Heather Graham Bundle: The Island / Ghost Walk / Killing Kelly / The Vision. Heather Graham
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looked absolutely stricken.
Beth reached down, pulling Amber into her arms. “We’ll sort it out.”
Amber looked up at her, her cheeks tearstained. She threw her arms around Beth.
“Have you ever heard of such a thing?” she whispered.
“It may be no big deal,” Beth assured her. “She could change her mind tomorrow.” She was trying to give Amber the attention she needed while looking around suspiciously. The three of them seemed to be alone in the driveway. No, they weren’t. She could see the big cop down at the other end of the driveway, lighting a cigarette.
“No, it’s serious, it’s over,” Amber said.
“But, honey, you weren’t dating…you were friends. Friends don’t have to have just one friend. Even if you’re a little off right now…well, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is that bad. It’s humiliating.”
“You have other friends.”
“We have all the same friends.”
She squeezed Amber’s hand. “We’re going to have to see what happens, I guess. Remember, I love you. All my friends think you’re the prettiest, most talented creature in the whole world. Honestly, honey, it will be all right. Someday you’ll get to realize that most things that happen in high school aren’t worth a crock of beans.”
“That’s true,” Ashley told Amber, touching her cheek gently. “You’re gorgeous, and you’re talented, and we’re all going to live our lives vicariously through you.”
Amber stared at her, trying to smile, clearly not believing a word.
“Listen, honey, you know that I have to finish up here,” Beth said. “I shouldn’t be out here now, but—”
Amber let out a snuffle and a low wail. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Beth.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s all right. I’d ditch the job in two seconds for you, you know that.”
“But I wouldn’t want you to,” Amber said softly.
“I know. So we’re going to work this out.”
“You go back in,” Ashley said to Beth. “I can stay here with Amber for now.”
“I just need to hang around the entrance, say good-night to people,” Beth said. “They should start heading out fairly soon.”
“Can we go to the locker room, Ashley?” Amber asked. “I’ve got to fix my face.” She was trying to put on a brave smile.
“Absolutely. Meet you inside, Beth,” Ashley told her.
KEITH HEADED BACK IN JUST IN time to see Eduardo Shea getting a beer from the same waiter—and handing something to the man. The waiter slipped an envelope into his jacket pocket and looked up. He had a black mustache, pitch-dark hair and appeared to be Latino. But there was something about him…
“Hey,” Keith said, striding through the club. The waiter looked at him, then started hurrying through the crowd. “Stop him.”
To his disgust, people just stared at him curiously but did nothing. Keith started to run after the man, who disappeared behind one of the bars and a huge arrangement of tropical flowers. Keith ran after him and nearly crashed into a man’s back.
It was a different man. He turned, looking frightened. He began to speak in Spanish, protesting. Keith shook his head. “Where did the other guy go?”
The man shook his head blankly.
“The other waiter.”
The man turned, pointing. There were waiters everywhere. As Keith stood there, his hands on the waiter’s shoulders, Jake strode up to him.
“What is it?”
“Shea just gave one of the waiters an envelope.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. The one who’s already half a mile away, probably,” Keith said, and swore.
“Where’s Shea?” Jake asked.
“Headed back inside.”
“Maybe it’s time to ask a few questions,” Jake said. He went striding through the crowd, and Keith followed. Shea was heading for the exit.
“Mr. Shea?” Jake called.
Shea had definitely planned to make a break for it. It appeared as if he intended to keep going, at first. But then he turned, a brow arched as he waited. “Yes?” he asked.
“Let’s speak outside for a moment, shall we, Mr. Shea?” Jake said.
“I’m sorry; I’d rather not. I’m quite exhausted by the evening.”
By then Jake had produced his badge. “Police, Mr. Shea. Detective Dilessio, homicide.”
“Homicide? Surely our dancing wasn’t that bad.”
“Very funny, Mr. Shea,” Jake informed him.
Other people were beginning to note the conversation.
“Shall we go outside?” Jake suggested.
“I told you, I’m going home.”
“I can take you in, you know,” Jake said very politely.
“On what grounds?”
“Questioning. I’ve got twenty-four hours to hold you, sir, before I press charges.”
“Charges for what?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Jake told him politely.
“We’ll go outside—if you insist. You’ve got nothing on me, and trust me, I’ll see you sued for false arrest,” Shea threatened.
Jake took him by the elbow, leading him out. As he did, he said pleasantly, “Actually, I believe that a quick phone call to the FBI is all I need to assure myself that I can’t be sued for anything, Mr. Shea.”
They reached the outside of the club. “Mr. Shea, I believe you own a large amount of property on Mary Street. Would that be correct?”
“It’s illegal to own property?” Shea said.
“And you have major interests in several South American boatyards,” Jake continued pleasantly.
Shea began to frown. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Detective.” He nearly spat out the title.
“You know exactly what he’s talking about!” They all started. Maria Lopez had come out of the club, a shawl clutched around her shoulders. “You killed Ted and Molly, you bastardo,” she accused him.
“Maria, please,” Keith said softly.
“I heard you. I heard you on the phone. You were yelling, saying they were not to be cowards, that they were to show up tonight, that they must not go near the studio to ask you for money. I heard you.”
As he stood by, Keith looked out toward the parking lot. He saw a man in a tuxedo looking around furtively. “Shit,” he swore, and he began to run.
The man turned, saw him and began to run himself.
But this time there was nowhere to disappear, no crowd in which to hide, no mass of tropical flowers to veer around. Keith was down the drive, shouting to the security guard. The “waiter” saw the guard and hesitated a split second too long before veering into the bushes bordering the park.
Too late. Keith tackled him. They both went down hard. The man stared at Keith, who was ready to rip at the man’s mustache. Then he realized it wasn’t a fake—the man wasn’t Brad.
He