calls.”
“That’s good, I guess.” But Maggie had always been reluctant to call the police. She didn’t think they would help her, and pretty much, she was right.
Trace didn’t like the way that made him feel.
“Like I said, keep me in the loop.” Mark slid into the car and drove out of the lot, and Trace returned to his office. The kid, Sol Greenway, was working at his desk in the glass-windowed office next to Trace’s, partly hidden behind a couple of forty-inch monitors. Trace was good at digging up information, but the kid was better. He could find out anything, legally or illegally. Trace was careful not to encourage him.
Most of the time.
The door was open, Trace walked in and Sol looked up at him. “Yeah, boss?”
“Think you can get into an old, sealed, juvenile arrest file?”
Sol grinned. He pushed his long, straight dark hair out of his eyes. “Sure. Just give me a name.”
“Margaret O’Connell. I’ll get you her address and phone number and whatever else I’ve got.”
“Shouldn’t take long.” Sol cracked his knuckles, a habit Trace found mildly annoying, then replaced his fingers on the keyboard.
Silently cursing himself for giving in to his worry about Maggie, Trace turned and walked back out the door.
Eight
The days slipped past. As promised, a man with JDT Security Systems arrived at her door within an hour after Trace had brought her home from their trip to the shore. Mr. Wilcox had carefully shown her how to set the alarm, and had checked to see that everything was working as it should.
“It’s a wireless system,” he explained. “Fairly basic, but it’s all most people ever need. If the alarm goes off and you don’t enter the proper codes to turn it off, the system automatically calls the security company. From there, the police are notified. You should be perfectly safe as long as you remember to turn it on.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilcox.”
“No problem.”
So far there hadn’t been.
And she had to admit she felt safer with the alarm system in and dead bolts installed. Since nearly a week had passed and there hadn’t been any more notes or hang-up calls, she was beginning to think she didn’t need Mr. He-man Rawlins, after all.
The doorbell rang. It was Friday night. The weekend had finally arrived and Maggie had plans for the evening. She checked the peephole, smiled and opened the door.
Dressed in tight red leather pants and a red silk blouse that left her midriff bare, Roxanne sashayed through the door. “You ready, lamb chop?” With her black hair swept into a twist and soft tendrils curling beside her ears, Roxanne, at thirty, was a fox.
Maggie smiled. “I’m ready.” Her own outfit was a little less flashy, a very short black skirt, gold silk halter top, gold jewelry and very high black-and-gold heels. “I’m overdue for a little fun.”
They were going to Galaxy, an upscale nightclub that catered to the late-twenties through early-forties crowd. Maggie loved to dance. Anything from modern to ballroom, country to hip-hop. Anytime, anyplace, she was game. She was especially good at swing and ballroom dancing, since her dad had insisted she take cotillion.
Cotillion. The old-fashioned word made her smile. Because she didn’t have a mother “to teach her certain things,” her dad had signed her up on her twelfth birthday, and insisted she attend classes once a week.
Now she was glad she had.
“Grab your purse, girl. Let’s rock and roll.” Roxanne was always up for going out. She liked drinking martinis and socializing more than actually dancing, but it worked out fine just the same. And since Roxy was leaving for a couple weeks to visit friends in New York, this was kind of a farewell evening.
“Car’s out front,” Rox said. “I’ve got Alonzo driving tonight so we don’t have to worry if we get a little tipsy.”
Roxanne had more money than she could spend, a legacy of her daddy’s oil fortune. Though she was two years older than Maggie, they had gone to the U of Houston together, Roxanne starting as a freshman after she had spent a couple years jet-setting around Europe.
They had met in art history class, the one subject Roxanne knew backward and forward, since she had seen a number of antiquities up close and personal in her travels and developed an appreciation. Aside from their common interest in art, for reasons neither of them completely understood, they had become fast friends and still were.
Roxanne’s white Mercedes S550 sat in front of the condo, with Alonzo, her good-looking part-time driver, seated behind the wheel. She and Maggie climbed into the backseat and headed for Galaxy, which was over by the Galleria.
It didn’t take long to get there. Alonzo opened the door for them, and as they made their way toward the entrance, the doorman recognized them and waved them to the front of the line.
“Thanks, honey,” Roxanne said to the big black bouncer with the thick Southern accent.
He just grinned. “You two gals be good tonight. Don’t y’all go gettin’ them boys stirred up and fightin’ over ya.”
Maggie laughed at the backhanded compliment. “We’ll be sure to mind our manners.”
They stepped inside, onto the stainless-steel floor in the entry, and were captured immediately by the heavy beat of the music. The place was slick and modern, with lots of brushed chrome and dark wood. Mauve and blue lighting gleamed beneath the bar and along the walls, and the ceiling glittered with tiny white lights that winked like stars. The stainless-steel dance floor was large and the DJ was really good at choosing songs, usually a combo of top forty and Latin, with a little disco and the occasional country song thrown in.
Since the crowd was her age or older and Maggie was a regular, she knew a number of people in the crowd. As she and Roxanne slid onto high, dark blue leather seats at the black granite bar, a face she hadn’t seen in months was one of the first she recognized.
Roxy leaned toward her, raising her voice a little to be heard above the music and the crowd. “Isn’t that your old flame, David, sitting over there?”
Since she had already spotted him, Maggie kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. “That’s him.”
“I thought he was dating someone.”
“I thought so, too.” But clearly, he was alone tonight. Their breakup two years ago hadn’t been easy and Maggie felt a tightening in her stomach.
The bartender walked over just then, olive-skinned and handsome. “What can I get for you ladies?”
“Grey Goose martini, if you please, Enrique.” Roxy had an amazing memory for the names of good-looking men. “Up, and very, very dry.”
“I’ll have a Cosmo,” Maggie added, but one or two were her limit. She was basically a white-wine drinker, though occasionally the strong,
