Nobody But You Read online

  The television had clicked off right then and she’d jumped a mile as she’d turned around to face Al-Charles. He was standing right there, totally naked, the remote control in his hand. It had taken every ounce of strength in her body not to scream and run from the room that very second.

  “Join me?” he’d whispered, tilting his head toward the bathroom. “I think a shower is in order.”

  “S-sure.” Her eyes had darted around the room. “I’ll meet you in there. I want to call room service and get us a snack. And…uh…some champagne.”

  He’d blown her a kiss then as he stepped into the bathroom. And as soon as she heard the shower running, she’d bolted. She’d called the police from the first gas station she’d found and left an anonymous tip that Albert Alcott was staying at the Monteleone. The 911 operator hadn’t seemed particularly interested in the information, but Jacey figured it was their job to not get too worked up about anything.

  As soon as she got back to L.A., the police caught the real San Diego Slayer…and he wasn’t Albert Alcott. He was Alan Palmer. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  Embarrassment had kept her from trying to find Al back in March. Now, though, he was the only contestant in her personal game of Find Mr. Right. And since she needed a winner in the next twenty-eight days in order to keep with her D-day plan, she’d gone ahead and hired David.

  “I completely blew it,” she said, watching Tasha finish yet another egg.

  Tasha gnawed on the end of her paintbrush. “It was a natural mistake.”

  Jacey raised an eyebrow. “How many times have you mistaken Bob for a serial killer?”

  “Only two or three.” She looked up from another egg with a grin. “I’m kidding. About Bob. But not about you. You did the right thing.”

  “I panicked. I heard the news, and I just panicked.”

  “He was a guy. A big guy from what you’ve told me. And he’d lied about his name, too. And there was a serial killer running around loose and the description matched Al.” Tasha shrugged. “So you freaked out. Who wouldn’t?”

  “I wish I hadn’t,” Jacey muttered.

  Tasha pulled a fresh egg from another carton and started the whole procedure over again. “Maybe it wouldn’t have worked out.”

  “But maybe it would have. I mean, he probably gave a fake name for the same reason I did.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “He even liked Lucy. Is that the perfect guy, or what?” Her attachment to Lucy, her 1965 Volkswagen Beetle, tended to drive most of the guys she knew insane. Either they were jealous because she knew how to replace a distributor cap and they didn’t, or they got irritated when she cancelled a date because Lucy was on blocks and Jacey wanted to fix the problem instead of going to a movie.

  “Well, if he liked Lucy, he must be okay.” Tasha flashed a sisterly grin. “Not bright about cars, but okay.”

  Jacey returned the grin, then plucked up one of Tasha’s eggs. “So why are you giving eggshells the chicken pox?”

  A pained look crossed Tasha’s face. “Do they look bad?”

  “That depends.” Jacey leaned closer to get a better look. Not that proximity helped. Instead of a faraway view of a dozen dotted eggs, she simply got a close-up.

  “What are they?”

  “Purple and white. Bob’s school colors.” Bob was the principal of Davis Junior High, home of the purple panthers and purple pride. Tasha, apparently, was getting into the spirit. “I’m trying to be a good little girlfriend, so I’m making confetti eggs to sell at his school festival tomorrow. And then I’m hoping that we can go back to his place for a little afternoon delight.”

  “Still nothing, huh?”

  “Not a thing and it’s driving me nuts.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s gay.”

  “Or maybe he’s just a nice guy.”

  At that, Tasha rolled her eyes before stacking a third carton of completed eggs onto the other two. She nodded at the paintbrush in Jacey’s hand. “The addict sneaking a fix?”

  “Huh?”

  Tasha glanced from the brush to the carton Jacey’d managed to cover with an intricate purple pattern. “You just can’t resist temptation, can you?”

  Jacey scowled, then got up and dropped the empty carton and the paintbrush into the trash. “I didn’t leave chocolate lying around the house when you were trying to lose five pounds.”

  Tasha just laughed. “So tell me about this investigator guy that Elliott recommended.” Tasha worked as a legal assistant in the megafirm where Elliott was a partner.

