear, the cash-it always brought her a rush.

She put a smile on her face and kept her footsteps light as she walked toward the Ritz-Carlton, a sprawling, shingle-style resort commanding a bluff above the Pacific. The hotel was surrounded by emerald fairways, tidily winding cart paths, scattered cypress trees, and the endless sea.

When she stepped inside, she looked all around, nodding casually at the valets as if she belonged there. In her Vera Wang high-heel sandals and her Charles Chang-Lima sundress-short and sexy, just above the knees, to show her long, tanned legs-she could belong there. Should, even. But that was an old story.

Taking off her sunglasses, she entered the lobby, her shoulder bag clasped to her side. The men watched her, the clerks behind the registration desk and the aging husbands with glittering, hopeful eyes standing in line with their credit cards and forgotten wives. She was not truly beautiful, but she had something, something inside her that was like fire.

She passed hotel guests, lounging in padded wicker chairs before the sweeping views of bluff and bay, and stepped into the dark, wood-paneled bar. A slender woman of thirty-eight, with green eyes, red hair that flowed to her shoulders, and a nose so straight and true it could make Angelina Jolie jealous. Today was her birthday, but the only card in the mail this morning had been an invitation from Tony Olsen to celebrate Rosemary Thomas in a memorial service. Jesus Christ . Why was he honoring Rosemary’s execution-not her birth? It seemed twisted, and the whole thing worried her.

She thought of Christopher Thomas and of all the promise that once came with being connected to him and of how none of it had panned out. Damn it, she’d played her part and played it well, helped him move the artworks he so carefully pilfered from the museum and sold overseas. She was supposed to have made real money, been living in splendor. Didn’t she deserve better than this?

Haile turned away from the bar and shut her eyes.

She’d fled after Christopher’s murder, had to lie low so she wouldn’t be connected to the thefts she’d helped broker.

And now here she was, up to her old tricks, trying to scratch out a living as a cheap pickpocket, or worse.

She took a deep breath, checked her watch. It was only four o’clock, a little early. As she had expected, few drinkers sat at the small tables and no one was at the bar. Good. She headed toward it, her destination in any case. Behind the crescent-shaped cherrywood bar stood the barkeep in tidy black trousers, a neat short-sleeved, white shirt, and a knowing grin. He had seen it all, but he liked what he saw, so he allowed the grin to stay and deepen into something real as she approached. He was of medium height, about five foot ten, and athletic looking. She watched the muscles on his forearms cord as he grabbed glasses on the bar and efficiently arranged them.

She smiled back and settled onto a barstool and ordered a drink. She needed to steady herself for what lay ahead.

She downed the drink, stood up, and walked lightly away, back to the lobby, through the carefree tourists crowd returning from golf and sailing and shopping in the galleries and antique shops of Half Moon Bay. Must breathe. Breathe .

She laser-locked on the bulge in the front pocket of a man’s pricey white tennis shirt, to her right. Pulling a copy of People magazine from her shoulder bag, she stumbled and fell into him, pressing the magazine flat against his fleshy chest with one hand while under it her other hand performed an expert dip.

“I’m so sorry!” She smiled sweetly, her hips pressed against him longer than necessary.

He grinned, enjoying it. “No problem…”

Still smiling, she let his wallet fall into her shoulder bag and moved on. She dipped a Rolex from an unzippered fanny pack, a stray iPhone from an end table, and another wallet, from a hip pocket. Not bad for a few minutes of work. But then, the scent of wealth was tactile here. The men’s eyes were avaricious. Once she would have reveled in all of this. She had not known any better, and that had given her tremendous power. But not now.

Haile was stayingat the El Toro Motel, a two-story, red-tile-roof affair that looked more expensive than it was. She parked under a pepper tree and climbed the outdoor staircase-fake wrought iron that wobbled against the stucco building.

Sighing wearily, she unlocked the door to her room. She longed for a hot bath and her old jeans. Then she would decide what to do next. Cracking open the door, she watched the key-size receiver in her hand. It flashed hot red. She jerked up her head. Someone had been in her room. Maybe still was. Not the maid, because she had put a hold on housekeeping services. The flashing light was triggered by a pressure reader, thin as paper, the size of a dime, she had stuck low on the inside of the door where it would close against the jamb. The first time someone opened the door, there was no flash. There should be no flash now. So this was the second time, or third, or more.

Staying calm, she pocketed the reader and inched open the door, making no noise-she had oiled the hinges when she checked in. The long rays of the afternoon sun painted a golden rectangle into the room, leaving the rest in uneven shadows.

The closet was closest. A glass oval was in the door. She peered through. She had hung no clothes. The closet was empty. The door to the bathroom was closed.

Iknew you were bound to turn up,” the voice of a man said.

Her heart skipped a beat-there was no turning back now. She stood for a moment between the bathroom and the closet.

“Come in, Haile,” the man’s voice went on.

She stepped inside and saw a man seated at the desk. It took her a while to recognize him-Jon Nunn, the detective who’d questioned her years ago about Christopher’s disappearance.

She was actually relieved. Nunn had gone off his rocker; he wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself. “What’re you doing in my room? I’m calling the police.”

Nunn laughed. “Yeah, you do that, sweetheart, and while you’re at it, you might want to tell them about that stolen Rolex in your handbag.”

How would he know? Her mind was working furiously.

“What do you want?” She tried to keep her voice calm.

“Sit down, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the bed.

She sat down and said nothing. She looked at his face and noticed how he’d aged since she’d seen him last. His eyes looked tired and puffy, and the lines between his eyebrows had grown deeper.

“I’ve been tracking you for a while,” Nunn said. “Larceny, confidence games, all that good stuff you’ve been up to.”

“What do you want with me?” Haile could hear her voice shaking.

“I still have some questions about your dead lover, Christopher Thomas.”

“Are you crazy, it’s been twelve years, that’s over and done with. He’s dead; she’s dead. You can’t resurrect ghosts, Nunn.” Her mouth was dry with fear.

“It’s not ghosts I’m trying to resurrect. Anyhow, if I were in your position, I’d humor any cop-even a discredited ex-cop-who had questions for me.”