Trust With Your Life. M.L. Gamble
disappeared with his block-long limo about an hour ago.” Rafe met her eyes and slid the wad of gum he was chewing to the other side of his mouth. “That’s one weird puppy, you ask me. Ranting and raving, strutting around, the whole time his kid sitting in the car looking like he wanted to drop off the face of the earth. He told me to tell you he had to go to meet some people who were moving his boat down to San Diego but that you weren’t to leave until the problem was fixed.”
Rafe chuckled and cracked the knuckles on his huge hands, which for thirty-five years had so ably serviced telephone customers throughout Orange County. “Guess he didn’t realize you had to get your makeup on and comb your hair before you could get out here with us peons.”
She smiled and looked pointedly at Rafe’s crumpled T-shirt, which was untucked from his grimy jeans. “You know how appearances count toward making good first impressions, Rafe.”
“Hell with that, says my union rep. The brass wants me to dress up in a monkey suit, they can give me a clothing allowance, Ms. Jakes.” Rafe spat out the gum into his hand, wadded it up and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans, then lit a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth.
Molly bit back the two dozen criticisms she was ready to voice, well aware that the three installers were listening to every word. She gave Rafe an “I’ll deal with you later” look and asked, “Where did you park the van?”
Rafe made a motion with his hand, dug out a set of car keys and handed them to her, then turned his attention back to the diagnostic equipment on the cart in front of him. Molly walked out onto the loading dock, descended the steep stairway and crossed into the nearly empty lot. The Pacific Communications van was parked in the middle. She unlocked the back doors and climbed in.
Settling down for some intercompany unpleasantness, she located the home phone number of the district manager for repair in Rafe’s call-out book. A groggy woman answered on the fourth ring and then a sleep-filled male voice picked up, a this-better-be-good edge to each word.
After five minutes of tense conversation, Molly gained his agreement to dispatch a second-level supervisor—Molly’s equal at Garrett Electric Telephone, which was Gutless Inc.’s legal name—to help the frame people fix the circuit problems.
Molly hung up the phone, turned off the van lights and sat quietly in the dark. Her neck and back ached, and the headache she had fought off announced its reappearance with a vengeance. She hugged her coat close and looked around the van for a thermos. Molly knew a cup of coffee at this hour would give her a stomachache, but she needed a hit of caffeine to shake off the fatigue.
Grabbing a badly dented, old-fashioned aluminum thermos she knew to be Rafe’s from the front seat, Molly poured coffee into a foam cup and tried to relax while she waited for reinforcements.
Her mind wandered to the blue-eyed Australian stranger on the third floor. She met a lot of men on the job. Customers, fellow employees, lawyers from the megafirm that shared the Pacific Communications building in downtown Mission Viejo. But this guy seemed different from most. While few got her blood running during an initial meeting, this man had.
Despite his beak of a nose and the craggy lines around his eyes, he was handsome in what might be described as a dangerous way. A way that made her forget what she was doing. A way that got her thinking about things she would like to be doing—with him.
He was powerfully built and what her grandmother called cocksure of himself. Molly blushed and smiled at the X-rated thoughts racing through her mind.
But there was no denying the attraction she’d felt toward him. Could it have been fate willing them to meet on a night like this? If she went upstairs later, would he still be there?
The Aussie was fresh and a bit arrogant, but very, very sexy. Definitely dangerous for a serious-minded professional woman with a plan for the next couple of years that called for hard work and all the overtime she could stand.
“Heck of a guy to meet on Valentine’s Day,” Molly murmured, then laughed aloud at her silly fantasizing. The sound of an approaching car cut short her thoughts, and she peeked out the window, wondering if Frederick Brooker was ready to reappear. Sure enough, as she watched, a long, cream-colored Lincoln limo rolled past. It stopped near the dark side of the loading dock.
Molly put her hand on the door handle, but stopped as a shape emerged from the darkness. From twenty yards away, she could not make out the face of the person in black, but the bright orange bag the man carried told her it was Paul Buntz.
The back door of the limo opened, Buntz got in and the car sped off.
So much for her confrontation with Mr. Brooker, Molly thought. With a sigh, she stepped out of the van and headed back to the crew for what she feared would be a long night.
* * *
AT SIX-THIRTY in the morning, Molly pulled out of the parking lot of Summer Point Towers. Sixty circuits into Inscrutable Security from various commercial and residential-alarm customers were at last up and running.
Frederick Brooker had not returned, though she had endured a terse phone call from him at 2:00 a.m., during which he’d promised to “report you and your crew to the Public Utilities Commission, the Better Business Bureau and the mayor’s office if those circuits aren’t up as promised!” After all, Brooker had continued, hadn’t he paid a huge advance installation bill because the credit office of Pacific Communications had requested it?
Molly had done her best to soothe him, imagining that a man like Brooker had taken it personally when his business’s creditworthiness had been questioned by her company’s business office. But despite that edge of ego, she had been able to calm Brooker down remarkably fast.
The supervisor from Garrett Electric had shown up and been effective with his technicians; all in all, it had not been a bad night’s work. As she pulled off the Orange Freeway and headed up the already busy streets toward home, Molly figured she could shower, sleep for a couple of hours and be back in the office by noon.
She turned off the soft-rock station and flipped to an all-news station. The first story was a frightening one about more turmoil in the Middle East, a car bomb and dead children. The second story was about the murder of ex-sportscaster and football player, Paul Buntz.
Molly stared at her radio as if she could see the story unfold, while the broadcaster filled in the details. Shot five times in a deserted parking lot near the Summer Point Marina, Buntz was found floating in the Pacific by an unidentified man at approximately 2:00 a.m.
A suspect was being sought by the police, the radio voice added. He was a wealthy Orange County businessman identified as Frederick Brooker, owner of Inscrutable Security in Summer Point. An eyewitness reported seeing Brooker speeding off in a beige Lincoln limo, in the direction of Mission Verde.
Chapter One
September 2
Like most women, Molly Jakes was good in emergencies.
The sight of blood, particularly other people’s, did not freak her out. Which is why, without hesitation, she was ready to help as soon as she spotted three wrecked cars and four people scattered across the sloping concrete freeway off ramp, a mile from her home.
As she braked, she noted it was 3:00 a.m. exactly by the car’s clock. Above her in the damp, late-summer air, ribbons of fog wound around the thousand-watt fluorescent bulbs atop the light poles lining the double-laned expanse, giving animate and inanimate objects alike the spooky blue tint peculiar to the middle of night.
The accident had occurred just a minute or two ago, she estimated, reaching for the cellular phone in the car console. Her fingers brushed the cold leather where the mobile unit was usually nestled and she swore under her breath. The phone was being repaired, and all she had in her purse was the antiquated pager that gave her no ability to call out.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping to see the reflection of oncoming headlights, but caught only a blank swatch of asphalt.