  “Not much to tell,” Jacey said. She eyed the stack of still-unpainted eggs, imagining them covered in colorful designs more interesting than Tasha’s purple dots. She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. “He’s a little weird, but since he’s not going to break the bank, I guess it’s worth it.”

  “Think he can do the job?”

  “I hope so. He’s odd, but he seems sharp.” Actually, he seemed more than sharp. Anderson had a way of looking at her that was both insightful and annoying. She shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t have a lot of choice. Not if I want to find Al.”

  “Yeah, but what about the important stuff? How does he score?”

  Jacey grinned at the game they’d been playing since the first time they’d double-dated. “I’m hiring him for his brains, Tash. I wasn’t even thinking about his rank.”

  Tasha half rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

  A tiny smile tugged at Jacey’s mouth and she leaned toward her friend. “Well, he’s definitely got a chance at the crown.”

  Tasha slapped her palm onto the table, sending eggshells bouncing. “I knew it. Tell me everything.”

  “Dark hair—”

  “Like who? Pierce Brosnan or Brendan Fraser?”

  “Brendan. In The Mummy. He’s got that huggable but unkempt look going.”

  “So he’s cute?”

  “Gorgeous. He’s got these really intense blue eyes and football player shoulders.”

  “Sounds yummy,” Tasha said, summing Anderson up nicely. She waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe you should just forget about Al and hook up with this guy.”

  “I don’t think so.” He was cute, true, but there was an arrogance about him. And a sort of distracted quirkiness. Definitely not relationship material. Besides, after less than an hour with him, she could already tell they’d be at each other’s throats constantly. Totally the opposite of the warm, comfortable relationship that had sparked between her and Al. And certainly not the kind of guy she’d ever want to settle down with.

  “Why not?”

  “Tash, I’ve dated a dozen guys in the past year who scored perfect tens in all our categories. But except for Al, not one of them would win Mr. Congeniality. And somehow I don’t think Mr. Anderson would do any better in that department.”

  “Still,” Tasha said, dotting another egg, “I know it’s been four months since you—”

  “Tasha!” Jacey got up and started washing an already clean glass that was sitting by the sink, all the while managing to avoid Tasha’s eyes. “Even if, I’m not interested in David Anderson.”

  “You don’t have to be interested. All you have to do is keep an open mind.”

  “Maybe that’s all you have to do. Me, I need a little bit more to get my juices flowing.”

  “Oooh!” Tasha licked her thumb, slapped it up against her rear, and made a sizzling noise. “You got me.”

  “Besides,” Jacey continued, ignoring her roomie, “he’s not even on my radar screen. The guy’s odd.”

  “Foot-fetish odd, or I-have-to-know-where-you-are-every-second odd?” Tasha asked, referring to some of Jacey’s more bizarre recent dates.

  She shrugged, shoving a soapy sponge deep into the glass. “For one thing, I was sitting there on his couch and he was spacing out.” She rinsed the glass, then searched for something else to wash. Nothing. With a sigh she turned around to face her friend. “And his house was a total wreck.”

  “Maybe it was the maid’s
day off.”

  “I don’t think so. There were boxes everywhere and paper all over the floor.”

  “Oh, come on. He’s a guy. What do you expect?”

  “He’s not a guy. He’s an overgrown teenager.”

  The corner of Tasha’s mouth twitched. “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s not my type.” She stressed each syllable, wanting to make sure Tasha got the point.

  “Except for his looks.” Tasha put two little dots on one egg, then followed up with a tiny purple mustache.

  “Exactly. Except for his looks, he’s not my type at all.” This time she met Tasha’s eyes and they burst out laughing. “We are so shallow.”

  “No, we’re not. Just honest.”

  “Yeah. And I can honestly say I’m not interested in the guy.” That was the truth. He might be cute, but he rubbed her the wrong way entirely. Or almost entirely. More important, he was exactly the kind of guy she’d made up her mind to avoid.

