Sole Witness (16 page)

However, her dreams had made the notion seem a bit
more romantic, and had somehow failed to spotlight a certain psychotic killer
intruding on the scene.

Before Lori had a chance to think about much of
anything with any kind of slow, rational thought process, a four-door sedan
squealed to the curb in front of Tiki Nation.

“Isn’t that your car?” asked Lori.

“Yeah,” Davis answered. “Damn.”

Lori sat forward and Davis’s arms fell away from her
shoulders. She missed his warmth immediately. “Didn’t you want your car back?”

Davis unfolded his body until he stood upright and
reached out one arm for her hand. “I did,” he explained, “I just hoped the backseat
wouldn’t be empty. Long shot, I know.”

Oh. His partner had gone after the killer. Lori
hadn’t even noticed the car was gone until its noisy return. She’d been too
busy dodging bullets and flying glass, people screaming and sudden chaos
followed by a brief fainting spell and the achingly familiar feel of waking in
Davis’s arms.

She placed her hand in his and let him guide her to
her feet.

Even the appletini stench emanating from her hair
and the sharp sting in her left cheek couldn’t mask the sensation of
devastating rightness when their fingers met.

For Pete’s sake. Some nut job vigilante killed her
best friend and came within inches of killing her too, and here she was mooning
over his strong biceps and impossibly long lashes?

 Furrows creased Davis’s brow.

How long had she been staring at him? Settle down,
Summers. The last thing she needed was to fall back in love with someone who’d
proven his claim long ago that he wasn’t for her.

Lori removed her fingers from his and swiped at the
sand coating her shirt and pants.

“Stop. Here,” he said, forcing her hands to her
sides. “Be careful. Let me do it. I don’t want you to cut yourself with shards
of glass stuck in your clothing.”

With gentle hands, Davis brushed at the thin
material covering her skin. Lori froze, unable to move.

She blushed at her uneven breathing and prayed that
he attributed it to shock. When Detective Carver lumbered up to intercept them,
Lori almost hugged her in relief.

“No luck,” she snarled, the rounded pregnant body
not matching the venom in her voice. “Or rather, little luck. I got the color
and the make, and I think part of the plate. I already called it in. I see the
cavalry arrived.”

Lori glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see a
cavalcade of squad cars pulling up to the curb, lights flashing blue and red.

Traffic ground to a near halt as gawkers slowed to
peer at the ruckus on the beach and wonder what had happened. The screams had
long since died down when no one had been critically injured.

Uniformed officers swarmed the sand with notebooks
in one hand, radios in the other.

Lori snapped her head back around when Davis spoke.

“What’s the word?” he asked Detective Carver,
motioning impatiently with one hand.

“Camry, red. Generic orange plate, like 80% of the
drivers in the state, last letters N-T-A, or maybe M-T-A. Didn’t seem like
vanity. They’re running it now.”

Davis turned to back toward Lori. “Sound familiar?”

She shook her head and wished it did. She wished she
knew anything at all that could help catch this wacko. Who could hate her so
much? A fan? A photographer? Someone she’d modeled with? Heaven forbid, someone
she’d never even met and would be unable to recognize?

With a practiced flip of the wrist, Davis flipped
open his notebook and paged through the contents.

“I’m looking,” he mumbled, fingers flying through
the pages.

“We got thirty-two,” Detective Carver interrupted,
popping some sort of cough drop into her mouth. “All blonde.”

“All but three have red or reddish vehicles, but
only seven have Toyotas and just a few are Camrys. Bingo.”

He tore out a sheet and scribbled three names on one
side before handing the paper to Detective Carver.

“Gotcha,” she said with the kind of grin that sends
shivers down spines. “I’m on it.”

“I know,” Davis answered, reaching behind him
blindly for Lori’s arm. His fingers closed around her wrist and slid down to
skate against her palm before dropping back to his side. “I’m taking Miss
Summers to a safe house.”

Detective Carver raised her eyebrows and cocked her
weight to one hip. “Where?”

“Somewhere safe,” Davis answered with finality.

Lori held her breath, certain his partner was about
to tell him to stay away, that the department wouldn’t cover safe houses, that
she was on her own and good luck to her.

Instead, the detective pursed her lips and nodded.
“You do that. The fewer that know, the better. I’ll cover you here.”

“Can you ride back with Bock? I’m going to take her
in my car.”

“Yeah, no prob.” Detective Carver twiddled her
fingers at them and headed off.

“What about my Mustang?” Lori asked. “I parked it
valet. It’s here somewhere.”

Davis turned to face her, his expression solemn.
“And it’ll stay here. First of all, I don’t drive pink cars. Secondly, that
thing is worse than the bat symbol. Mr. Magoo could find you.”

Irksome as it was to admit, he was right.

The first five minutes of the ride to Davis’s house
were quiet. He didn’t speak, she didn’t speak, and even the radio was silent.

He’d placed his navy suit jacket around her
shoulders before helping her into the passenger seat, and Lori fought against
the urge to snuggle deeper into the Davis-scented fabric.

This was a bad idea. Especially if her heart was
stupid enough to dredge up old feelings.

“What if the killer comes after you?”

Davis looked at her sharply. “After me? Why would
that happen?”

“So far, he’s targeting everyone I know.”

“She.”

“Couldn’t I be putting you in danger?”

He shook his head. “I told you. Nobody knows you’re
with me but you and me.”

“And your partner.”

“She thinks I’m dropping you off somewhere. Trust
me, she’d never expect this. Besides, didn’t you hear? We’ve got a major lead.
Plate partials are excellent, especially when we’ve got a list of potentials to
run it against.”

She shivered.

