“Uh-huh.” She licked pickle juice off her fingers. “I declined and then I started to tell him why all of my previous relationships, including the one I had with him, failed so miserably.”
“Sounds like a real compelling topic of conversation.”
“Apparently Ian didn’t think so.” She frowned at the lobby doors. There was no sign of Ian. “I think you scared him off, Ellis.”
“Don’t blame his speedy departure on me.” Ellis lowered himself into the chair that Ian had just vacated. He pushed the plate of uneaten food aside and smiled at her. “It was your fault.”
“Because I tried to talk to him about my failed relationships?”
“Doubt it. I think it had something to do with the way you ate that pickle.”
They both looked at the plump, wet, round-headed pickle sitting on Ian’s plate.
Isabel felt herself turn very pink. She cleared her throat.
“It does sort of resemble a—” She broke off.
Ellis nodded somberly. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? And you ate every bite. A sight like that could make some guys nervous.”
“But not you,” she said, oddly satisfied by that knowledge.
25
isabel’s phone rang shortly after five o’clock that afternoon. She had just gotten out of her last class and her thoughts were on dinner. Food seemed to be playing a major role in her day, she reflected.
She took the call as she walked across the parking lot to her car.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Wright? This is Tom out at Roxanna Beach Self Storage.”
Alarmed, she held the phone to her ear with one hand and fumbled for her keys with the other. “Is there a problem? I paid for the first two months’ rent in cash, just as the manager insisted.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.
“I don’t want to worry you, because I think everything is okay but I just went by your unit and noticed that the padlock is missing. Did you forget to replace it last time you were out here?”
“No, I most certainly did not. Are you sure it’s my unit you’re talking about?”
“Number G-fifteen. Says here on the form it’s yours.”
“Yes, that’s mine.”
“There’s a lot of big furniture boxes inside. Doesn’t look like anything’s missing but—”
“There’s something wrong here. I checked that padlock when I left. Look, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Keep an eye on that unit until I get there, understand?”
“Sure, but like I said, I don’t think there’s anything missing. Probably you just forgot to lock up.”
“I did not forget to lock up. See you in a few minutes.”
She ended the call, dumped the manual and her notebook onto the passenger seat and got behind the wheel.
She shoved the key into the ignition and roared out of the parking lot. She punched in Ellis’s number with one hand while she drove toward the old highway. He answered on the first ring.
“I have to stop by Roxanna Beach Self Storage on my way home,” she said. “There’s a problem with the lock on my unit.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The attendant says it’s missing. He thinks everything is okay but I know I locked up the last time I went out there. I’m sure of it.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Ellis said.
“There’s no need for you to drive all the way out there. The storage company is on this side of town. It will take you at least twenty minutes and I—”
“I’ll see you there,” he repeated.
He ended the call before she could argue further.
She drove to the sprawling rental locker facility on the outskirts of town and parked just inside the gates. There were two other vehicles in the lot, a battered pickup and an aged sedan.
She got out and walked swiftly across the graveled lot to the office.
There was no one behind the desk. A small sign announced that the attendant would be back in five minutes.
She was irritated by the delay until she recalled that she had more or less ordered the attendant to keep an eye on the storage unit until she arrived. She started briskly along the graveled path that led to locker G-15.
“Are you Ms. Wright?” A scrawny man with narrow features partially veiled by the brim of a gray cap waved at her from the space between two long storage buildings. He wore an ill-fitting gray work shirt bearing the logo of the Roxanna Beach Self Storage company. A small duffel bag dangled from one hand.
“Yes. You’re Tom, I assume?”
“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s okay.”
“I want to see my unit for myself.”
“I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong there.”
“What about the padlock?”
“It was all a mistake. I got mixed up about the locker numbers, that’s all.”
“As long as I’m here, I’ll double-check.”
She went quickly past him, her low-heeled pumps crunching on the gravel.
“Suit yourself,” Tom muttered. He slouched along in her wake.
“If any of my furniture is missing, I’m going to—”
She drew up short at the entrance to the locker. The garage-style door was closed but she could see that the heavy-duty padlock she had purchased was gone.
“Someone did break into my locker.” She leaned down, seized the handle of the door and rolled it up. “If anything is missing, I swear, I will sue this company up one side and down the other.”
When she got the door to shoulder height she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. She ducked underneath.
The large interior of the storage unit was drenched in shadows. But relief shot through her when she realized that she could make out the large shapes of the crates and cartons stacked inside.
She groped for the wall switch and flipped it.
The first thing she saw was a man’s bare leg sticking out from behind the crate that held the sofa.
“There’s someone in here,” she shouted. “I think he’s been injured.”
She dropped her purse on the floor and hurried toward the fallen man. He was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts, grimy tee shirt and socks. There was a dark pool of blood on the floor behind his head. He groaned when she crouched down and touched him.
“Call nine-one-one,” she shouted.
