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Any plan she’d had of confronting Henry and Gloria evaporated. The police must have obtained another search warrant, as Sy had predicted. If they looked in her bag, she didn’t have a good explanation, even for herself, for what was in it.
She drove slowly past the front of the house. Caught a glimpse of the front door opening. Just then, a motorcycle came roaring out of the driveway and sped past her, up the block. Deirdre recognized Henry’s red-and-gold helmet. He’d probably seen the police arriving and decided to disappear. She made a quick U-turn and took off after him.
Henry slowed at a stop sign a few blocks later. Deirdre tooted her horn and flashed her lights. But he barely glanced over his shoulder. Just flipped her the bird before peeling out and roaring up the street.
So it’s like that, is it? She accelerated, peeling out after him. Thirty miles an hour. Forty. Henry slowed but didn’t stop to turn left onto Sunset. Deirdre had to screech to a halt at the corner as a stream of cross traffic held her back. Taking advantage of a minuscule gap between cars, she nipped out onto Sunset, earning herself a horn blast and her second expressive middle finger of the morning. Ahead of her, she could see Henry on his bike slowing. Turning into the driveway of the Nichols’ estate. Why was he going there?
Without thinking, Deirdre turned in behind him, making it through the gate just before it closed. By then, Henry and his motorcycle had vanished up the driveway.
Deirdre stopped the car. Now what? Should she drive up to the front door, march up the steps . . . and then what? Throw pebbles at Joelen’s window? What Henry was up to was his own business. At least it would have been if he hadn’t been lying to her, insisting that he had no ongoing relationship with Joelen Nichol. Maybe she could figure out what was going on without embarrassing him.
She drove slowly up the driveway. When she got to the pool, she backed into the carport that was camouflaged by a bank of bougainvillea, then killed the engine, grabbed her crutch, and started to walk up the drive toward the house. Bu
Deirdre continued up the hill, moving as quickly as she could. By the time she rounded the final bend she was out of breath. Henry had parked his bike in front and was crouched behind it, looking at the engine or the tires, she couldn’t tell which. His fancy, custom-made helmet hung from one of the handlebars.
The minute he stood, Deirdre realized her mistake. The man by the bike wasn’t Henry; it was Jackie Hutchinson. He started walking toward the front door, wobbling a little on the chunky heels of a pair of black cowboy boots that, like his helmet, could have been Henry’s.
“Looking for someone?” The voice from behind her startled Deirdre. She whipped around to see Bu
“I thought—” Deirdre started. But before she could come up with a plausible excuse for being there, Bu
Jackie turned around as Bu
“Sure. You were up there.” Jackie pointed vaguely in the direction of Bu
“I didn’t recognize you in that helmet,” Deirdre said.
Jackie looked down at the helmet hanging from his hand. “Pretty cool, isn’t it?”
“I’ve only seen one other like it.”
“You must know Henry Unger.”
“He’s my brother.”
Jackie narrowed his eyes at Deirdre. “You and Henry? Really. I was just over there. Small world.”
Maybe not that small. “You work with him?” Deirdre said.
“Not with him. For him. He’s an old friend of Bu
“Deirdre,” Bu
Deirdre didn’t mind being given the bum’s rush, as her father used to call it. She was as anxious to get out of there as Bu
“Shit,” Bu
Deirdre nodded.
“You must have triggered the alarm.” Bu
As they approached the carport by the pool, the alarm fell silent. A black-and-white car with a row of stars and SECURITY stenciled on the door was parked behind Deirdre’s car, blocking it in. A uniformed guard with a brushy salt-and-pepper mustache emerged from under the overhanging bougainvillea. “Der-dra Unger?” he said, mispronouncing Deirdre’s name. He had her wallet open in his hand and was holding her messenger bag. “That your Mercedes parked in there?”
“Yes. And that’s my bag.”
“She’s all right, Martin,” Bu
Martin the security guard reached into Deirdre’s bag and pulled out the knife. “You sure she’s all right, ma’am?”
“She’s just returning that to me,” Bu
Bu
Martin exhaled audibly.
“Pure skill,” Bu
Bu
Bu
Magic. It’s all about misdirection. That was what Bu
With a practiced gesture, Bu