  “Too bad,” Tasha said, closing the carton on another dozen eggs.

  And even though Jacey would never admit it out loud, Tasha was right…and that, of course, was a whole new problem.

  Chapter 3

  The streets of Los Angeles can be cold and lonely, particularly when you’re pounding the pavement searching for somebody who doesn’t want to be found.

  And that’s just what I was doing. Combing the back alleys of Hollywood looking for Mallory’s sister Sarah and her dumb but dangerous boyfriend, Kenny Townsend.

  I had a single snapshot. Sarah in her curve-hugging prom dress. The perennial good girl, only now she’d gone bad.

  I flashed the picture at the first mug I met on the street, a stoolie by the name of Jonesie who worked the corner of Hollywood and Vine selling newspapers and less conventional information.

  “Sorry, mac. Ain’t seen her. And believe me, I’d remember if I had.”

  I nodded and slipped him a ten spot. Jonesie was right. Sarah wasn’t the forgettable type. Not any more than Mallory was…

  I lit a Chesterfield and leaned against a lamp-post, letting the nicotine clear my head. I had a feeling my client wasn’t telling me the whole truth, but I was too much of a gentleman to challenge the word of a dame. Even a dame as dangerous as Mallory.

  Too bad none of my leads were turning up solid. I felt like one of those slobs with the whole world against him…

  “Sorry, David.” Phineus Teague’s voice filtered through the phone line, startling David back to the present. “No Albert Alcott.”

  David drummed his fingers on his desk. Damn. He’d thought he’d be able to find old Al for Jacey with a couple of simple phone calls. In. Out. Then he’d pocket a few bucks and be on his way.

  So much for the best-laid plans.

  He scratched his scalp with the eraser end of his pencil. “He looks to be about thirty,” David said. “But he could be older. How far back—?”

  “Fifteen years,” Finn said. “No luck.”

  “What about similar names? Any Alcotts at all?”

  “Shit, David? What do you think? I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here hacking away at the hallowed halls of Harvard?”

  David laughed. “More or less.” Finn had been hacking back when all he had to work with was a clunky Commodore computer. As computers had gotten better, so had Finn’s ability to penetrate their defenses.

  “Au contraire, my friend,” Finn said, his voice laced with amusement. “It just so happens that I have a hot date tonight. I’m only working the keyboard to keep my fingers nimble. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the ladies.”

  “Have you ever?” David asked.

  “Not that I know of. But I usually leave them too exhausted to complain.”

  David laughed. “You’re a sick man, Finn.”

  “That’s why we’re buds, Anderson. Come on. Admit it. You miss me.”

  David aimed a grin at the phone. “Hell yeah. You’re the only friend I have who’d do legwork for me for free. I have to bribe Spenser and Cartwright with beer and pizza.”

  “Man, you’re slumming if you’re hanging out with those guys.” The grin came through in Finn’s voice loud and clear.

  “No shit,” David said with a chuckle. He and Finn had been friends since high school, along with Stephen Spenser and Mike Cartwright. For years, they’d been the Fab Four, and when Mike and Stephen had joined the Los Angeles Police Department, David and Finn had hung around. David had loved getting to know the officers and he’d even sold an occasional story to law enforcement-related magazines. At the time, he’d just liked spending time around guys who carried guns, but he’d soon developed a strong friendship with some of the officers. And it was Cartwright who’d clued him in to the spree of celebrity murders that David had written about in Stalking Death.

  But while Stephen and Mike had aimed him toward the big picture, Finn’s computer skills had always helped him ferret out the details. For the most part, Finn had given up hacking—that particular not-so-legal activity didn’t look good on a law school application—but he still helped David out here and there.

  “Hold on a sec,” Finn added, and David heard the tap of keys on the Boston end of the phone.

  A knot twisted in David’s stomach. Over a year had passed since Finn had decided to give law school a try, but that didn’t mean David missed his buddy any less.

  Now Finn was enrolled at Harvard and working part-time doing something computer related at MIT. Handy for Jacey’s case, but it made for some lonely Sundays when all David wanted to do was kick back with his best bud and watch football.

