Margo looked as though she wanted to continue pushing but finally swung her suitcase off the bed with a sound that in anyone less feminine would have been a snort of disgust. “All right, all right. But I think you’re both full of cold cuts.”
“Baloney. Full of baloney.” Surprising herself, Sarah began to laugh. It felt as good as her earlier anger had felt.
Margo stared balefully at her for a moment, then joined in.
They had sobered considerably by the time they stood outside Margo’s neatly landscaped Queen Anne–style house. She put her suitcase in the backseat of her ten-year-old sedan, then hugged Sarah hard and said, “I don’t want to hear about the next disaster on the news, pal. Call me if anything happens. Or even if it doesn’t.”
“I will. And don’t worry—I’ll lock up before we leave.”
“Just remember—don’t hesitate to stay here if you get tired of the shop’s apartment. Or for any other reason.”
“Thanks. Have a good trip.”
“I will. And you kiss Tucker for me.” Margo winked, then got in her car and backed it out of the driveway.
Sarah watched her friend drive out of sight, and it was only when the dark car was gone that she became aware of the chill of the late September afternoon. Feeling abruptly alone and too vulnerable, she quickly went back up the walkway to the house, conscious of her heart suddenly pounding. As if a door had opened to allow a chill breeze into her mind, she knew there were eyes on her. Watching.
Waiting.
Sarah…
She hurried inside and turned to close the front door, and caught a glimpse of a tall man in a black leather jacket moving away between two houses across the street. Just a glimpse, and then he was gone.
Colder than before, Sarah closed and locked the door. But she didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel safe at all.
“You want what?” Marc Westbrook’s black brows rose, and his gray eyes were suddenly uncomfortably searching.
“I’d like to borrow your gun. That forty-five you got from your father.” Tucker kept his voice casual and did his best to meet the level gaze of his childhood friend with total innocence.
Apparently, innocent wasn’t his best face.
“What’re you up to, Tucker?”
“Look, you know I won’t shoot myself in the foot; I can handle guns as well as you, if not better. I learned when I wrote the one where the mystery hinged on a marksman—”
“I know you can handle guns.” Marc leaned back in the leather chair behind his big, cluttered desk, his frown deepening. “I also know you make a damned good living and can easily afford to buy a gun if you want—or need—one. So why borrow mine?”
“I don’t need a gun to keep, just to…use for a while. To have for a while. A few days, maybe a couple of weeks. You know I don’t approve of guns in the house, so—”
“So why do you need one, even temporarily? Last I heard, you had a dandy security system and a damn big dog.”
“The security system is fine. The dog belonged to my sister and she came and claimed him when she got back from England.”
“Tucker, why a gun?”
“Hey, do I ask you nosy questions?”
“Frequently.” Marc smiled, but it was fleeting and left him looking unusually serious. “Out with it. Why do you need a gun? And why do I have this uneasy feeling that you came to me simply because you’re in a hurry and don’t want to sit out the waiting period?”
Tucker would have liked to confide in his friend. He thought a great deal of Marc. They had played cops and robbers as boys, had competed for and fought over girls as teenagers, and still managed to get together once a week or so even though both had demanding careers and Marc was now happily married and about to become a father. But Marc was a solidly—not to say rigidly—law-abiding man, and Tucker had no doubt that, once told of the situation, he would strongly disagree with the plan forming in his friend’s fertile and not always cautious mind.
It was a potentially dangerous situation, he would say, and he would be right. From that point of agreement, they would immediately diverge. Marc thought the police should handle dangerous situations, that most cops were good cops and could be trusted. Tucker was beginning to have his doubts, especially after today’s interview with Sergeant Lewis.
Slowly, Tucker said, “I’m asking for a favor, Marc. I need to borrow your gun for a little while. No questions asked.”
“That’s a fine thing to say to a criminal lawyer.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m saying it. You still keep the gun here, don’t you? In your desk?”
Marc nodded.
“Well, then?”
“You aren’t going to rob a bank, right?”
“Very funny.”
“Well, how the hell should I know what you’ve got in mind? When you were writing the one about a terrorist group, you damn near ended up with a working bomb, and that one set on a runaway train got you blacklisted by Amtrak. I shudder to think what’s next.”