With luck, the madwoman would be found before they
even made it to Davis’s house. Lori frowned. What kind of house did a
ex-rich-lawyer-turned-cop live in? Neither profession seemed to scream “beach”
to her.

“Tell me about your house. You said Gulfside?”

“Yeah.”

“Back door open right on the sand?”

“No.”

Men. Such stunning conversationalists. 

Lori shook her head then froze when she was hit by a
sudden thought. “It’s not some high-rise condo, is it?”

“Nah.” Davis didn’t take his eyes from the road.

Thank heavens. If she’d had to go up some
claustrophobic elevator… Just the thought of being up high turned Lori’s
stomach queasy. The killer wouldn’t even have to bother coming after her. Lori
could barely climb up a stepladder. She’d just as soon sleep in his car.

Craning her neck, she glanced in the backseat. Not a
single piece of fluff out of place. Add a pillow and—voila!—an instant bedroom
on the go.

She turned back to Davis and tried to think up a
question without a yes or no answer. “What made you decide on a beach house?”

He grunted. “It’s on a secluded stretch of sand.
Very few other houses around, so there shouldn’t be any gawkers, if that’s what
you’re worried about. Nothing but you and the ocean. Well, and a little sandbar
about forty yards out with about a million sand dollars. But they won’t bother
you. And seagulls. Those bother everyone, but hey. Welcome to Florida.”

Lori nodded. Isla Concha was very old-world Florida.

She turned to stare out her window and watch various
kitschy inns and ice cream parlors zip by, brief views of sparkling ocean
flashing between.

How long had it been since she’d come to the beach?
At least a year. Since Sara.

Almost impossible to believe she’d been within scant
miles of the water all this time. When was the last time she’d done something
fun? Hunted for starfish? Lay around on the sand?

She couldn’t even remember.

Davis guided the car over a little drawbridge and
then onto a small island parallel to the coast. This seemed to be the only
stretch of road bisecting the narrow expanse of beach, and very few houses
dotted the lonely shore.

Lori blinked and sat up straight.

Stilts? All the houses were up on stilts! Tall,
skinny, rickety scraps of wood. No way. No, no way. She couldn’t do it.
Impossible.

Davis pulled into the drive and Lori’s lungs
shriveled in her chest.

The wooden stilts seemed horrifically tall. The
robin’s-egg-blue house loomed on its precarious perch. Lori could practically
see it swaying with the breeze.

“You live… here?” she managed to choke out.

He flashed her a quizzical look. “What, is it too
small? Two bedrooms, one bath, no foyer, no fireplace, no frills. Bachelor pad.
What can I say? Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Lori gripped her door handle and stalled for time.
“What about Juliana?”

“What about her? We divorced before our first
wedding anniversary.” Davis opened his door, grabbed her bag, and stepped
outside. He circled around to her side of the car and pried open the passenger
door.

She folded her fingers across her lap. “This place
was her idea?”

“She never lived here. Will you get out of the car?
I don’t want to talk about Juliana. I want to talk about you, upstairs, out of
view from the street, safe from danger. Now.”

He hauled her up by her elbow and led her to the
foot of the stairs, if that’s what you wanted to call the shaky collection of
slatted plywood clinging to the side of the structure.

“Are you sure this thing is safe?” Lori blurted.

Davis didn’t dignify the question with a verbal
response. He simply ran up the steps two at a time. He paused long enough to
shout down, “Wait until hurricane season,” before unlocking the door and
disappearing inside.

Fine. One extra story? She could do it.

True, she felt like the world’s biggest wimp, afraid
to climb a single flight of stairs. Never mind that said stairs were a wobbly
contraption nailgunned to a bungalow perched on stilts protruding from a
desolate strip of sand.

Lori counted the steps. Thirteen. Naturally.

She gripped the handrail—at least there was a
handrail, however unsteady—and closed her too-dry eyes. She took the steps one
at a time, counting as she went, slow, steady, three, two, one.

Sucking in a deep, wheezing breath, Lori practically
burst through the door.

“What did you do, run up the whole way?” Davis
asked. “Relax.”

Lori smiled through clenched teeth and took in her
first glimpse of Davis’s home. Giant windows lined the perimeter, some with
curtains, some with blinds, all of them pulled back to better display the view.

Being fair, he did have an excellent view of the
ocean.

The entranceway had opened into a small kitchen,
shaped like a half-crescent with an island along one side and three padded
barstools. No breakfast table, but like he’d said—bachelor pad.

He stood at the other end of the kitchen, the
refrigerator door wide open.

“Bottled water? Heineken? Lemonade?”

Lori blinked. “You have lemonade in there?”

“No,” he answered with a rakish grin. “I was hoping
you’d choose Heineken.”

Although she rolled her eyes, she couldn’t suppress
a smirk. Men.

“Just water.”

“Coming up.” He tossed her a plastic bottle. “Make
yourself at home.”

Sipping on the icy water, Lori wandered through the
house. The kitchen opened into a living room area, filled with a wide-screen TV
and an L-shaped couch.

Through the living room was a hallway with four
doors, two on each side. The first door led to a room that was part office,
part gym. Filing cabinets and a computer desk lined one wall, while workout
equipment cluttered the other.

The second door led to a small but tidy bathroom. On
the other side of the hallway, the third door led to a bedroom, presumably
Davis’s—Lori shut that door as quickly as she’d opened it—and the fourth was
the… linen closet?

“Hey,” she called, striding back into the kitchen
where Davis still lounged by the counter. “I thought you said this place has
two bedrooms.”

“It does. Well, did,” he corrected. “One’s my work
room now. Don’t look so surprised, Lori. You can’t seriously tell me you’ve ever
been in a bachelor pad with a guest room.”