She was vaguely aware of Tom reaching into his duffel bag. But the object he removed was not a phone.
And quite suddenly she understood why the man on the floor was dressed in only his underwear. The thin man standing outside the locker was wearing his uniform.
She lurched back to her feet, horrified by the knowledge that she was trapped inside the locker. She was an easy target and there was nowhere to run. Belatedly, she scrambled behind the cover of the nearest crate but knew it would provide little in the way of protection from a bullet.
Before she had time to process the realization that she was going to die here with her precious furniture, she realized that the phony Tom was not pulling a trigger.
She could not see him now because of the crate but she heard the click of a lighter.
“Dear God,” she whispered.
In the next instant an object hurtled into the storage unit. It slammed against the wall just above the crates at the rear of the space.
There was a muffled thud. Glass shattered. The sound was followed by an ominous whoosh.
Flames splashed on top of the stacked crates. A Molotov cocktail, she thought.
The metal door rumbled. She realized that Tom was yanking it downward. He intended to seal her and the injured attendant inside.
Panic drove her out from behind the crate. She no longer cared if the man had a gun. Better to die by a bullet than by fire.
She lurched forward, keenly aware of the swiftly narrowing strip of daylight. Smoke was filling the space with frightening speed.
The smoke detector installed in the roo
f went off, adding an ear-piercing shriek to the chaos.
She dimly recalled that smoke was supposed to move upward. She went to her knees, crawling along the concrete. Her hand brushed against her purse. Instinctively she grabbed the strap.
The man outside had almost got the door closed. She flung herself headlong across the floor. There were only two or three inches of space between the bottom of the door and the concrete pad. Even if she managed to grasp the lower edge of the door before it hit the floor there was little likelihood she could force it up against the downward pressure that the creep outside was applying. He had gravity and raw male muscle on his side.
One inch of daylight left.
She was close enough to wedge her fingers into the space between door and pad now but if she did the descending door would crush her hand.
Unable to think of anything else, she shoved the doubled strap of her purse into the tiny space between the door and the pad. An instant later, most of the last of the daylight disappeared.
She heard the phony Tom fumbling with the padlock.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He was panicking and she understood why. He could not get the padlock in place because as long as the strap of her purse held the door partially open there was no way the hasp could align with the metal eye on the frame. In the noise and confusion, he probably did not realize that the door had not closed properly.
The fire alarm continued to screech. The flames flared at the rear of the unit. The smoke got thicker. She tore off her Kyler blazer and held it in front of her face, breathing through the fabric.
“Shit.”
She heard the clang of metal on concrete and guessed that the man had given up and hurled the padlock aside in rage and frustration.
The next sounds she heard were running footsteps receding rapidly in the distance.
She could not afford to wait any longer. Struggling to her knees, she put both hands under the edge of the door frame and shoved upward with all her strength.
The door retracted quickly. Smoke billowed up and out. She saw no sign of the attacker. With luck he had not heard the soft rumble of the door above the squeal of the alarm.
She took a deep breath of relatively clean air and then ran back inside to where the unconscious man lay on the floor. She grabbed one wrist with both hands and tugged.
For a terrible second or two she was afraid she would not be able to drag him out of the unit. But the concrete provided a relatively slick surface. Once she got the man in motion, it was like hauling a heavy sled.
He mumbled and struggled, opening his eyes.
“Fire,” she shouted. She had him almost to the door. “Got to get out.”
He groaned and lurched to his knees. She got one of his arms over her shoulder and helped him stagger erect. She nearly crumpled under his weight but they made it to the safety of the graveled path. Nothing like adrenaline in a pinch, she thought. Another reason to be glad she had taken out that membership at the fitness club twelve months ago, she told herself. Her weight-training instructor would be proud.
Without warning Ellis appeared out of nowhere. “I’ve got him.” He took hold of the injured man. “I called the cops. They’re on the way.” Sirens finally sounded in the distance.
She sucked in fresh air. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”
“Looks like you had things under control.” He lowered the attendant to a sitting position. “Like I told Lawson. Nerves of steel.”
She started to ask him why he had said that to Lawson but broke off when she saw the limp form of the man who had tried to lock her and the attendant inside the burning unit.
“That’s him,” she said hoarsely. “The guy who tried to fry us. How did you know?”
“He was running out when I came running in. Didn’t think it looked good. I asked him about you. He didn’t even stop.” Ellis shrugged. “So I decked him. Figured I could always apologize later.”
“Don’t worry,” she said tightly. “You won’t have to do that.”
The sirens were closer now. But she knew they would not make it in time to save her very beautiful, very expensive, very uninsured furniture from the flames.
26
ellis lounged on one of the kitchen counter chairs and watched the scene taking place in the living room. Leila, Farrell and Tamsyn formed a tight group around Isabel, who sat on the sofa with Sphinx huddled in her lap.
