Free Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan Page A

one side and called Priscilla Perdue. No answer at home or on her cell phone, so I tried the beauty salon where she was an assistant manager. I had to brave the suspicion of a cautious secretary but finally I was put through.
    “Priscilla. Sorry about the delay—journalists have been on my tail all day. How may I help?” She had a cute, squeaky voice.
    “My name’s Al Jeery, Miss Perdue. I was a friend of Nic Hornyak’s. I was—”
    “Al Jeery,” she interrupted, and I heard her tapping the back of her teeth with her tongue. “You were Nic’s little brown soldier.”
    “Excuse me?”
    She giggled. “Please don’t be offended. That’s how Nic described you. She said she was dating a big, brown, bulky soldier, with thick stubble for hair and the physique of an action doll. I was jealous.”
    I didn’t know what to think about that, so I cleared my throat and said, “Miss Perdue, I’d like to discuss Nic with you. I’m running a private investigation into her—”
    “Do you mind if we do this some other time?” she interrupted. “I’d rather talk about Nic outside of working hours. Doesn’t do to cry in front of the customers.”
    “Of course. I’ll call after the funeral and—”
    “You needn’t wait that long. I’ve been surrounded by well-wishers since news of the murder broke, but they’re all old friends and have nothing new to say. Are you free tonight?”
    “Sure.”
    “You have my address?” I had. “Pick me up, ten o’clock?”
    “I don’t have a car,” I told her.
    “That’s all right. We can use mine.”
    I spent the intervening hours reading about Priscilla, preparing for our meeting. She came from a well-off family. Twenty-seven. Married for a couple of years when she was nineteen. Husband owned a chain of clothes boutiques. He was shot dead during a robbery. She got involved with his attorney, who ran off with most of her money, never to be seen again. No serious relationships since, but many short-term affairs.
    The photos were few and poor, the most recent from the days of her marriage. I reported the lack of up-to-date material when handing the file back to the secretary on the seventeenth floor, from where it had come, as we were always meant to when encountering substandard data. My comments would be passed on and, within days, a team of operatives would be scanning newspapers and records, gathering photos, business transcripts, gossip tidbits, etc., updating and fleshing out her profile.
    I went home to change. I hadn’t asked where we’d be going, so I didn’t know whether to dress formally. I played it safe and dressed smart-casual, tucking a tie into my pocket in case it was required.
    She lived in an apartment block that put mine to shame. Couldn’t be doing too badly if she was able to maintain payments on a pad in a place like this.
    I was about to buzz for her when she appeared, clad in blue, keys in her left hand. She was on the short side but otherwise as close to perfect as I’d seen in a long while. A model’s curves, wide blue eyes, round red lips, delicate cheekbones, and long blond hair that would have been any stylist’s delight.
    “Al Jeery, I presume,” she said, eyes flicking over me.
    “Miss Perdue.”
    “Call me Priscilla. And I’ll call you Al.” She jangled the keys and smiled. “Race you to the car.” She sprinted past me, a strong stride. I had no option but to run to keep up.
    She was slightly out of breath when we reached her car, an old BMW. I wasn’t.
    “You’re in good shape,” she complimented me.
    “For my age,” I modestly agreed.
    We got in. She noticed my critical eye—the car was in poor shape.
    “It’s a car like this or a cheaper apartment,” she explained.
    “I thought you managed the salon.” Flattering her.
    “Assistant manager. I do most of the work but my boss claims the profits. I make enough to keep me in style if I spend wisely. Unfortunately I’ve never had a head for money. It comes, it goes,