The construction crews packing up, the food truck driving back the way it had come, the girl with the great legs walking past the driveway—
He jerked upright, his head snapping around. The narrow street was empty. His eyes flicked over both sidewalks— nothing. A long, compressed breath escaped him, and he let his head loll back on his shoulders, his eyes closed.
Of course, he told himself sourly, she’s a phantom, a hallucination, remember? Lord knows, it had happened before.
“Bang, you’re dead.”
Chance’s eyes snapped open, but he managed to keep himself from a startled jump as Quisto slid back into the car.
“Hey, man, you all right?”
Chance shrugged. “Sure.”
“You seem a little…distracted lately.”
“I’m fine,” Chance said firmly. “What’d you find out?”
“You were right. Private party. Big wheels only.” Quisto eyed his friend and partner for a moment. “You gonna tell me what’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
“Sarah?” Quisto’s voice was quiet, suddenly devoid of any of its usual glib slickness.
“No.”
For once he could say it and mean it. At least, he thought he could. Maybe this apparition that kept haunting him was no more real than that image had been. It had been nearly two years before Sarah had at last let him rest.
Two years of nightmares, of twisting pain, of reaching for her only to grasp emptiness. Two years of tortured nights spent staring into the dark, staving off sleep, and wondering if the dreams would ever stop. And at last, exhausted, sleeping, only to wake to the ever-present knowledge that he had killed her as certainly as if he had planted the bomb himself.
Chapter 2
“You ready?”
Chance eyed his partner critically. “That depends. Do I have to go in with you?”
“Afraid you’re underdressed?”
Chance grinned. “Everything’s relative, I guess.”
Quisto was looking rather resplendent in a dark, shiny silk double-breasted suit. If he worried about things like that, Chance would have definitely felt underdressed. As it was he was comfortable in the black lightweight wool slacks and thick black-and-tan sweater he had on, which were several steps above his usual worn jeans.
“Let’s hit it, partner,” Quisto said. “Party time.”
They left Quisto’s modern apartment that overlooked the marina, heading for the parked BMW. Tonight was the official public grand opening of the Del Mar Club, and they were off to make a survey of the territory.
They’d spent a useless week running every license plate that had showed up at Mendez’s—de Cortez, Chance reminded himself again—private party. The man was bent on showing everyone how legitimate he was. The guests ranged from the head of the local chamber of commerce to the councilman for the district. Not a single dirt bag in sight, Chance had muttered after two hours hunched over the computer readouts. Except for the ones running the place, he had amended wryly. And, he wondered as he scanned the crowd, any of those local community leaders de Cortez might have managed to stuff in his pocket….
If the number of cars in the lot and on the street was an indication, de Cortez had a hit on his hands. Chance and Quisto scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar faces. Other than a few of the better known local high rollers, they came up empty.
They joined the throng at the door, Chance idly looking at the sign on the wall just inside. Cash only, he mused. De Cortez must be pretty sure of his own success to run a cash-only operation. Then they were inside, going with the flow of humanity that was pouring into the club.
“Nice,” Quisto murmured as he looked around.
Although places like this usually left him cold, Chance had to agree. Through the construction of different levels, and clever, careful lighting, the huge room gave the appearance of private, even intimate alcoves. Yet each was angled in such a way as to give a view of the brightly lit stage, where a four-piece band was hammering out a rock number.
He glanced at them—nothing unusual there, just the expected jeans and slightly unkempt hair. Look who’s talking, he muttered to himself, running a hand through the blond-streaked hair that brushed the top of his shoulders.
Continuing their inspection of the clientele, they made their way around the nearly full room, checking the layout of the place. Chance spotted the hallway just to the rear and the left of the stage that appeared to lead to the stairway up to the office, and marked its location on the mental diagram he was making.
He would have preferred to sit somewhere on the outskirts of the room for a better view of the crowd, but when one of the tuxedo-clad ushers led them rather grandly to a table next to the stage, Chance knew they couldn’t refuse without drawing attention, and it was too early in the game to risk that. He noticed that the music had changed, softened just a bit, although still hardly tame. He glanced over his shoulder at the band, who had changed position, as he sat down.
The table was small, covered with a spotless white linen cloth. The ashtray was cut crystal, as was the elegant vase that held three red roses.
“Whew.” Quisto let out a low whistle. “Three roses per table. That’s a lot of change.”
Chance grinned wryly. “I wouldn’t know. You’re the one who has the standing order for three dozen a week.”
“Hey, I have ladies to keep happy.”
“Rough life.”
“You should try it sometime.”
They’d been through this routine before, too, and Quisto waited for the standard “No, thanks.” His eyebrows rose as he looked at Chance, who had gone suddenly still. The customary answer didn’t come; all Quisto heard was the singer who had joined the band.
It had been all Chance had heard since the first clear, crystal notes had begun, more than a match for the now less boisterous backup band. Pure, sweet and powerful, the words washed over him. He couldn’t seem to move, not even to turn to look, all he could hear was that voice. And the words…
“You wonder when the dreams will stop
Or if they ever will
You wonder if you’re doomed to spend
Your life this way until
You end the dreams…or you”
A shiver ran through him, an eerie sensation of violation, as if his very soul had been invaded, as if the woman whose voice was sending ripples up his spine had climbed inside his mind and read his darkest thoughts.
It was with a sense of trepidation he hadn’t felt in years that he made himself turn. He’d faced armed criminals with less apprehension than he felt when he twisted around in the chair
