Rest in Pieces (8 page)

First Ben and now Daman? Was my body emitting some sort of I’m–single–and–slutty sex hormones? I started to discreetly sniff my armpit, but there was no way to discreetly sniff my armpit, so I just kept walking. We traveled through a huge living room with five story tall ceilings and no less than ten brown leather sofas in groups of two. I had no idea where someone would get ten matching sofas, or why they would want that many, but here they were. I don’t think I own ten matching anything, including socks.

We walked down a short hallway and arrived at a bank of three elevators….because I guess one wasn’t enough? If he was single and lived alone, why did he need three elevators? Riding all three at the same time must have been problematic…and time consuming.

We took elevator one—they weren’t numbered or anything—this was just the first elevator on the right, down two floors to the subbasement.

Having lived in Texas my whole life, I’d never been in a home basement, much less, a subbasement. Five stories above the ground wasn’t enough? He needed a couple of floors underground? This house made Tony Stark look like a pauper.

We walked passed a set of double glass doors with ‘Cinema’ spelled out in neon above the doors and took the second door on the left.

“This is my indoor pistol range. I don’t think you ladies are ready for the rifle range.” He smiled down at me like I was supposed to say something.

“Okay.” I shrugged.

“I think we should keep it small caliber today. Nothing over a nine millimeter. I think a forty–five is too much for them to handle. What do you think?” Haley sounded like she was picking out flowers to plant in her front yard. Yes, let’s plant the forty–five calibers in between the lantana and the mountain laurel.

“Yep, we don’t know her at all.” Monica shook her head.

I was beginning to see Monica’s point. I thought that I knew Haley, but clearly there were aspects of her life that she kept to herself.

I felt the hand at my back drop. I missed the warmth.

He opened the door for me and held it open for Monica and Haley. The room was a long rectangular hall–type thing lined on all four walls with pointy, gray foam that reminded me of egg cartons. Way at the back was a paper target of a white silhouette outlined in black clipped to a metal line that ran about five feet above our heads. Daman pushed a red button on the wall next to a tall podium with shelves that held other targets. The white silhouette whizzed toward us and stopped about ten feet away.

“The range is fifty meters, but we’re going to start closer than that today.” He walked over to a huge—big enough to be a bank vault—safe built into the wall next to the range. It appeared that the safe ran the entire fifty meters. He entered a combination, scanned his thumbprint, and then a large electronic motor turned several hammers and the door opened. He flicked a light switch and a contagion of fluorescent lights flooded the long rectangular safe with a gray–greenish glow. Yup, the safe did run the entire length of the range, and it was filled with guns. Hand guns, short rifles, long rifles, shot guns, and several bulky items that looked like rocket launchers, were all neatly tacked along the walls. On a long, single set of horizontal shelves running down the middle, sat ammunition—crates upon crates of bullets. And when I squinted to get a better look—yes, grenades lined a couple of the shelves.

I doubted that a military armory packed this much heat.

“Are you planning on taking over a small country or is all this just for the neighborhood watch?” There I went prying into a drug lord’s professional life. Maybe one day I’d grow a filter from my brain to my mouth, but chances are if I haven’t grown one yet, I may be out of luck.

I couldn’t take it all in. “You know, we really don’t have much gang violence out here unless you’re talking about the time that the Catholics and the Lutherans both tried to have their pancake breakfast on the same day. There was a little bloodshed, but nothing that would warrant this level of home protection.” I waved my arm like a game show hostess showing what was behind door number two.

I looked around again and reconsidered. Okay, this might be overkill for Lakeside, but it seemed just right for a drug lord. Apparently drug lording required a bunker of weapons. Could he write these off his taxes? Surely they were a work expense.

I’d always wondered if strippers could write off bikini waxes as a work expense, too. And underwear. They couldn’t strip out of it, if it wasn’t on.

I made a mental note to ask Lyle Grenchwalt, our un–esteemed PTO treasurer, the next time I saw him. Then again, he threw a pencil at me the last time I’d asked him a tax related question. All I wanted to know is if I could write off all of the Starbucks coffee I’d bought last year. Surely the caffeine was a medical necessity because Lord knows I needed it to stay awake at my boring day job. I have receipts. It was a valid question.

Probably Daman and strippers didn’t pay taxes.

There I went prejudging people again. Daman might very well be a Catholic priest with a firearm fetish. I glanced his way. He eyed me like he was the Oreo and I was the milk—and he wanted to quadruple dunk.

“Firearms are my hobby. Don’t you indulge your hobbies?” He grinned.

“I don’t think Sudoku requires a bunker.” And I wasn’t sure cupcake eating qualified as an actual hobby.

He pointed to the wall of handguns. “Choose any gun from this point forward. We’ll work up to the higher calibers later.”

I didn’t plan on practicing so often that I’d actually work up to anything. I chose a smaller gun that was purple. “I like this one.”

Gently, Daman took it from me. “The Smith and Wesson Shield, a very reliable gun. Why did you choose it?”

“Because it’s purple and that’s my favorite color.” I know, I know, I’m shallow. I judge things based on their appearance. It’s both a gift and a curse.

“Cool.” Monica took the gun from him. “I want a pink one…oh.” She handed the gun to me and took a pink one off the wall. “Can I use this one?”

Daman nodded. “A Beretta Nano. Nice stopping power.”

“I brought my guns, too.” Haley pulled one gun out of her purse, rummaged around, pulled out another one, dove back into her giant Hermes and pulled out two more.

All I had in my purse were some Tic Tacs, a wallet full of maxed–out credit cards, a couple of pens, and a crap–load of receipts. I was pretty sure that the receipts multiplied like rabbits when I wasn’t looking. That was the only explanation for all those little scraps of white paper. It’s not because I kept buying things, of course—how ridiculous.

