ONE LAST CHANCE Read online

  "A whoever I don't envy."

  Amusement was winning in the gray eyes, and Chance felt himself responding with a speed that startled him.

  "I promised myself I'd wait until tomorrow to kill him. If he's lucky, I won't want to by then."

  She looked him up and down consideringly. Contrary to Quisto's earlier comments, he wasn't at all sure the total she came up with was favorable. What he was even less sure of was why he cared.

  "Why am I not sure you're kidding?"

  His mouth twisted wryly. "Maybe because I'm not sure." She smiled suddenly, and took his breath away for the third time. The wide, full mouth started a pulse beating somewhere deep inside him, and the sparkle that had turned her eyes to a glittering silver made it begin to race.

  "I'll have to remember not to read a paper tomorrow," she said in the silky voice that was a feather up his spine, "in case he's not lucky."

  "Maybe I'm not so mad at him after all," Chance said slowly, fascinated by the silver gleam that had lit the gray eyes when she smiled. What would those eyes look like when she laughed? What would they look like hot with passion?

  He jerked himself upright and backed up a step hastily. What the hell was he doing?

  "Uh, here's your book."

  He held it out with an uncharacteristically choppy motion. She reached for it, her hand narrow and graceful, her fingers long and slender. Her nails were gleaming red, but a neat, attractive length and shape instead of the daggers he saw so often in this expensive town—nails that made him think of the old mandarins who had thought long nails a status symbol, an indication that they were wealthy enough not to have to do menial work with their hands.

  He realized suddenly that he hadn't released the book and that she was looking at him rather oddly. He let go hastily, pulling his hand back as if the embossed leather cover had burned him.

  "Thank you."

  He nodded, wondering what had gone wrong with his coordination that made every move he made seem awkward. He decided the answer was not to move at all, and he didn't as she replaced the thick volume in the crook of her arm.

  "You … like poetry?"

  "You get an 'A' for deductive reasoning," she said. Chance suddenly felt as if he'd blushed more in the past five minutes than he had in his entire thirty years. Yet there hadn't been any real sarcasm in the husky voice, merely the sound of an amusement, matching that in her eyes.

  Quisto wouldn't believe this, he thought ruefully. He'd figure the real reason I ignore all those woman is because if I try to talk, I'll make a fool out of myself. Hell, maybe he'd be right. "He always is," he muttered.

  "What?" She was looking at him quizzically.

  He grimaced. "Just trying to remember back to when I could carry on a conversation."

  "Maybe you knocked something loose here."

  Again there was no sarcasm in her voice, just a touch of the amusement that had been there since he'd first met her eyes. I wish it was only that, he thought, suddenly afraid something had shriveled and died inside him for good.

  "Probably permanently," he said wryly.

  "Somehow I doubt that."

  She glanced at the elegant gold watch that banded her slim wrist, her eyes widening when she saw what time it said. He read her look and moved out of her way. She took a step in the direction she'd been going when he had careened into her, then looked back at him.

  "About tomorrow … whoever he is, he's not worth it." He let out a breath, then chuckled as he nodded. "Go ahead and read the paper tomorrow."

  The smile came again, even wider this time. He stared after her as she walked away, appreciating the subtle feminine motion of her hips in the short white skirt. He watched her until he realized people were watching him, then he turned around to head toward the other building.

  He'd gone only a few steps when he realized he'd never asked her name. It seemed suddenly important, very important, and he turned back to see if he could catch up with' her. She was nowhere in sight.

  His eyes flicked over every person on the sidewalk in disbelief. She couldn't have disappeared so fast, she had to be there. But she wasn't. Damn, Buckner, maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe she didn't exist at all.

  By the time he gave up and headed once more for the office building that they had scouted out earlier, he was half convinced he had dreamed her. He must have, he thought. No real woman had affected him like that in years. Forget it, he told himself. Get moving.

