Tami Hoag - Down the Darkest Road

“Don’t you have a paying job?” she asked.

“I’m between divorce cases.”

“Nothing better to do. Might as well check on the crazy stalker woman.”

“Something like that,” he said, sipping his drink.

Lauren tipped her head back and sighed as the alcohol began to loosen the knots in her muscles.

Greg Hewitt reached over, cupped her chin in his hand, and turned her face to look at the abrasion on her cheek in the dim porch light. “You should probably do something about that.”

His concern struck her with bitter humor. “That’s the least of my problems.”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Lauren,” he said. “Nothing good will come from it.”

“I have to fight for Leslie,” she said. “Whatever comes of it, I have to fight for my daughter. That’s my job. I don’t get to stop being her mother just because it isn’t pleasant or just because she isn’t here. If I don’t fight for her, who will?”

“What is it you want, Lauren?” he asked. “You want her back? You know she’s probably dead.”

“Then I want justice,” she said. “Or revenge. I don’t much care which at this point. I want to know where my daughter is. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. And then I want him to pay for putting her there—whether that means putting him in a jail cell or putting him in the ground. I guess that goes for me too,” she added ominously.

“What about Leah? She needs her mother.”

“She needs a mother,” Lauren said, finally giving voice to a dark thought that had been sitting in the back of her mind for a while now. “I’m not so sure she wouldn’t be better off without me.”

He didn’t tell her not to think that way. He took a long pull on his drink and sighed. He’d been around her enough to know better than to try to tell her anything.

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

Beyond locating Ballencoa, he hadn’t been of much use to her to this point. He couldn’t help her now any more than Mendez could. Not really. Now more than ever Lauren felt this fight was between her and Ballencoa, one-on-one. Now more than ever she felt like the heroine of some epic story, like she had been charged with the quest to slay a dragon.

Or maybe that was the vodka filling her head.

“What about Leah?” he asked.

She looked at him sharply.

“Are you going to keep her under lock and key?” he asked. “Is the sheriff’s office going to watch her twenty-four/seven? I can watch her for you.”

“Like you did tonight?” she asked.

“You’re such a bitch,” he said, but without much anger.

“I’m tired, Greg,” she said with resignation. “What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer her. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her. She let him. For the distraction, she told herself. She needed that.

She kept her brain detached, analytical, concentrating on the taste of him, the thrust of his tongue against hers, the way her body automatically responded even though she didn’t really want him, even though she had been disgusted with herself for having allowed him this before.

It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. He didn’t mean anything to her. There was no real connection in this. Emotionally exhausted, there was great appeal in pure physical feeling.

And so she didn’t stop him when he slipped his hand beneath her top and pushed the cup of her bra out of the way to fondle her breast. She concentrated on the reaction of her body to his touch—the way her breath quickened, the way her nipple hardened.

She didn’t stop him when he took her nipple in his mouth and licked and sucked and grazed it with his teeth. She thought about the sudden heaviness between her legs.

She didn’t stop him from touching her, from opening her with his fingers, from stroking her most tender flesh.

She didn’t stop her own hands from opening his pants, taking out his erection, guiding him into her.

She concentrated on the physical sensations, on her body’s need for release. There were no emotions, and she was grateful for it. Later she might hate herself. Later she might feel like a whore. Later she might curse him. For now he was providing her a service, and it felt good. For a few minutes she could feel physical pleasure and escape the endless emotional pain.

For now she used Greg Hewitt. He didn’t complain.

When it was over, as predicted, she felt dirty and embarrassed. If he saw it, he didn’t say. He got up and straightened his clothes.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” he said.

Lauren sat up, pulling her sweater around her. “What?”

“I’ll kill him for you,” he said, as if he was offering to take out the trash. “For twenty-five thousand dollars. Think about it.”

She watched him walk to the gate and let himself out.

41

“Are you having fun yet?”

Tanner had a smirk on her face as Mendez walked into the reception area to get her. It was barely seven in the morning, and she had put a good hour’s drive behind her, but she looked fresh and bright-eyed. Even after the drive her khaki slacks looked crisp and her raw silk blazer looked fresh off the hanger.

Mendez grimaced. He had come in at five off a fitful bit of sleep. Even though he had showered and shaved, he already felt rumpled. “Do I look that bad?”

“Well, it sounded like you got a big dose of Lauren Lawton last night. I know what that feels like.”

He gave her a crooked, sheepish smile. “I can’t say you didn’t warn me.”

“No, you can’t,” she agreed, the green eyes twinkling. “She gave it to you with both barrels?”

“Me and my boss. Two separate loads of double-ought attitude.”

“I’ll bet that didn’t sit well with your sheriff.”

“You got that right. Now I’m here and suspended.”

“No good deed goes unpunished. So how about you buy me breakfast, slick?” she suggested with a bright smile. “It was a long hike over the mountain. I need some greasy diner food, and you look like you could use a pot of coffee.”

“God help me if you worked up an appetite,” Mendez said, holding the door. “I’m already out two days’ pay.”

He had called her the night before to ask when she might finish looking at the B&Es in her jurisdiction during the time Roland Ballencoa had lived there, thinking it might take her a day or two to get to it. But she had spent the better part of the day and evening going through the files after he had left Santa Barbara. She had offered to bring what she had to Oak Knoll so they could get going.

“How’d you get away without your charming partner?” Mendez asked as they walked to his car.

“It’s my day off,” she said. “You’d better make it worth my while.”

He went to open the passenger door for her, but she beat him to it.

“I would have done that for you,” he said.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Opened the door.”

She laughed. “Oh, Christ, I forgot you’re a gentleman! That’ll take some getting used to.”

As he drove he filled her in on the details of the previous night’s excitement. She listened intently, frowning when he told her Ballencoa had been at the sports complex photographing Leah and Wendy.

“Fucking slimy piece of shit,” she said. “That’s exactly what he did in SB. It’s a hell of a front, you’ve gotta say. He takes pictures—and you’ll find out he takes pictures of everybody: girls, boys, old people, little kids. So if you look at his proofs or his negatives, you can’t say he’s a perv targeting teenage girls. It’s brilliant, actually. And he makes money doing it. That’s what gets me. He makes money at it. He’s good at it.”