Free Liars & Thieves by Stephen Coonts Page B

O’Shea.
    Well, why not, I asked myself.
    Dorsey lived on that estate overlooking the Potomac, five hundred wooded acres complete with tennis court and swimming pool and a little three-story brick shack with fifteen or twenty rooms, five fireplaces, and a dozen commodes. And Dorsey owed me big for getting her cute little heinie out of the clutches of her porno boyfriend last spring. Surely she wouldn’t mind if Kelly Erlanger and I dropped in unannounced and hid from the law and the outlaws for a few days.
    I pointed the car in Dorsey’s direction. We had been driving for fifteen or twenty minutes when Kelly asked, “Where are we going?”
    “To visit a friend of mine.”
    “She a plastic surgeon? You and I are going to need one if we hope to live out the year.”
    “Naw. She’s a rich socialite. Never worked a day in her life, inherited a huge heaping pile when her parents had the grace to die young.”
    “So how do you know her?”
    “I was her boy toy for a while,” I said flippantly.
    “Good Lord! She must be ancient if you were the best she could do.”
    “She’s a real old prune,” I snarled. “And she’s got servants. A maid and a cook. Better keep your lip zipped and let me do the talking or we’re liable to wind up in drawers at the morgue.”
    “This is your gig, hero. I’ll cling to you and look deeply into your eyes while you talk us into the house. But I want my own bedroom.”
    I wasn’t about to tell Erlanger about robbing a safe deposit box for O’Shea. “You don’t know Dorsey,” I explained. “She’s a friend. She’ll be delighted to help. You’ll see.” ,
    Dorsey O’Shea had a long winding drive, which was cool; you couldn’t see the house from the road.
    A Porsche was parked in front of the place. I didn’t think it was Dorsey’s, because she always parked in the garage around back. I parked the heap beside the Porsche and hoisted the suitcase from the trunk. Kelly climbed the stairs and crossed the formal stoop and pushed the doorbell.
    I joined her on the stoop with the suitcase.
    After a bit the porch light came on.
    I heard someone unlocking the door, then it opened.
    Dorsey was wearing a slinky black silk thing and a set of high-heeled slippers, and apparently not much else. She had a glass of wine in her hand. It was brutally obvious we had interrupted something.
    “What in the name of God are you doing here, Carmellini?” she snarled.
    Kelly Erlanger tittered. She leaned against the doorjamb and held her hand over her mouth, and her shoulders began to shake as the laughter went off the scale and she fought for air.
    I pulled her hands down. “Hey, get a grip.”
    Her whole face contorted and she lost it. Just went to pieces.
    I picked her up in my arms and marched through the door, pushing Dorsey aside. “Get the suitcase,” I growled at O’Shea. “This woman’s been through hell and needs a place to sleep.”
    As I strode through the living room to the grand staircase, I got a gander at Dorsey’s romantic interest, a balding twit twenty pounds overweight standing by the fireplace with his mouth open.
    The guest room that I picked had a nice double bed all made up. “A glass of whiskey on the rocks would be appreciated,” I told Dorsey, who followed me up the stairs and stood twisting her hands in the doorway. She scurried away. I stripped off Erlanger’s shoes and put her between the sheets, then sat down on the edge of the bed as she tried to control her sobbing.
    You keep doing that, you’re going to get the hiccups something terrible.”
    Dorsey was back with the whiskey within a minute. I took a sip, just a taste test, then offered it to Kelly. She shook her head no.
    “Hey, this is medicine. Settle you down.”
    She grasped the glass with both hands and took a long pull as if it were milk.
    The sobs stopped. She hiccupped once, then belted back another big slurp.
    “How can you be so calm?” she asked.
    Dorsey was still in the room. I heard her