Part 20 (2/2)
He ran a finger down the ridge of his battered nose. ”To see that you got home safely.”
”And?”
”And I needed information.”
”Who told you I was at Binder's?”
”I can't tell you. But I know Parson's men were following you. Your turn. What happened at the pool-supply store?”
”I haven't lied to you. I haven't abducted you. I haven't threatened you.”
”Parson is a man out of control.” Urgency filled his dark-chocolate eyes. ”His daughter has been murdered. One of his men got killed and another is very p.i.s.sed off. And you don't want Rubio p.i.s.sed at you, Diana.”
”Is Rubio the guy with the tattoo?”
”Yes.”
”Too late,” I said.
”Christ.”
”I may have broken his leg. Unintentionally.”
”You really don't know the people you're dealing with, do you?” His voice rose with anger. ”You can criticize me for what I did in the military while you run home and sit here smug and secure in your little make-believe Hollywood bubble ...”
”The same bubble you get paid to keep intact for a lot of ugly people.”
”I need you to tell me what you found out at Binder's and why one of Parson's men ended up dead. And I need it to be the truth.”
I thought of Pearl, who had stolen a key so she could go back to hooking. An old man who loved her. Ryan, who'd had s.e.x with Jenny Parson not knowing who she really was, and who had protected me and Colin by paying Parson off all these years. ”I can't.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. ”Are you trying to save your friend Ryan Johns?”
I sucked in my breath. ”Why do you ask?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. ”A DVD was mailed anonymously to my office this afternoon. It was Ryan Johns and Jenny Parson having s.e.x.”
”Did you give it to Parson?”
”No. I locked it in my safe. n.o.body has seen it but me. But that doesn't mean whoever sent it didn't send a copy to Parson. I recognized the purple velvet sofa. It's the same one that's in Bella Casa. Talk to me.”
I needed time to think. I needed to talk to Ryan before I even thought of turning him over to Heath.
”Your ten minutes are up.”
As I started toward the front door to let him out, he stepped in front of me, blocking my way. ”Guilty or innocent of Jenny's murder, Ryan Johns is in real danger. And he's probably not the only one.”
”I can't say any more.”
The sound of a sharp pop, like an exploding arc light on the set, filled the room. As I looked toward the deck, where I thought the noise had come from, Heath grabbed my shoulders. There was another quick pop and my feet were no longer under me. He was pus.h.i.+ng me down. I landed on my back on the floor with him on top. My breath slammed out of me. And then there was nothing, only an eerie silence.
”What happened?” I gasped.
”Somebody just tried to shoot you. I guess Ryan isn't the only one in danger.”
My permanent chill sliced through me. ”Maybe he was aiming for you.”
A hint of a grim smile. ”Keep down.” Quickly getting to his feet, he stayed low, took a gun from a holster on his belt, and crept toward the deck door.
I rolled onto my stomach and then up on my hands and knees and stared at two jagged bullet holes in the pane of my sliding door. Fissures radiated from the holes like giant, icy spider legs. I felt as fractured as the gla.s.s.
Heath glanced over his shoulder at me. ”Stay here.”
Holding his gun in one hand, he reached out with the other and carefully slid the door to the side. As he did, the gla.s.s broke into shards and clattered onto the floor. The damp ocean air billowed in as he ducked out onto the balcony and crouched behind the wicker chair. We both froze in our positions, waiting. Then the roar of a motorcycle, its tires squealing, came from the walkway between my house and Ryan's. I jumped to my feet and ran out on the deck. Heath was already bounding down the stairs. I was right behind him.
With Heath in front of me, we sprinted up the path to the front of my house. The biker had disappeared into the traffic, but not before I glimpsed the back of his bomber jacket and his white helmet.
”I guess Rubio didn't break his leg.” I was out of breath.
Heath whirled around, facing me. ”You finally ready to talk?” Headlights from the highway spread across our faces.
”Take me to Kiki's bar,” I said. ”Ryan's there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.
It was seven o'clock and the bar was two deep. Over the din of conversation the Beach Boys sang in high-pitched voices about surf, cars, and girls. Instead of Ryan in the center booth there was a young long-haired celeb with great cleavage and the aging record producer Bobby Sanders. Heath followed me over to see Kiki, who was still on his stool at the end of the bar, coffee cup in front of him and a swizzle stick hanging from the corner of his mouth. His nappy peroxided hair covered his head like a badly knitted cap.
”Did Ryan leave?” I asked.
”He's in the back room, sleeping it off.”
I sighed with relief. ”I've come to take him home.”
”I'm glad you care about him. He's a good guy. Come on.” Kiki slid off the stool. His legs were bowed as if he'd once been a cowboy instead of a surfer. He pulled himself up to his full height of five foot two, and we followed him through the bar and past the restrooms.
Kiki opened a door to a storage area filled with c.o.c.ktail-napkin boxes, extra hurricane candleholders, and other necessities for the bar. In the middle of this was a narrow cot covered with a Bird of Paradise print quilt. Next to it was a table with a hula-dancer lamp. The cot was empty.
”Where is he?” I asked.
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