Free Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson Page B

beer.
       "Money like this . . ."
       "Yeah," Walt said.
       "This house . . . he's here, what, three weeks a year?"
       "If that."
       "Talk about a crime."
       "I know."
       "Why the civvies?" Clarence asked.
       "I'm undercover."
       "Yeah, you fit right in here."
    "I've got to do the impossible: convince a woman not to talk."
    "It really is a thankless job."
    "Jerry's involved."
    "How is it between you two?"
    "About the same," Walt said.
    "Bobby's death?"
    "The great divide."
    "It was a real loss. How's the kid?"
    "Messed up."
    "Yeah," Clarence said. "Kinda figured."
    "We all are. Gail and I . . . A lot of that was losing Bobby."
    "I figured you two forever."
    "You and me, both."
    "Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em."
    "Cheers to that," Walt said, hoisting the beer.
    "In case you missed it, Tommy Lee Jones keeps checking you out."
    Walt looked to see Dryer staring him down.
       "Guys like that," Clarence said, indicating Dryer, "they'll put up a fight, but they won't take you to the mat. At the end of the day, it's just a paycheck for them."
       "Your lips to God's ears."
       A waitress interrupted and placed an order. As Clarence went to work, Walt looked up to see Danny Cutter in profile, clear across the room, up on the balcony. He was chatting up a redhead with quite a profile.
       Walt's cell phone buzzed, and he ducked behind a potted tree to answer.
       A woman's grating voice cleared the wax from his ears. "Kevin tells me we're invited to dessert with you and Jerry up at the Pio. Is that for real?"
       "Hello, Myra."
       "Why are you whispering?"
    "I'm kind of in the middle of something."
    "But it sounds noisy."
       "Kevin's right. Dessert is for real. My treat. The Pio, maybe eight- thirty, quarter to nine." He checked his watch, realizing if she hadn't called, he might have forgotten the dinner with his father. The Salt Lake photographs had pushed all else from his mind.
       "But Jerry?" she asked. "What if he's drinking?"
       "Then you'll be doing me a big favor by coming," Walt said honestly.
       "Okay . . . okay. But he starts dumping on Kevin, we're out of there."
       "And I'll be right behind you," Walt said.
       He hung up the call, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

Twenty-three

    T  ell me you weren't running from me," Ailia said.
    Danny took a little too long to say, "Don't be silly."
             She gestured to the nearest guest room, marked "Guercino" on the door.
       "Indifferent. Or trying to be," Danny said.
       "But why?"
       "New leafs don't turn over easily."
       "Oh, God, don't tell me you bought the whole twelve-step thing."
       "I bought it, but it was on credit."
       "Five minutes. Don't make me beg." She led him down the hall and into the first guest suite—as it happened, his.
       She closed the door with authority.
       "I'm going to skip the missing-you part, and how hard it's been, and get to the point: I can help you, Danny. Want to. With Stu, I'm talking about. Trilogy."
       "I beg your pardon?"
       "Patrick told me all about it. He's in a snit you won't keep it in the family, but hey, if it's Stu and me, it's almost family anyway, don't you think?"
       "I think this is my business and Paddy had no right to—"
       "Oh, come on! He's looking after you. We're all looking after you. And at least one of us is looking right at you." She stepped closer, a dozen sweet smells swirling in front of her. "I'm not the enemy, you know?"
       If she moved another inch toward him their bodies would touch. Now he felt her body heat. It mixed with her scent and his head swam.
       "Allie . . . no."
       "Ah, come on. Why deny a girl a little pleasure?" Her breath smelled of red wine. "You know how I am about pleasure."
       The longer she stood there, the weaker his will. He inhaled deeply and some hairs danced toward his face.
       She whispered, "Let me help. Please." She