  Chance slipped in the side door of the office building. He passed the elevator and headed for the stairway. He took the four flights at a run, thinking that with working on this case, neither he nor Quisto would have the time for the cutthroat games of racquetball that kept them both in shape.

  He was breathing deeply but not, he noted with satisfaction, puffing when he pulled the door open at the top of the stairwell and stepped on to the flat roof of the building. He found a spot quickly and crouched down behind the low parapet.

  The first thing he realized was that this vantage point wasn't going to be useful to them for much longer; he could see a stack of window blinds sitting on a table just inside the now bare window. But more important, he could see, sitting at the desk, Pedro Escobar, Mendez's lieutenant. Or I guess I should say Pete, he thought wryly. Paul de Cortez seemed to have made some sweeping changes in the names of his employees, as well as his own. I wonder if the Mendezes back in Columbia mind.

  The man appeared cool and calm as he worked on something at the desk. Chance's mind was racing. If he'd made them, he would have already had time to call Mendez, but it was unlikely he'd be sitting there so calmly. From what he knew of the man, Escobar had a tendency to go off half-cocked. Maybe, just maybe they might have lucked out.

  No thanks to Eaton, he thought as he kept an eye on the figure at the desk. His report hadn't even mentioned Escobar; Chance had called a friend in the Miami office for what information he had. Eaton was a prime example of incompetence rising to the top, he thought, wondering cynically how many good men he'd gotten killed along the way.

  Eaton. The whoever that had sent him crashing into that vision in red and white. Unless, of course, she really had been a phantom. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking that it was entirely possible. His mind had been doing some funny things lately. Quisto kept telling him he needed a vacation. Actually, what Quisto kept telling him was he needed a vacation and a woman, and not in that order. Maybe he was right.

  He knew, of course, that that was the last thing he needed. Or wanted, anyway. Although for a pair of smoky gray eyes, he might think about it…

  "Damn," he muttered, a little stunned at himself. Had she really had that strong an impact on him, to make him think of things he'd sworn off for so long? Had she—

  Escobar had moved, and Chance jerked his wandering mind back to the matter at hand. The man had risen from the desk and started to walk toward the door. Before he got there it swung open, and a man in a bright red hard hat stood there. About the red of her sweater—

  Knock it off, Buckner, he ordered sharply. The man was smiling, and so was Escobar, nodding and shaking the man's hand.

  As Mendez's right-hand man turned to walk back to the desk, Chance ducked quickly out of sight. They were safe. They had to be. Escobar didn't have it in him to remain so calm if he knew they were here.

  So, I won't kill Eaton. At least not yet. Not in time for tomorrow's paper, anyway, he thought, smothering a grin. Then he settled down to wait until the coast was clear for him to leave.

  * * *

  "Nothing," Quisto said in disgust. "Absolutely nothing."

  Chance shrugged. "He wouldn't have all these people after him if he was stupid."

  "I'm the one who's starting to feel stupid. He hasn't dealt with anything that even looks like china white, let alone the real stuff. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the guy was opening a legitimate business."

  "Maybe he is."

  "Sure, and Charles Manson's been rehabilitated."


  Chance shrugged.

  "Damn it," Quisto said, "all he's done for a week and a half is talk to decorators, food suppliers, and interview chefs."

  "Hey, now there's a thought. You could sneak in as a chef. We could close him down in a night."

  Quisto scowled. "One little mistake at a home barbecue and they never let you forget it."

  "It's your mother who can't forget it."

  "It was only one fire engine, I don't see—"

  Chance cut off the words with a quick gesture as a silver Mercedes coupe pulled into the driveway behind them. He watched it in the rearview mirror until it pulled into a marked parking stall and Pedro Escobar got out.

  "Alone," he said, and settled back down in the driver's seat of the black BMW he and Quisto were sitting in.

  The car had been, along with a luxurious motor yacht that was moored down at the marina, the spoils of the biggest bust ever made by the Marina del Mar police, two years ago. Under the Federal Forfeiture Statute, they got a large chunk of the hapless drug dealer's cash in addition to the boat and the car. Chance had been instrumental in that case, and it gave him no small pleasure to know that the man's resources were being used to bring down others like him.

