Open Season (18 page)

Glenn Sykes sat in his car, his eyes cold and burning as he watched the woman walk into the club. Where in hell had she come from? She had to have been sitting in one of the cars, and in the dark they hadn’t noticed her.

It wasn’t whether or not she had seen anything, but how much she had seen, and how much she realized. It was dark, details were difficult to make out, and there hadn’t been any loud noises to alarm her. If Mitchell hadn’t tried to call out to the couple who had driven up, there wouldn’t have been anything for her to see. But, hell, as soon as he’d seen Sykes get out of the car, he’d known they were going to kill him, so what did he have to lose? Sykes didn’t blame the bastard for giving it a try. Too bad Buddy was greased lightning with that knife; Mitchell hadn’t gotten out more than a squeak.

She didn’t know them; she evidently hadn’t noticed anything unusual going on. But she was a loose end, and Sykes didn’t like loose ends. His original plan had been to pour enough GHB down Mitchell’s throat to kill three men, which had seemed like a fitting end to the bastard. He’d even decided to leave the body where it would be found before the GHB broke down so the cops would know exactly what killed him, and they’d think it was just another overdose. He couldn’t do that now, not with that gash in Mitchell’s throat, plus there was blood in the parking lot if anyone cared to look.

If she was a regular here, she might have recognized Mitchell, might know him—and might remember way too much when she heard his throat had been slashed.

He hadn’t seen which car she got out of, but he could narrow it down. He got out of his car and walked over to that section of the parking lot, squatting down out of sight and quickly jotting down the tag numbers. He thought about going into the club and trying to find her. She had blond hair and had been wearing a red dress; he’d seen that much when the door opened. She should be easy to spot.

But he’d told Jimmy he couldn’t get free tonight, and now that Mitchell was dead, he didn’t want to show up after all, thereby placing himself at the scene of Mitchell’s last known whereabouts.

Sykes sighed. He’d have to sit out here and wait for the woman to leave, then follow her home. He needed to be overseeing the disposal of Mitchell’s remains, but he couldn’t be in both places at once. He’d just have to trust Buddy and his pal to be smart about where they dumped the body. After all, their asses were on the line, too. Taking care of the woman would have to be his priority.

The Buffalo Club was, if anything, even more crowded than it had been the week before. Daisy stood for a moment, letting her senses adjust to the overwhelming noise of voices and the band singing very loudly about someone named Earl needing to die, a song that a good many of the female customers were singing along with the band. Some man, probably named Earl, took exception to the song and hurled his beer at the band, which explained the chicken wire encircling the stage. Two very big men converged on the beer-hurler, and Daisy was pleased to see him escorted to the door. She’d just gotten here; she wanted to get in at least a few dances before a fight started.

“Hey, sweetheart, remember me?” a man said, appearing beside her. An arm went around her waist and she found herself being propelled toward the crowded dance floor.

She looked up at the tall blond man, who was trying to grow an Alan Jackson mustache. “No,” she said.

“Aw, come on. We danced last week—”

“No,” she said positively, “we didn’t. I danced with Jeff, Denny, Howard, and Steven. You aren’t any of them.”

“You’re right about that,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Harley, as in the motorcycle. Well, if we didn’t dance last week, let’s dance this week.”

Since they were already on the dance floor, that seemed like a good idea. Earl had died and the band was singing something else, which didn’t require half the audience to shout the lines along with them. People were twirling and dipping, so Daisy twirled and dipped right along with them, her hand in Harley’s, her sassy skirt swirling around her legs. Next came Elvis Presley’s “Kentucky Rain,” and Harley retained possession of her hand for that number.

“Say, what’s your name?” he asked, finally remembering that he didn’t know.

“Daisy.”

“Are you with someone? Can I buy you a drink?”

Oh, gracious, was he one of those men about whom Chief Russo had warned her? “I’m with some friends.” She gestured vaguely toward the tangled cluster of tables, because that still seemed like a safe lie. She added, “Thank you, but I don’t want anything to drink right now. I came to dance.”