“I’m all right,” Isabel assured them for the hundredth time. “Really. Not even singed. And so is that poor attendant. The real Tom.”
Isabel’s sister, brother-in-law and friend had burst through the front door only minutes after they received word of the events out at Roxanna Beach Self Storage. They had made it clear that they were there to provide comfort and support to Isabel and that Ellis was not part of the intimate circle. He had been neatly edged out of the picture within seconds of their arrival.
None of them knew and probably wouldn’t have cared that his insides were colder than the far side of the moon and his mind was filled with screaming, waking nightmares of what had almost happened out at the storage facility.
He watched Isabel as she compulsively stroked Sphinx and explained what had happened. He was accustomed to being excluded. Hell, he had engineered his entire life so he could keep a safe distance from just this kind of situation, one saturated with emotion and intimacy. Better to stand just outside the zone. Better to maintain his status as an outsider.
But even as he told himself that this was the way he wanted it, he knew he was lying. It was too late to pretend that he could drive off into the sunset when this was all over.
“Thank God the attendant was not a huge man,” Leila said, shuddering at the thought. “You might not have been able to haul him out of the unit.”
Tamsyn shook her head. “I’ve heard it’s absolutely amazing what you can do when the adrenaline kicks in.”
Farrell looked grim. “Nevertheless, there are limits. That guy can thank his lucky stars that Isabel is in good shape.”
It occurred to Ellis that none of the three had berated Isabel for taking the risk of going back into the burning locker to rescue the attendant. He studied their faces one by one and realized why. Each of them understood what Isabel had done because under similar circumstances, they would have attempted to do the same thing.
These were good people, he thought. They might not hold a high opinion of him, but he gave all of them a thumbs-up.
Tamsyn’s attractive face tightened into an anxious frown. “What about the bastard who started the fire and tried to lock you and the attendant inside?”
“Thanks to Ellis, he’s in jail,” Isabel said. “The detective in charge of the investigation said he hasn’t talked yet, but they’re sure that he will eventually.”
Farrell gave Ellis a considering look. Then he quietly detached himself from the group and walked to the counter.
“I want to have a word with you outside,” he said in a low voice.
Ellis nodded and got to his feet. He had a hunch he knew what was coming.
They went out onto the front porch and stood at the railing for a while. Ellis put on his sunglasses.
“I want to know what the hell is going on here,” Farrell said evenly. “My wife had a background check run on you this morning. Everything she found indicates that you’re a legitimate businessman. But I’m not buying it.”
“Yeah, I sort of got that impression.”
Farrell turned to face him. “Isabel has never led what most people would call a normal life but she’s never had the kind of problems she’s had lately. I find myself looking for some reasonable explanation. But all I come up with is you.”
“I know.”
“Who are you, Ellis Cutler, and why are you hanging around Isabel?”
Ellis hesitated, but only for a few seconds. He had already made up his mind about how to deal with Farrell.
“Got a pen?” he asked mildly.
&n
bsp; Farrell’s hand automatically went to the gold pen in his pocket. “Why?”
“I’m going to give you a phone number. It’s the private line of a woman named Beth Mapstone. She operates a large private investigation business that has affiliates in several states, including here in California. You can verify her identity and credentials. She’ll answer your questions about me.”
Farrell’s brow furrowed. “Are you some kind of investigator?”
“Yes.” He leaned against a post and folded his arms. “Used to do it full-time but now I’m freelance. Mostly I’m a venture capitalist these days.”
Farrell slowly took his pen out of his pocket. “You’re working on a case here in Roxanna Beach?”
“Yes.”
“What’s all this have to do with Isabel?”
“She’s assisting me.”
“Bullshit. Isabel doesn’t know anything about investigative work.”
“Got news for you. Isabel has been consulting for me and other Mapstone Investigation agents for the past year, although this is her first field job.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Farrell rubbed his temples. “Not the dream analysis thing?”
“Afraid so.”
Farrell did not bother to conceal his incredulity. “Are you telling me that there are serious criminal investigators out there using this Level Five lucid dreaming crap to solve crimes?”
“I know it’s a little hard to believe—”
“I can believe some of it, all right,” Farrell interrupted roughly. “But not all of it. I’m not a complete idiot, Cutler. I’ve got a background in the corporate world. I know enough to follow the money, and I can see that there’s a lot of it tied up in this thing, starting with the center itself. I wondered how Martin Belvedere kept that place afloat. I never understood why he hired Isabel and paid her such a good salary when she’s got zero credentials in the field of sleep research. Now you’re telling me that you work for a criminal investigation firm that employs agents who use psychic dreaming as an investigative technique.”
Ellis nodded. “Yeah.”
Farrell glanced at the Maserati and then raked Ellis from head to toe, taking in the expensive dark green shirt, charcoal pants and leather shoes. “This firm pays its consultants enough money to enable them to drive high-end cars and wear hand-tailored shirts. Not the usual gumshoe attire, Cutler.”