mirrored wall.
A slight click and the wall opened. She squeezed through into Jean Luc’s opulent private bedroom in the hotel. The blur of red satin and black leather assaulted her already heightened senses as she dashed for the door leading to the hall on this floor.
Cautiously she peered out.
The corridor was empty. Too afraid to wait for an elevator, she rushed to the stairwell and descended the stairs as rapidly as she could without flying face-first into the concrete walls. She hit the outside door with her whole body and stumbled into the hotel staff’s section of the underground garage.
Through the sea of employee cars she saw no one, friend or foe. She raced toward where she parked, fumbling to get her key out of her pants pocket.
Her little blue hatchback was a welcome sight. With shaky hands, she unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The gears ground as she shifted into Reverse and almost simultaneously pressed on the gas.
The small car shot backward. She slammed on the brake and shifted into Drive. Her foot pounced on the gas and the car rocketed forward, the tires squealing as she zipped around the curved lot and jetted out onto the dark, deserted street. This late at night people were either at home asleep or inside one of the many casinos along the strip.
She drove, hardly paying attention to the direction she headed until she came to a screeching halt at a red light. Her breathing came shallow and fast. She checked the rearview mirror. As far as she could tell, no one had followed her.
Hopefully she’d had enough of a head start that she could stop somewhere and figure out what to do. Where to go. She needed to go to the police.
Because she’d witnessed murder.
Jean Luc had said no police. But Jean Luc was dead.
Her stomach roiled with terror.
Nothing she’d ever faced in her life had prepared her for this.
She pulled the car into the parking lot of a fast food joint. The bright fluorescent sign illuminated the inside of the car. She’d thrown Jean Luc’s wallet on the passenger seat.
Now she picked up the supple leather and thumbed through the contents. Her eyes widened at the number of hundred-and thousand-dollar bills inside the wallet. She swallowed hard.
He’d planned on dying when he’d given her the money.
Heart aching at his sacrifice, she let loose with fresh tears. He’d been a kind and thoughtful employer.
He’d once said she reminded him of his little sister. She didn’t know if that was true but she had liked him and admired him.
A pang pierced her heart.
He’d given his life to set her free.
And doomed her to a life of fear.
Did she dare take the time to go back to her loft apartment? Was there anything there worth grabbing? Thanks to Jean Luc, she had enough cash to start over anywhere she wanted.
Only…she couldn’t forget the image she’d seen in the mirror seconds before she’d made her escape.
A gun firing at Jean Luc, his body crumpling to the floor.
The expression of hatred on the man holding the gun that delivered the fatal bullet would forever be seared on her brain.
A man she recognized.
The cold eyes of Raoul Domingo would haunt her nightmares.
Where could she hide that was far enough out of reach from New Jersey’s most feared mob boss?
Lieutenant Lidia Taylor, Chief State Investigator for the Atlantic County Major Crimes Squad, walked out of the interrogation room with frustration pulsing in her veins. Yes, Jean Luc Versailles’s Thai girlfriend, Nikki Song, confirmed that the casino owner had set up a meeting with Raoul Domingo for that night. But knowing about a meeting and proving Domingo was a murderer were two different things.
“Good work,” General Investigator Section Detective Rick Grand, Lidia’s partner, stated when he met her in the hall, his voice full of respect.
“It isn’t enough. I’ve already got D.A. Porter breathing down my neck on this.”
“I have two resort guests who will swear they saw Domingo and his gang get in the elevator,” Rick replied.
More frustration kicked Lidia in the gut. “That still doesn’t put him in the suite or the gun in his hand. We need to find that girl on the video.” The hotel’s security camera had shown a woman running out of the hotel employee entrance a few minutes after Versailles’s death.
Rick smiled like a Cheshire cat sitting on the moon. “I have a lead on another person who might be able to put Domingo in the same room with Jean Luc.”
Lidia stilled. “Details.”
“Housekeeping had a maid scheduled to attend to Jean Luc’s private room right about the time Domingo entered the elevator. The maid never returned to finish her shift.”
“Who else knows about this?”
Rick shrugged. “Just you and me. And housekeeping.”
Exhaling an adrenaline laced breath, Lidia said, “Find me that maid before Domingo does.”
“Hey, Taylor,” called the desk sergeant, Morales, from the end of the hall, his weathered face glowing with interest. “I’ve got a live one for you.”
Lidia followed the heavyset officer to the public waiting room.
A long-haired blond woman sat in a hard plastic chair near the vending machine. Her frightened blue gaze kept darting to the door as if either expecting someone to come in or as if she were contemplating running out.
“Can I help you?” Lidia asked as she stopped in front of the woman, blocking he exit.
Slowly the young woman stood. Blood splattered the front of her gold and black uniform. The same uniform worn by the hotel staff at the Palisades Casino. Anticipation hit Lidia like the business end of a Taser.
The woman spoke, her voice low and shaky. “My name in Anne Jones. I want to report a murder.”
ONE
May
“Really, Patrick, this won’t be as disruptive as you imagine. The new computers and software are very easy to navigate. They will just take a little getting used to.”
Patrick McClain stared at the Web site for the fancy new system as Sharon Hastings, the Economics Department staff administrator, pointed to the computer monitor sitting on her desk.
Sharon was efficient and talented at her job, but whenever Patrick entered her domain of scattered files and stacks of papers, he had to wonder how she accomplished anything. The array of clutter made him itch.
Patrick twitched his shoulders beneath his tweed sport coat. “What’s wrong with the computers we have now?”
In her mid-sixties with graying hair held in a loose bun at her nape and rows of sparkly beaded necklaces hanging down her front, Sharon was a throwback to the seventies, despite her tech savvy. She sighed with a good dose of patience that always brought heat to Patrick’s cheeks.
“The school received a grant to buy the new computers. We need to update and stay with the times,” she stated calmly.
He understood, but that didn’t mean he had to like the change. All of his work was on his computer. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
Sharon’s lined face spread into an understanding smile. “Don’t worry. We have temps coming in to do the software integration. You won’t have to do a thing until you have the new notebook computer in your hand. This will be very freeing and much more time-efficient, since you will be able to take your