Mean Woman Blues

thought,
Who leaves a cigarette burning in the ashtray?
The answer was obvious. Someone who had to leave in a hurry. She wondered if he’d gotten to her husband first.
No need to worry
, she thought. He wasn’t armed. He was just an old guy paid to take people’s names when they came in. She hoped her husband wasn’t holding him hostage or something. That would complicate things.
    The building was a small stand-alone box across from a park, not more than four stories, with a parking lot in back and nice landscaping. The offices on the street— including hers, had wonderful glass fronts that opened onto little balconies. The building didn’t get a whole lot of foot traffic, but there were people working in the offices. They’d be bound to hear the shot. She thought about that, and let a closed smile play at her lips. Who cared? By then he’d be dead.
    * * *
    Skip could have cried with frustration. She couldn’t believe that it was this simple, that Karen had actually managed to shake two feds and one cop. And yet logic told her she was defeated. Karen Wright could be headed toward her death at this moment, and there wasn’t a damn thing Skip could do about it.
    Okay,
she told herself.
Accept it. You can’t do anything except what you can do
. Was there anything left? Where to start?
    Start. That was it. Start. Okay, where would Karen go? Where would Mr. Wright tell his wife to meet him? Maybe a favorite restaurant, a street corner, but Skip couldn’t find a place she didn’t know about. That left what she did know: Karen’s home, her parents’ house, the McLeans’ house, the television station, her office, maybe a church. It would be unlike Errol Jacomine not to belong to one, if only to compare himself to the preacher. But Karen hadn’t mentioned a church. She called Karen’s parents’ house; got no answer. Rang Senator McLean again.
    She tried to sound calm. “Hi. Had a nice talk with your niece.”
    “How is she?”
    “Can I be honest with you? I’m a little worried she might try to meet her husband.”
    “Oh, no, Karen’s much too smart for that. Besides, isn’t the FBI out front? They’re supposed to be.”
    “She left the house, Senator.”
    “Well? Didn’t they follow?”
    “Oh, yes, they followed. And they lost her.”
    He laughed. “She probably went to a mall or something. They wouldn’t be the first people she’s left behind in a mall.”
    “Senator, with all due respect, she could be in danger.”
    His voice turned hard. “What do you want me to do?”
    “Tell me any place she and her husband went together. Some place private she might try to meet him.”
    “To be honest, I barely know the man.”
    Skip didn’t give him time to elaborate. “How about a church. Do they go to church?”
    “I don’t know. They don’t go to ours.”
    “Her office then. How about that?”
    “Her office? She doesn’t work, that I know of.”
    “She runs a foundation.”
    “I’m sorry, detective. I don’t know a thing about that.”
    Now there was a stopper. “Okay, thanks for your help.”
    The feds didn’t know about the office; neither did Karen’s own uncle. What the hell was the name of that foundation?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
    Rosemarie woke up while the car was in motion. She could tell she was in a car, but she couldn’t figure out why it was pitch black in there. Her head hurt and she couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe. And her mouth— something was keeping her from opening her mouth.
    She sucked air through her nose and smelled fumes— and the newness of the car. Her hands were bound behind her, her ankles stuck tightly together. She was on her side, curled up in a fetal position. She was sweating.
    Gradually, she took in the sensations, fighting rising panic. And then she remembered. Remembered going into the garage ahead of Earl, worrying that he’d do something like this, wondering how to prevent it, trying to be cool. He must have knocked her out and stolen her car. He must have loaded her in the trunk.
    Okay, if he’d do that, he’d kill her. If she didn’t smother first. She tried to remember if you could smother in the trunk of a car.
Maybe
, she thought,
if it was hot enough
. And it was. It was a hot May day, boiling hot. She’d certainly smother if he tried to drive to Mexico.
    The only thing to do was breathe, breathe and try to survive as long as she could. She’d taken yoga on and off for years; she knew how to breathe, knew it would calm