Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Nunn settled intoa chair with a cup of Italian-roast coffee and a copy of USA Today . He had read through the Life section and started on Sports, but he couldn’t concentrate.

What did Sarah really want? Was her marriage to Ballard coming apart?

Nunn was picturing Sarah from the night before, fantasizing about whisking her off to someplace exotic such as Rio or Bali, when she finally made her appearance. She looked fresh and bright, her hair still damp from the shower. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going shopping.”

“For what?”

Sarah straightened, extended her arms. “I can’t wear this to the memorial, now, can I?”

In Nunn’s opinion, Sarah looked spectacular, her extraordinary body in a white, scoop-necked sweater and tight jeans. He raised an eyebrow. “I guess not. Coffee?” He indicated the chair opposite him.

She flapped a hand. “No, thanks. Gotta run.” She executed a delicate about-face, waved, and was gone.

Nunn watched her disappear down the street.

He downed a second cup of coffee, then left the café, walking down North Point to the Embarcadero and wandering up to Grant near Pier 39. It was unusually quiet for this time of day, he thought, but the back of his neck prickled, as if he was being followed. He turned and thought he saw… something… but then there was no one, and he walked on.

A few blocks later he felt it again. This time when he turned, he was sure he caught the shadow of a man. He sprinted after it, but when he rounded the corner, the alley was empty.

Enough , Nunn thought, and headed back to his apartment. He still needed to tie up a few things before the memorial this evening.

He starts the car and follows the ex-wife.

When she goes into a department store, he parks, cuts across the street, makes his way past counters of women’s perfume and makeup, men’s underwear and cologne, keeping the ex-wife in his sights only yards ahead, a few shoppers between them, mostly women, and it’s early, the store practically empty so he’s got to be careful.

He almost swats the bottle of cologne out of the saleswoman’s hand after she sprays him with something he thinks smells like rotten oranges, and she catches enough of the expression behind his metallic aviators to back away mumbling apologies.

Damn it, where is she? Has he lost her? He looks left, right.

There she is .

Half an escalator between them now.

As the ex-wife browses the dress department, he moves to a table of cashmere sweaters, head down, pats and caresses the soft wool as if it were flesh.

Three or four dresses draped over her arm, she disappears into the dressing room. He waits a minute, surveying his surroundings and, when he’s sure no one is looking, darts in.

He spies her legs under a cubicle. She is the only one in the dressing room.

He stands in a room opposite, the door closed, and when she comes out wearing one of the dresses, a short silky number, and twirls in front of the mirror, he watches, holding his breath until she heads back into her room, then he bolts, pushes her forward, locks the door behind them, gets one hand over her mouth, another around her waist so hard the air goes out of her with a gasp, and he whispers in her ear, “Do not make a sound or I’ll kill you.”

A noise escapes her throat: neither scream nor gasp, just the smallest squeak, like a yelping puppy.

“You don’t like the dress?” he whispers.

He gets a hand under the silky fabric, then pushes the straps off her shoulders and tugs the dress down till it puddles around her feet and she is in her panties, and he tightens his choke hold and feels her body tense and whispers so quietly it’s little more than a breath, “Tell him to stay away from the memorial for Rosemary Thomas.”

The ex-wife says nothing, trembles.

“Did you hear me?” His lips graze her ear.

She nods several times, even though his hand is still pressed tightly against her mouth.

“Tell him. Your life depends on it. Do you get that?” His breath in her ear causing more chills.

She nods emphatically.

“You’ll tell the ex-cop to stop, won’t you?”

“I need to hear you say yes,” he rasps as he slightly eases his grip off her mouth and chin.

“Yes,” she says.

“Good.” His hand tightens around her throat and she smells his breath and feels his beard against her neck and tries to turn her head for one look at his face but can’t move and he says, “You’ll tell him.”

Just then she hears women’s voices and is about to call out when he pushes her to the floor and sprints out of the room and the women scream and then he’s walking past shoppers and racks of clothes and pushing past people on the escalator and weaving around the makeup and perfume counters until the hot, damp air hits his face and he keeps walking not once looking back, and not until he is driving along the Embarcadero does he start breathing normally again.

Some love-stung lothario had once called her hair a “curtain of flame.” Haile had liked the phrase at the time and thought it so appropriate now, as she gazed at herself in the mirror, that she half expected her brush to throw off sparks. Her beauty drew attention, and most of the time she liked that attention. But not tonight. Tonight she’d prefer no eyes follow her once she arrived at the McFall Art Museum. Instead, she hoped to drift almost invisibly from room to room, a little ghost ship flying its red pennant. Tonight she had to be a huntress, and it would be better, safer, if she went about unnoticed, like some bejeweled old dowager, dripping diamonds and pearls, with a slack neck and smelling like a mixture of camphor oil and Chanel No. 5. She’d even briefly, and absurdly, contemplated wearing a disguise, then dismissed the idea because she knew the guest list would be small, and there’d be no crashing this event. But then, who’d want to crash a memorial service for a woman who’d been executed ten years before? No, she’d have to go as herself, Haile Patchett, flaming hair and all.

But once at the McFall, what then? She considered the options, the method. She’d have to mingle with people, pretend she was there for the same reason as everyone else, to remember poor dead Rosemary. She’d have to listen to stories of how great Rosemary had been, how smart, how clever, all of which, had, of course, made her grim end just that much more tragic. And grim it had certainly been, as Haile imagined it, strapped to a gurney, nameless people inserting needles, someone reading her death sentence in a low, mournful voice. She cringed at the thought of Rosemary’s execution, and how someone would no doubt bring it up and she’d have to stand there, listening.

But at some point she’d drift away, and with any luck no one would find it particularly unusual that she walked from room to room. She’d have to stop and pretend to pay attention to whoever interrupted her ramble, but after a time she could pull away, and at those moments, just as she stepped back, she could allow her eyes to search for the room.

Briefly, she considered the information she had gotten out of Artie Ruby. That crazy cop, Nunn, had blackmailed her into sleeping with Ruby, hoping to uncover something about Chris’s murder. Instead Ruby had pointed her to a bit of information that would prove useful to her. Apparently, she was not the only one of Christopher Thomas’s lovers who had been involved in the stolen-art racket. The respectable curator of the McFall Art Museum, Justine Olegard, was another. Haile was willing to bet Justine didn’t quit that lucrative little side business once Chris was murdered. It would take some nosing around, but Haile was sure she’d find something damaging in Justine’s office, something that would put Justine exactly where she wanted her, and soon Haile would get the train wreck of her life back on track.