He shrugged. “Fine with me. I think I’ll sit this one out.” He wandered off as abruptly as he had appeared,
and Daisy looked around. So far, not counting the man whose testicles she had smashed, she had met six different men, and not one of them had really appealed to her. Maybe she was being too picky; though, really, she didn’t see how; she had danced with everyone who had asked her.

She saw Howard on the dance floor, and he waved. Maybe he would ask her to dance again; he’d been the best dancer of the bunch.

Then—oh, no—she saw him: the burly guy who had pulled her down onto his lap. He spotted her at about the same time and a horrified expression crossed his face before he turned sharply away.

She wanted to do the same thing, turn away and pretend she hadn’t seen him, but her conscience gave a sharp twinge. He shouldn’t have grabbed her and she hadn’t meant to hurt him, but nevertheless he had been in a great deal of pain and she owed him an apology.

Determinedly she began fighting her way through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of him. He seemed to be heading just as determinedly toward the men’s room, for all the world as if he intended to hide from her, though of course she had to be mistaken in her impression. He was at a club, he’d probably been drinking beer, so it stood to reason he had to urinate.

He made it to the short hallway leading to the bathrooms before she caught up to him, however, and disappeared through the scarred door as if the hounds of hell were after him. Daisy sighed and squirmed through a knot of people, ignoring both a protest (female) and an invitation (male); she felt like a salmon fighting its way upstream. At last, though, she managed to reach the wall near the bathrooms, where she planted her feet against all the nudges and shoves, and waited.

It seemed to take forever, and she had to refuse three offers to dance, before her quarry peered out from the hallway.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

For a big guy, he sure could jump.

He backed away from her as if she were the Antichrist, his beefy face turning red. “You stay away from me, lady.”

Daisy was taken aback; the man honestly seemed afraid of her. She blinked, then tried to reassure him. “Don’t be afraid,” she said as soothingly as possible. “I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to apologize.”

Now it was his turn to blink. He stopped backpedaling. “Apologize?”

“I’m very sorry I hurt you. It was an accident. I was just trying to get out of your lap, and I put my hand in the wrong place. I truly didn’t mean to crush your—” My goodness, she couldn’t say
balls,
though that seemed to be the most popular term, and neither did she want to call them his
things,
because after all she was trying to be more sophisticated about such matters. “—testicles,” she finished, with more emphasis on the word than she’d intended.

He flinched as if she’d hit him, and she realized she’d said the last word loudly enough that, despite the noise from the band, the people nearby had heard her and heads were turning.

His face turned redder. “Apology accepted,” he mumbled. “Just go away.”

Daisy felt he could have been a little more gracious, considering the entire episode was his fault anyway, if he hadn’t grabbed her, as if he had the right to pull strange women down onto his lap, then none of it would have
happened. A touch indignant, she opened her mouth to tell him so, but abruptly a tall form materialized by her side and a deep voice said, “I’ll keep her away from you.”

And just like that, willy-nilly, Chief Russo picked her up much as he had the last time she was here and carried her, not outside, but onto the dance floor.

“You are just like a heat rash,” she said irritably as he set her down.

One eyebrow rose in query. “I bother you?” He took her right hand in his, set her left hand on his shoulder, and put his arm around her. “Dance.”

“You turn up
everywhere.”
Automatically she followed his lead to the slow rhythm of another Elvis song. The band was very big on Elvis tonight, though perhaps this wasn’t the same band that had been here the week before.

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

“Out of trouble?
Out
of trouble?” She tilted her head back and glared at him. Even though she was wearing heels, she still had to look up. As Todd had pointed out, Chief Russo was a big bruiser. “Thank you for getting me out of here last week, but other than that, you’ve been the
cause
of all the trouble I’ve had.”

“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t the one buying a year’s supply of rubbers. Used any of them yet?”

Words failed her. Or rather, polite words failed her. She thought of several she wanted to say, but was afraid God would strike her dead if she did.

