Free Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery by Linda A. Lavid

hour, she rolled from the bed. Maybe a warm shower would relax her. In the bathroom, she turned on the water. After adjusting the temperature, she slipped off her dress. She was about to get naked but stopped. What about the bathroom door? The latch was the push-button kind. With the door ajar, she pressed the button and checked if the knob seized up. It did. She then shut the door and locked it. 
    Stripped down, she stepped into the shower stall. The warm pulsating droplets massaged her aching muscles. She tore the paper off the soap and rubbed the small bar into her scalp. With lids shut tight, she put her head directly under the flow. Foam dribbled down her face. Grime and sweat caused by endless hours of running were finally being washed away. She lathered up again. Her skin would be tight and dry in the morning, but she’d be clean. The steam loosened the weariness in her chest, when suddenly, amid the pelting water against the plastic shower curtain, a door slammed. She froze. Attempting to open her eyes, the soapy residue stung. Her breath quickened. 
    Another slam. 
    Blindly, she felt for the faucet and twisted it shut. Except for the draining water, an eerie silence followed. With rising panic, she stood immobilized. Could someone be standing on the other side of the door? She reached for a towel, dried her eyes and stepped from the shower.  
    She was a sitting duck. There was no window. The only way out was through the door. She needed a weapon. She reached for a drinking glass and slapped the rim against the porcelain sink. Whatever fate lay waiting, she was as ready as she’d ever be. Tightening the towel around her, she flung open the door and pounced out. 
    Her eyes swept across the room, expecting the man. But there was no one. She looked at the entry. The chain was still attached. Was she going crazy? Or could he have gotten in then relocked the door? Looming two feet away was the closet. Driven by a surge of adrenaline, she reached for the knob and yanked the door open. The sudden rush of air rattled the hangers. Empty. 
    Looking over the room, there was one other hiding spot – beneath the bed. She dropped to her knees. No one.
    Paloma pulled herself up, then collapsed onto the bed. Her heart was beating furiously. Constant fear. Would it ever end? She needed to reclaim her life and face whatever came her way. But how? Where to start?
    Chapter Eight
    Cold roast beef sandwiches, Max was on his second of the day. Back in Buffalo, he was in a slump. Agnes, aka Paloma, aka Nancy had skipped off without a trace, yet another cold detail to swallow – a cold trail. Max took a last bite. He liked meat rare, bloody rare with plenty of horseradish. Usually eating it gave him great pleasure, but today he felt dissatisfied, not so much with the sandwich, but with himself. He needed a focus, then a plan. But what should the focus be? To chase Agnes or find who’s after her? Perhaps they were one and the same.
    He reached for the phone and punched in his friend’s number. A familiar voice answered.
    Max grinned. “How you doing Tank?”
    “Hey, if it isn’t Maxo. Still recouping from the poker game? Man, you took a beating. How much did you lose?”
    “Let’s not go there.”
    “Ever consider Bingo?”
    Max clenched his teeth. Defeat was never easy. “No.”
    Tank laughed. “Getting old, dawg. Slowing down. Need to take your Geritol.”
    “Very funny.”
    “No seriously Maxo, you gotta take the stuff. It worked wonders for my old man. That is if you can remember to take it. Uh oh, better get some gingko as a chaser.”
    “You finished?”
    “Never, my man. What up?”
    “You know you could speak more professionally.” 
    “If I did, no one would understand me. We got a bunch of rookies, always wantin’ to be down like the bro’s, be fly, be coo’ twenty-four seven.”
    “Hmm.”
    “All college graduates tryin’ to get down. Tragic, huh?”
    “Part of life, I suppose.”
    “Maxo. Always