Mirror Image

angels to wear. “A gin and tonic, please.”
    His friendly blue eyes looked at her skeptically. “How old are you?”
    “Old enough.”
    “Make that two gins and tonic.” A man slid onto the stool beside Fancy’s. “I’m buying the lady’s.”
    The bartender shrugged. “Fine with me.”
    Fancy assessed her rescuer. He was a young executive type—insurance or computers, she would guess. Possibly late twenties. Probably married. Looking for kicks away from the responsibilities he had assumed so he could afford his designer clothes and the timepiece strapped to his wrist.
    This was the kind of trendy place that attracted singles or marrieds on the make. It was filled with worthless antiques and glossy, gargantuan greenery. The bar created a vortex during happy hour that sucked in yuppies from their BMWs and Porsches by the scores.
    While she was analyzing him, he was analyzing her. The gleam in his eyes as they moved down her body indicated that he thought he’d scored big.
    “Thanks for the drink,” she said.
    “You’re welcome. You
are
old enough to drink, aren’t you?”
    “Sure. I’m old enough to drink. Just not old enough to buy.” They laughed and toasted each other with the drinks that had just arrived.
    “I’m John.”
    “Fancy.”
    “Fancy?”
    “Francine, if you prefer.”
    “Fancy.”
    The mating ritual had begun. Fancy recognized it. She knew the rules. Hell, she’d invented most of them. In two hours—possibly less, if they got hot sooner—they’d be in bed somewhere.
    Following her heartbreak over Eddy, she’d sworn off men. They were all bastards. They wanted only one thing from her, and it was the same thing they could buy from the cheapest whore.
    Her mother had told her that one day she would meet a guy who truly cared for her and would treat her with kindness and respect. Fancy didn’t really believe it, though. Was she supposed to sit around, bored out of her skull, letting her twat atrophy while she waited for Prince Charming to show up and bring it back to life?
    Hell, no. She’d been good for three days now. She needed some laughs. This Jim, or Joe, or John, or whatever the hell his name was, was as good as any to give her some.
    Like a freaking Girl Scout, she had run Carole’s errand, but she wasn’t ready to return to the hotel suite and sit glued to the TV set as the rest would be, watching election returns. She would get there eventually. But first, she was going to have some fun.
    * * *
    Finding a parking place anywhere close to the hotel was impossible. Irish finally found one in a lot several blocks away. He was heavily perspiring by the time he entered the lobby. If he had to bribe his way into the Rutledges’ private suite he would do it. He had to see Avery. Together they might figure out what had become of Van.
    Maybe all his worries were for nothing. Maybe they were together right now. God, he hoped so.
    He waded through the members of an Asian tour group who were lined up to check in. Patience had never been one of Irish’s virtues. He felt his blood pressure rising as he elbowed his way through the tourists, all chattering and fanning themselves with pamphlets about the Alamo.
    From amid the chaos, someone touched his elbow. “Hi.”
    “Oh, hi,” Irish said, recognizing the face.
    “You’re Irish McCabe, aren’t you? Avery’s friend?”
    “That’s right.”
    “She’s been looking for you. Follow me.”
    They navigated the congested lobby. Irish was led through a set of doors toward a service elevator. They got inside; the gray doors slid closed.
    “Thanks,” Irish said, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. “Did Avery…” In the middle of his question, it occurred to him that her correct name had been used. He glanced across the large cubicle. “You know?”
    A smile. “Yes. I know.”
    Irish saw the pistol, but he wasn’t given time to register the thought that it was actually being aimed straight at him. Less than a heartbeat later, he grabbed his chest and hit the floor of the elevator like a fallen tree.
    The elevator stopped on the lowest level of the hotel. The lone passenger raised the pistol and aimed it toward the opening doors, but didn’t have to use it. No one was waiting.
    Irish’s body was dragged down a short hallway, through a set of swinging double doors, and deposited in a narrow alcove that housed vending machines for hotel employee use. The space was lit from overhead by four fluorescent tubes,