I must have been expecting to see her in an orange prison jumpsuit or something, because I did a bit of a double take when she showed up in jeans, minus the belt, a pullover Gap shirt, and sneakers. Trixie, with her jet black hair, dark eyes, and trim figure, could turn heads no matter what she wore. She certainly had no trouble holding someone’s attention when, whip in hand, she donned her leather corset and boots, but that was when she was on the clock. Outside of work, even in a pair of sweats, there was no getting around the fact that she was a beautiful and alluring woman.
But I could see that a couple of days in jail had already taken a toll on her. She was without her usual makeup and her eyes were tired, her dark hair less full. I guessed she’d been managing on a lot less sleep than usual.
No surprise there.
Trixie had been a friend—and just a friend—for a few years now. We’d lived a couple of doors down from her when we still had our house in suburban Oakwood. I was still working from home back then, and Trixie was operating a home-based business as well. I was na?ve enough, at first, to think it was accounting. I was not, at the time, a person who was very good at picking up the signals, and there were plenty of them—think of immense, flashing billboards—to indicate that Trixie was not making a living doing people’s tax returns.
We’d already established a friendship when I learned the true nature of Trixie’s business, and for reasons I can’t totally explain, we remained friends. I’m not exactly the kind of person who befriends people who live on the edge of the law.
It’s not that I think I’m better than them. It’s just that I’m the kind of guy who panics if he hasn’t paid his parking ticket on time. Or I would be, if I weren’t the kind of person who runs back to the meter five minutes ahead of time to plug in a few more nickels.
Trixie tried to smile as she reached for the phone, but she had to know that this was more than a social visit. There had been some frantic calls in the last hour to allow this face-to-face meeting.
“Zack, Jesus, what are you doing here?”
“Hi, Trixie,” I said.
“I get this message, my lawyer’s setting up a meeting with you, very urgent. What’s going on?”
Her lawyer wouldn’t have been able to tell her. I hadn’t been able to tell him. I’d had to convince him that he had to let me see his client without revealing why. If Trixie wanted to tell him what I’d had to say, afterwards, that was her call.
It couldn’t be mine.
“I have some things to tell you,” I said, “but I need you to remain cool when I do.”
“What?”
“Are you listening? You have to stay calm and listen to what I have to say.”
Her eyes were darting nervously about. No matter how bad she might think what I was going to tell her was, it was going to be worse.
“Okay,” she said. “What is it?”
“It’s bad,” I said, lowering my voice as I spoke into the receiver. “They’ve got her.”
The look in Trixie’s eyes told me there was no need to be more specific. She knew exactly who I was talking about.
Of course, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here. There were a whole lot of things that led up to this point.
And a whole lot that happened after.
Maybe I should back up a bit.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks, as always, to my agent, Helen Heller, and the Bantam Dell gang, particularly Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Micahlyn Whitt, and Shawn O’Gallagher. And to Neetha, Paige, and Spencer, best gang ever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LINWOOD BARCLAY is the author of Bad Move and Bad Guys. He is a columnist for the Toronto Star and lives with his family near Toronto.
His website is www.linwoodbarclay.com.