He grinned. “If you could see your face . . .” His arm tightened around her and he swung her in a circle, forcing her to cling to his shoulder. Somehow she ended up much closer to him than she had been before, closer than she had danced with any of her other partners. Her breasts brushed his shirt, she felt the slide of his
hip, and his legs moved against hers. They were—my goodness, one of his legs was between hers.

A rush of heat caught her unprepared. She felt as if she were melting on the inside, softening, her bones losing their stiffness and her muscles their tension. It was the most peculiar sensation, but also the most beguiling.

“Chief—”

“Jack.” His arm tightened a little more, as if insisting she use his name.

“Jack.” She really
was
melting. She was all but lying against him now, her feet still moving, following his lead, but he supported most of her weight. “You’re holding me too close.”

He bent his head so his breath fanned her ear when he said, “I think I’m holding you just right.”

Well, he was, if he liked melty women. And perhaps her protest had been more pro forma than sincere, because she wasn’t making any effort to pull away. It felt too good to lie against him, the softness of her body conforming to the hard contours of his. Her breasts were slightly flattened against his chest, and she liked it. She liked it a lot. To her bemusement, she found herself reveling in the hard strength of the shoulder under her left hand, in the warmth of the arm around her waist. Warm . . . God, yes, he was warm. His heat and musky scent enveloped her, making her want to rub her nose against him.

She wanted to rub her nose against
Jack Russo?

The shock of the thought gave her the strength to lift her head. He was watching her with a strangely intent expression; he didn’t look stern, but neither was he smiling.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice unaccountably low.

He shook his head. “Not one thing.”

“But you look—”

“Daisy. Shut up and dance.”

She shut up and danced. Without the distraction of conversation she started sinking against him again. He didn’t seem to mind, though. If anything, he gathered her even closer, so close she could feel his belt buckle against her stomach.

That wasn’t all she could feel.

Her mind was still reeling from the realization that she could feel the chief of police’s penis when the dance ended and the band swung into a lively little number about Bubba shooting the jukebox. Jack grimaced and led her from the floor, keeping a tight grip on her as he maneuvered his way through the crowd to a spot near the back wall, almost behind the band, which was probably why there were a couple of empty seats there. He all but plunked her in one, looked around at the scurrying waitresses, and said, “Stay here. I’ll get you something to drink. What do you want?”

“Ginger ale with lemon, please.”

He grinned and shook his head, then left her there while he waded into the throng around the bar.

Daisy, in a slight state of shock, stayed. Perhaps she was even more naive than she’d suspected, because he didn’t act as if there was anything unusual in his partner feeling his penis while they danced. Maybe that was
why
people danced together. But she hadn’t noticed any other penises when she danced, just Jack’s.

She would never again be able to think of him as chief.

She had no idea how long he was gone, because she was lost in her thoughts. As luck would have it, no one asked her to dance until she saw Jack approaching, a
beer in one hand and a glass of sparkling ginger ale in the other.

“Want to dance?”

The question came from a man leaning over from her left. He was wearing a “Party Hearty” T-shirt, so she would have refused anyway, but she didn’t get the chance. Jack set the ginger ale on the table in front of her and said, “She’s with me.”

“Okay.” The guy immediately turned to another woman. “Want to dance?”

Jack settled into the chair beside her and tilted the beer to his mouth. She watched his strong throat work as he swallowed, and began to feel too warm again. Gratefully she seized the cold ginger ale.

After a moment she noticed how his gaze constantly moved over the crowd, occasionally pausing briefly while he studied someone, then moving on. She felt another little shock of awareness, of a completely different type. “You’re working, aren’t you?”

He shot her a quick glance, the gray-green of his eyes glittering. “I don’t have any jurisdiction outside of Hillsboro.”

“I know, but you’re still watching the crowd.”

He shrugged. “It’s a habit.”

“Don’t you ever just relax?” Abruptly her whole outlook on law enforcement officers changed. Were they all always on guard, watchful, wary? Was constant vigilance, even when they were off duty, part of the price they paid for their jobs?