He pointed over her shoulder. “Over there.”
She turned and yes, it was there, but the line to use the one measly payphone was three deep. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to touch it after they were all done.
Oops, another of those politically incorrect thoughts.
Witt waited and watched. Another test? She’d be damned if she’d fail this one, either. She walked to the end of that line, shoulders straight, step firm, turned and beamed at him.
A tasty morsel up close, Witt had a devastating impact at a distance. Tall, well over six feet, broad shoulders, nice biceps, and exceptional pecs. And jeez, would you look at those thighs? With that blond hair and impressive height and breadth, the guy was a Norse god. No wonder Tiffany wanted in his pants so badly.
It was then she smelled her line-mates, just when she was getting into a semi-interesting fantasy ...
Which was a damn good thing because she neither needed nor wanted Tiffany’s sexual fantasy, semi-interesting or not.
The scent of unwashed bodies squashed any trace of sexual desire. Shoulders stooped, his coat stained and threadbare, the man in front of her gave off the aroma of old cigar smoke and several weeks without soap contact. Max swallowed her distaste.
In profile, he was ageless, lines fanning out from the corner of his eye, grizzled cheeks, and flesh weathered to the texture of lizard skin. His eyes were gray or blue, the tint almost too light to make out, as if the sun had bleached the color from them long ago.
She looked away then, in case he caught her staring.
Number One hung up. They all shuffled forward. Max stayed where she was. Witt still watched with a half-smile on his face. She had the strangest urge to slug it off.
Number Two talked forever. She must have dialed collect. Snake would be long gone before Max got to make her phone call. By the time Number Two was done, her sense of smell had given up, and the odors seemed normal.
The guy in front of her limped forward, plucked the receiver from its cradle, tucked it between his shoulder and ear, then began searching his fatigue jacket. The stitches were loose at the bottom of his right pocket. His finger nudged through a small hole. He looked down at the dirty nail poking through the rip, stared as if he couldn’t believe it.
Max jingled the change in her pocket.
A tear oozed from the corner of the man’s colorless eye. He gently put the receiver back, and for a brief moment, closed his lids. Yet, he didn’t turn to her, didn’t hold out his hand and beg.
“You need some change?” Max’s voice broke on the second word. She held out her hand. “I’ve got extra.”
He didn’t quite smile, but his nostrils widened a fraction, and his gaze misted. He spoke, a soft melodious southern quality to his voice. “I won’t be able to pay you back.”
“I only have to make one call, so I won’t need the money back. You can have it.”
“Thank you.” He reached out, gingerly taking the exact amount of shiny silver he needed without touching her. She couldn’t smell him at all.
The man made his call. She looked up to find Witt’s gaze on her. He nodded, just a tilting of his chin.
Maybe she wasn’t heartless and soulless after all. Too bad Witt noticed, too.
In the end, she’d left a message on the detective’s voicemail. She detailed the particulars about Snake, the who-what-when-where-and-how of it all, and hoped the detective didn’t waste any time getting his messages. It was the best she could do without leaving her name and embroiling herself in messy explanations.
Witt dropped her off at her car outside the salon. It was a little before eight-thirty, but the shop windows were lit. She could see Ariel still working on a client. Eight-thirty on a Friday night was not late in the hair business.
Parting was such sweet sorrow. She couldn’t figure out how the hell to get rid of the man.
“I’ll follow you home,” Witt insisted.
“I’m a big girl.” She climbed out of his truck and strode to her car with Witt hot on her heels.
“A killer’s loose.”
“He’s not after me.”
“Might have figured you’re close to a collar.”
“I don’t make the collar. You cops do. I think you just want an excuse to follow me.”
He smiled the annoying sexy smile that set her insides trembling. “You trying to get rid of me, Max?”
Max did not have time to fight him. She didn’t have time to fight Tiffany either. The newspaper article said Bud Traynor’s gala started at nine. She had to change, get to Traynor’s, find a way in, search his house, and get out of there before he came home. She couldn’t allow more than two hours just in case he returned earlier than she expected.
“I am not trying to get rid of you. I’m trying to go home. It’s been a long day. I don’t need a watch dog. I need a bath.”