  "Speaking of my mother," Quisto said as the vigil began again, "she wants to know when you're coming for dinner."

  "Sometime. When there's less than twenty of you around," Chance said dryly. He liked Quisto's family, especially his energetic, vivacious mother, but sometimes they were daunting just in sheer number. For an only child who'd been a loner most of his life, the chaos of seven brothers and sisters, plus assorted spouses and children was a little overwhelming.

  "She worries about you, you know."

  "She worries about everyone."

  "Yes, but when she worries about you, I'm the one who constantly hears about it."

  "Tell her I'm fine."

  "You know she won't believe me."

  "I know." Chance grinned at him. "Why is that, partner?"

  Quisto grinned back. "Never mind. What you don't know—"

  "—I can't tell your mother, right?"

  The grin widened. "Right."

  They watched as a truck pulled into the driveway, then looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  "I don't get it," Quisto said. "If he's not going to open for another week, like the ad said, why is he having food delivered now?"

  "I don't know. Something private, maybe."

  Chance's eyes were fastened on the reflected truck. It was food, all right. And perishable stuff at that, lettuce, vegetables, fruit. He shifted his gaze to Quisto, then his eyes shot back to the small mirror, searching.

  She wasn't there. He could have sworn he'd seen her somewhere in the background of the tiny scene the mirror held, but she was gone now. If she'd ever been there at all, he thought wearily.

  He rubbed his forehead with one hand, remembering all the times over the past ten days when he'd jerked to attention, thinking he'd seen her somewhere in the distance, or turning a corner, or going through a doorway just far enough away that he couldn't tell where exactly she was.

  "Chance? You all right?"

  He turned to find his partner's bright dark eyes fastened on him curiously. He let out a long breath.

  "Yeah." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Maybe I dc need that vacation you're always on me about."

  Quisto's gaze sharpened, the curiosity changing to concern. "Chance—"

  "Forget it, will you? I'm fine."

  Just a minor delusion. Just a strange tendency to jump out of my skin anytime I see a dark-haired woman wearing red. Seeing one woman in particular every time I turn around. Oh, yeah, I'm just fine.

  After a moment's hesitation, Quisto accepted it, at least for now.

  "Guess I'll go see what I can find out, then."

  Although Chance had seen the transformation many times, it never ceased to amaze him. Off came the trendy linen jacket, and the cotton sweater beneath. Quisto reached behind the seat and tugged out a worn plaid shirt that he slid on over the plain white T-shirt he'd had on under the sweater. His hands went to his hair, pulling it down over his forehead, out of its usual smooth style.

  His normally straight, proud carriage changed, slumped. His very features seemed to change, flatten somehow, and he was no longer the aristocratic young Cuban with the flashing dark eyes. He was every brown-skinned Latino day worker seen on the streets of California, the kind that the wealthy people in town looked arrogantly past as if they weren't there.

  "Pick me up around the corner," Quisto said, and slipped out of the car. He leaned over to look in the window. "Hasta luego, amigo."

  "Yeah, later."

  With an amazed shake of his head, Chance started the car and pulled it away from the curb. Around the corner, as Quisto had indicated, and out of sight of Mendez's building, he parked again. He picked up the portable radio from the seat, letting Jeff, who was still in the van back in front of the building, know what was going on, then settled down to wait.

  It was an unseasonably warm January day, even for sunny-year-round California, and Chance found he had to work to keep his eyes open. He hadn't been sleeping well lately, and it was starting to catch up with him. That it was because those gray eyes and that full, soft mouth had come too often to haunt his dreams was something he didn't care to admit.

  You've been a fool before, he told himself severely, but that doesn't mean you have to spend so much time mooning over a woman you saw once, for all of three minutes, and will never see again. And it's not like you to be mooning over a woman at all, he thought wryly now. You're out of that market for good, remember?