  “Okay.” Finn returned. “It looks like there were twelve Alcotts. Eight were women and none of the others sound like your guy.” He ran through the students’ individual stats, and David had to agree. “But get this,” Finn added. “An Albert Alcott from Van Nuys applied seven years ago. Turned down. Think that might be your boy?”

  “And he lied to impress the girl? Could be,” David said. “Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time. Can you fax me his info? I’m hoping for an address and some references I can call to track him down if he’s moved.”

  “Two hours on the computer and all you want is a lousy address?”

  “Don’t complain,” David said. “I’m keeping your fingers nimble, remember?”

  “Good point. In that case, I thank you. And so does my date.” He paused, and David heard the high-pitched beep of the computer. “Okay, I’ll fax this as soon as it prints,” Finn said. “By the way, are you up for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Hell yeah. We’ll meet someplace convenient for both of us. Like Ohio.”

  Finn chuckled. “I was thinking maybe Dupar’s.”

  “Works for me. A bit of a drive for you, all the way from Boston. But, hey, it’s your gas.”

  “The movers come at the crack of dawn, and then I take off for the airport. I told you—I’m spending the rest of the summer and next semester working for a district judge in Los Angeles.”

  “I know. But I thought you weren’t coming in until next week.”

  “I bumped the reservation up,” Finn said. “I wanted some time to veg in Los Angeles before starting work.”

  “This is great,” David said. Which was an understatement; David missed the hell out of his best friend.

  “So we’re on, right? I’ll swing by when I get in town. Should be about two. And you can tell me all about whatever else you find out about our buddy Albert.”

  After a few more minutes of chitchat, David hung up, then headed for the shower in a generally good mood. He wandered back into his office, naked except for a towel around his waist. The phone was ringing and he snatched it up.

  “David, darling, sorry to bother you so early on a Saturday, but I just wanted to see how you were doing.” Marva Delaney’s Brooklyn accent came through loud and clear thanks to the wonders of fiber optics.

  “I’m fine, Marva. Thanks for asking.” Ever since David had announced that he was going to give up writing true crime a
nd turn to fiction, his agent had been in alternate states of mourning and advocacy. Today, David was sure, she wasn’t calling to inquire about his health, but to bug him about giving up the novel.

  “How’s the novel coming?”

  “It’s coming.” True enough. He’d finish it one day.

  “Why don’t you put it aside? I could sell another Stalking. Pembroke has already told me he’ll double your advance,” she added, referring to David’s editor. “All you need to do is bring him the crime.”

  “We have this conversation every week.”

  “You need to eat, David.”

  “That’s why I started the agency. So I could pay a bill or two.” While researching Stalking, David had spent months tagging after the PI who’d ultimately solved the case. Partly for research and partly for fun, David had gotten his own investigator’s license, and now he did the occasional skip trace and picked up a few extra bucks photographing cheating husbands and wives. Not a lot of money—especially since most of his income was going to pay Millie’s bills—but he scraped by.

  Stalking Death had done well enough, though it wasn’t like David was going to rush right out and buy a Ferrari. More than money, the book had earned him a reputation and an “in” with the snazzier magazines. Before the book, he’d been just another freelance journalist. After the book, he was hailed as the next Anne Rule. All of which would have been great if he’d wanted to write nonfiction for the rest of his life. But he didn’t. He’d stumbled across the story and written Stalking Death on a lark. Now he wanted to write hard-boiled detective fiction.

  Unfortunately, he and Marva didn’t see eye-to-eye on his change in career.

  “—must be something in Los Angeles?” she was saying.

  “What?” David rubbed the bridge of his nose, even though he’d tuned out most of the conversation.

  “I said, you just need to find a story. And even if you don’t want to write a book, you can write an article and let Vanity Fair run it over several months.”

  “I swear, Marva, you’re driving me nuts.” She kept dangling the money carrot, and David absolutely did not want to open up and chomp down. “I want to write fiction. Fiction. You know, made-up stuff.”