Page 43 of Slow Burn

“Uh, yeah. Was this—did Burt Marshall used to own this place?” Velvet shifted uncomfortably. Robby’s penny loafers seemed Payless Shoe Store tacky, the clothes one step above homeless shelter giveaways.

“Marshall?” The woman gave her a brief contemptuous smile.Heroutfit cost more than Velvet would have earned for a good round-the-world with a drunken stockbroker. “I’m sorry, miss, are you a customer?”

“No.” Velvet shoved her hands in her coat pockets.Not likely to be, either.“No, I guess not. I was just looking for somebody who knew Burt Marshall. I got « something for his family.”

“I’m afraid—”

“What is it, Stacie?” a man asked. He swept in from the back, burdened with two handfuls of plastic-shrouded suits that he hung on gold hooks on the wall. “These are the special orders for Mr. Novacek. He’ll be in at four-thirty.”

He turned—a small man, thin, weak-chinned. Wide dark eyes that locked with Velvet’s and got wider.

It was the guy from the funeral.

“Oh, Mr. Julian, this lady wants to talk to you about Mr. Marshall.” Stacie’s tone was as dry as the Sahara, but it got odd at the end. She’d noticed, too.

Noticed Mr. Julian’s shock.

“Uh, look, I don’t want trouble or anything,” Velvet blurted out. All of a sudden the idea of giving him two hundred bucks for Burt’s family seemed pathetic, and even dangerous. There was something weasel-bright in Julian’s eyes, a panic that looked rabid. “Never mind, okay? Just never mind. It was a mistake.”

She backed up and stumbled on a Persian throw rug, caught herself with one sweaty palm on expensive wood paneling. Mr. Julian swung up the divider in the marble counter. God, she didn’t like this, it looked wrong, all wrong.

When she reached for the door it swung open, blasting her with winter. An Arab guy stood in her way, big, staring over her shoulder at Mr. Julian. He had a face as sharp as a switchblade, and no expression at all. She’d seen enough enforcers to recognize the eyes of a killer when she saw them. The damn Persian carpet tripped her up again as she stepped back.

The model—what’s her name, Stacie—behind the counter, said chirpily, “Sir, how may I help you?”

Mr. Julian said, from somewhere behind Velvet’s left shoulder, “That’ll be all, Stacie. Why don’t you go in the back?”

I’m going to die, Velvet thought.In a fucking dry cleaners. Oh my god, but I just made it up, I didn’t know, I didn’t—

The Arab took a step inside. The door started to swing shut.

They’re gonna lock the door. Turn the sign to CLOSED. I’m gonna—

Before she could finish thinking ofdie, she opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs, a glass-shattering siren that made the Arab jerk backward. Across the street, two pink-cheeked junior leaguers in fur turned to look with naked astonishment. Still screaming, Velvet dashed for the door.

Either he’d grab her, or he wouldn’t.

His hand came up and brushed her shoulder. She lunged past him for the cold thin air of the sidewalk.

She remembered to stop screaming once the door had shut behind her, and turned to look at the two men standing on the other side of the glass. Mr. Julian looked scared shitless.

The Arab was smiling a little. He tilted his head to one side and watched her.

On the other side of the street, the junior leaguers huddled together like pack animals and muttered. They strode briskly off toward a corner drugstore where, presumably, a mobile phone could be had. God forbid they should call 911 from a pay phone. Ooky.

“Sorry,” Velvet mumbled, and started walking. At the corner, a DART bus eased to a stop for the line of minority housekeepers and butlers and nannies. She lunged on before it could escape without her. As she fed coins into the box, she looked back.

The street in front of the dry cleaners was empty. Nobody was coming after her.

That was scarier.

Chapter Sixteen

Robby

Robby waited in the freezing shadows, rocking back and forth to keep blood moving to her feet. There wasn’t any wind in the warehouse, but the temperature kept dropping and the humidity rising. Her bones felt as brittle and cold as ice.

If he doesn’t come in five minutes, I’ll leave, she told herself, and slapped her arms with gloved fingers. The ache burrowed deeper.Three minutes. Three minutes more is enough.

---