  He shifted in the driver's seat, leaning his head back against the headrest. A mistake, he thought immediately, and tried to lift it. At least he thought he did. When he came awake with a start, he realized he hadn't made it. Still leaning on the headrest, he let his head roll to the side, to check the rearview mirror for any sign of Quisto. Seeing none, he let his eyes drift closed again.

  Like a video replaying in his head, he saw the scene in the mirror. The construction crews packing up, the food truck driving back the way it had come, the girl with the great legs walking past the driveway—

  He jerked upright, his head snapping around. The narrow street was empty. His eyes flicked over both sidewalks—nothing. A long, compressed breath escaped him, and he let his head loll back on his shoulders, his eyes closed.

  Of course, he told himself sourly, she's a phantom, a hallucination, remember? Lord knows, it had happened before.

  "Bang, you're dead."

  Chance's eyes snapped open, but he managed to keep himself from a startled jump as Quisto slid back into the car.

  "Hey, man, you all right?"

  Chance shrugged. "Sure."

  "You seem a little … distracted lately."

  "I'm fine," Chance said firmly. "What'd you find out?"

  "You were right. Private party. Big wheels only." Quisto eyed his friend and partner for a moment. "You gonna tell me what's bugging you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Sarah?" Quisto's voice was quiet, suddenly devoid of any of its usual glib slickness.

  "No."

  For once he could say it and mean it. At least, he thought he could. Maybe this apparition that kept haunting him was no more real than that image had been. It had been nearly two years before Sarah had at last let him rest.

  Two years of nightmares, of twisting pain, of reaching for her only to grasp emptiness. Two years of tortured nights spent staring into the dark, staving off sleep, and wondering if the dreams would ever stop. And at last, exhausted, sleeping, only to wake to the ever-present knowledge that he had killed her as certainly as if he had planted the bomb himself.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  "You ready?"

  Chance eyed his partner critically. "That depends. Do I have to go in with you?"

  "Afraid you're underdressed?"

/>   Chance grinned. "Everything's relative, I guess."

  Quisto was looking rather resplendent in a dark, shiny silk double-breasted suit. If he worried about things like that, Chance would have definitely felt underdressed. As it was he was comfortable in the black lightweight wool slacks and thick black-and-tan sweater he had on, which were several steps above his usual worn jeans.

  "Let's hit it, partner," Quisto said. "Party time."

  They left Quisto's modem apartment that overlooked the marina, heading for the parked BMW Tonight was the official public grand opening of the Del Mar Club, and they were off to make a survey of the territory.

  They'd spent a useless week running every license plate that had showed up at Mendez's—de Cortez, Chance reminded himself again—private party. The man was bent on showing everyone how legitimate he was. The guests ranged from the head of the local chamber of commerce to the councilman for the district. Not a single dirt bag in sight, Chance had muttered after two hours hunched over the computer readouts. Except for the ones running the place, he had amended wryly. And, he wondered as he scanned the crowd, any of those local community leaders de Cortez might have managed to stuff in his pocket…

  If the number of cars in the lot and on the street was an indication, de Cortez had a hit on his hands. Chance and Quisto scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar faces. Other than a few of the better known local high rollers, they came up empty.

  They joined the throng at the door, Chance idly looking at the sign on the wall just inside. No checks or credit cards, he mused. De Cortez must be pretty sure of his own success to run a cash-only operation. Then they were inside, going with the flow of humanity that was pouring into the club.

  "Nice," Quisto murmured as he looked around.

  Although places like this usually left him cold, Chance had to agree. Through the construction of different levels, and clever, careful lighting, the huge room gave the appearance of private, even intimate alcoves. Yet each was angled in such a way as to give a view of the brightly lit stage, where a four-piece band was hammering out a rock number.

  He glanced at them—nothing unusual there, just the expected costumes and slightly shaggy long hair. Look who's talking, he muttered to himself, running a hand through the blond-streaked hair that brushed the top of his shoulders.