“I’ll set up at the podium.” Haley pulled a huge pair of earphones out of her bag. She must have paid extra for the clown car version of that purse. Apparently, it held more than my van. “I brought my own ear protection.”

Haley went to the podium, lined her guns up in some order that clearly made sense to her, pulled one…two…three…four, five boxes of bullets out of her purse and lined them up, one behind each gun. So guns didn’t all use the same kind of bullets…copy that.

“Before we begin, we should talk about gun range safety.” Daman took the purple gun, popped out the ammunition clip, pulled the slide back, and turned to me. “First, take out the bullets.”

He held the gun up for me. “There’s a little button to the left of the trigger that releases the clip. See?”

He pointed to a little round button.

I took the gun, pressed the button, and the clip popped out of the bottom. The gun was heavier than I thought it should have been. And it was cold. I pulled the clip all the way out and could see that it was empty. So the drug lord didn’t keep his weapons loaded. Or at least not the purple handguns.

“With the slide back and the magazine out, I know that you’re not going to accidentally shoot me, so hold the gun with the barrel facing down.” Daman took my hand and gently placed it at my side with the gun barrel facing the floor. “Like this.”

His touch was warm and light, and there were callouses on his palms. Not that I spent a lot of time thinking about drug lord’s hands, but I would have thought they’d be soft from lack of manual labor. Manicured and pampered even. Then again, maybe he was more of a hands–on boss. Probably killing people caused callouses.

“Walk your gun over to the podium and place it next to Haley’s.” He put a hand on my arm. “Wait, you’ll need some bullets.”

He turned around, grabbed six boxes of bullets, and handed them to me.

They were very heavy for such little boxes. I held the bullets mashed against my left breast and walked my gun over to the podium. Because Haley had taken up all of the space with her buffet of firearms, I put my gun and bullets on the shelf right underneath.

Daman walked Monica through the range safety and then she brought her gun and bullets over to the podium.

“You’ll both need double ear protection. With an outdoor range, you can get by with just one level of ear protection, but an indoor range is several times louder. I’ve put in some serious noise reduction, but it’s still very loud.” He handed me a pair of small yellow foam stoppers to stuff into my ears and then a pair of earphone–looking–things to put over my ears.

“Let me show you the proper shooting stance.” Daman took my hand and gently pulled me from behind the podium. He picked up my gun and handed it to me. From behind me, he slid his hands down my arms to my elbows and lightly pushed at them until my arms were out straight. “You’re right handed, right??” How did he know? Do drug lords have handed–ness powers? “So hold the gun in your right hand with your index finger out straight next to the trigger but not on it. Wrap the fingers of your left hand around the barrel over the fingers of your right hand. Then place your left thumb over your right so they sort of crisscross.”

He leaned into me, slid his hands all the way down my arms and checked my hand placement. His chest behind me was warm and solid and his scent wafted all around me. If I’d known that gun lessons come with lap dances, I’d have learned how to shoot a lot sooner.

“That’s good.” He stepped out from behind me and touched my elbows. “Don’t lock them. Keep your elbows loose because the recoil is going to cause your arms to jerk.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t help but wonder if all drug lords gave shooting lessons.

He put his hands on my hips. “Don’t lean forward. Keep your hips over your feet unless you’re more comfortable with one leg forward. I wouldn’t advise that stance until you’ve learned the basics.”

His hands dropped.

“My turn.” Monica practically knocked me out of the way so she could have the drug lord lap dance gun lesson. I didn’t blame her. It had been fun.

I stepped behind the podium.

Haley leaned into me and whispered in my ear. “He’s into you. I’m so jealous.”

Two hours later, I was jealous of her. My hand was killing me and my shoulder burned.

“It’s just gun fatigue.” Haley clicked the key fob to unlock her Range Rover as Daman opened the front door. “It’ll pass. The more you shoot, the less it hurts.”

I rubbed my right shoulder as I followed Haley out. “I didn’t realize that guns were so painful.”

The wind ripped off of Lake Travis and I huddled into my sweater.

“Here, let me.” Daman slid his hands over my shoulders and massaged. He had some very talented hands. I closed my eyes and melted back against him. He had an endless supply of carbs and magic massaging hands. If it weren’t for that whole drug lord thing, he’d be the perfect guy.

I opened my eyes to find Monica glaring at me. She mouthed, “slut” and then rolled her eyes.

Ten minutes later we drove down his long driveway.

“I don’t get it.” Monica shook her head. “Here I am throwing myself at him and he knocks me out of the way to get to you. I called dibs and everything. Seriously, do I smell bad or something?”

Haley looked at her through the rearview mirror. “You smell wonderful.”

“I know, it was weird. The only guys who wanted to date me before yesterday either lived with their parents or wanted the scoop on my ex–husband.” I shrugged. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

I wasn’t even wearing my red sweater today. My life had turned into The Dating Game meets The Twilight Zone.

“Did he ask you out?” Haley glanced at me. Again, I’d called shotgun, leaving Monica to sit in the back. She really needed to up her game.

“No, which is probably good, being that he’s a drug lord and all.” I reached down to the leather bag I’d brought with me this morning and left in the car. I pulled out everything I had on Molly. “Here’s the picture Lakeside PD took at the crime scene.”

I handed that to her.

“Let’s pick up some lunch and meet the kids at the park. Maybe we can find a quiet table and take a look at the medical records.” Haley turned into the drive–through line of a Chick–fil–A. Since her parents owned all of the Chick–fil–As in central Texas, we ate for free. Fine with me.

She ordered our usual and we followed the car in front of us to the second window to pick up our food.

“Her eyes are bloodshot.” Monica held her phone up to the picture of Molly. “Why are her eyes bloodshot?”

I turned in my seat to watch Monica. “How can you tell?”