A Fine Balance Read online

  A breathy moan rose from deep in her throat.

  Quiet, explosive, impelling.

  Partially buried in her slick, enveloping warmth, her fingernails cutting into his shoulders, her body motionless, her soft moan warm on his cheek, he briefly questioned her stillness. Was he hurting her? Was he doing something wrong? Was she simply sexually naive? Or was it possible she was near climax this quickly?

  Not that he was cool-headed enough to long debate the issue when he was damn near ready to go off the deep end himself. And not yet completely submerged.

  There. Now he was.

  Her scream exploded into the sunlight room: a wild, shrill, orgasmic cry that struck him like a gut punch. Shocked him. Disarmed him. Because sex had always been about sensation, not emotion.

  As for her stillness, the answer was suddenly clear: she’d been riding that fast-cresting wave to orgasm and hanging on tight.

  He found himself smiling, as if an acolyte had performed well. Thanks to his competence. Or perhaps thanks to her long celibacy. Or maybe he was smiling because his turn was next.

  Not that he was disposed to self-reflection.

  In his business you didn’t want to look into that mirror.

  But experienced and physically accomplished, he politely waited until her orgasm had run its course before he allowed himself his own release. At which point, his long-overdue ejaculation was immediate, hair-trigger swift, protracted by any previous measure, mind-blowing in every sense of the word and seriously alarming. He would have preferred a less color-my-world-glowing with a woman he barely knew.

  Not that minor caveats were likely to deter him from getting to know Jillian Penrose much better. And in the next hour he saw to it that they became intimately, heatedly, passionately--at times selfishly--acquainted, ending with a damn-near-off-the-cliff wild finish. He was breathing hard at the end, as if he’d been in a race with the clock. Actually, he had been.

  She was trying to catch her breath and not succeeding.

  The sweat on his forehead dripped on her face; his hair looked like he’d been swimming. “Sorry,” he gasped, wiping away the moisture with his fingertips, as if a few drops of sweat on her cheek mattered at this late stage.

  Not yet capable of speech, she shook her head to indicate it didn’t matter.

  And they remained breathless for moments more, he braced on his forearms above her, chest heaving, she, arms flung wide, gasping for air.

  Both consumed with wonder.

  She spoke first. “Wow.”

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak, rather, his thoughts were in disarray. “Definitely a wow,” he agreed, well-mannered despite the turmoil in his brain.

  Then, one of the cell phones he’d put on the bedside table rang.

  Opportunely, he decided, faced as he was with the baffling unknown. It was his personal ring tone, not the one he used for his informants. And it was Liz. He didn’t pick up.

  “Answer that if you want.” Jillian smiled politely. “We probably should go anyway.”

  Grateful for her understanding, he smiled back. “I’ll get it later. Do you need help dressing?”

  She shook her head. “I just need you to move. Otherwise, I’ll manage.”

  He rolled off her, smoothly disposed of his condom and came to his feet. “You sure you have to go?” Surprised, he told himself it was lust talking.

  “I do. Lion King is almost over.” Rising from the bed, she picked up her clothes and moved toward the bathroom. “I’ll wash off this smell of sex.”

  “Now that I’d like to help you with.” Apparently, his libido was still in overdrive.

  “If there was time, I’d let you,” she said over her shoulder.

  At least he wasn’t alone in his insatiable desire. But as the door to the bathroom shut, he quickly grabbed his boxers from the floor and stepped into them as though shielding himself against temptation. He was zipping his jeans when his informants’ cell rang. This call he picked up.

  “You found something?” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “I could get there in an hour or so.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Jimmy Lee must have gotten a line on the big dude. Perfect. And as if good things came in pairs, his phone rang again. An unknown number. He answered.

  “I might have something of interest.”

  Ah–Harvey and one of his burner phones. With electronic surveillance ubiquitous, Harvey didn’t take chances. “That was fast,” Jack said.

  “I got lucky. No whales. Come see me.”

  “Around five.”

  “We’ll talk about old times.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The phrase, old times, meant the neighborhood bar that Harvey owned in North Beach. He’d obviously talked his way out of the trip to Monterey. Christ, the case was starting to roll. First, Jimmy had something and now Harvey. He felt his adrenaline begin pumping, or what adrenaline he had left after an hour in bed with Jillian.

  Jesus H. Christ. This was turning out to be one helluva good day.

  Jillian had heard the phone ring, heard Jack talking, although his conversation wasn’t clear. Nor was she consciously listening. It was none of her business. Sex was their only connection; she’d do well to remember that.

  Jack was dressed and waiting when she walked out.

  “This murder case is beginning to unfold so I’m not sure about my schedule, but I’ll give you a call tomorrow or the next day.”

  “I’d like that.”

  And there it was left. Casual. Polite. Nothing too personal.

  But Jack re-ran his mental video of the time he’d spent in bed with Jillian practically non-stop on his drive to Bodega Bay. No doubt about it. Ms. Penrose was hotter than hot. A real live aphrodisiac. Ten times better than X.

  After Jillian picked up Zeke at Larry and Em’s, after she’d chatted with them for a neighborly period of time, Larry said, “I’m glad to hear that you’re going to be able to stay in your house. Jack came through. I knew he would.”

  It was impossible to control her blush. “Wade knows what he’s doing,” Jillian replied. “I’m grateful to them both.”

  Em shot her husband a repressive glance before smoothing over his comment about Jack with a pleasantry. “We’re so happy for you. It wasn’t right what the bank was doing.” In contrast to her husband who looked like he’d just walked out of the woods–faded flannel shirt, torn jeans, scuffed boots--Em was a stylish hippy, her long burgundy velvet skirt and richly embroidered jacket fashionable enough for a runway.

  “Send all those crooks to prison if you ask me,” Larry growled. “Give-em time to repent for what they’ve done to the world economy. Fuckers.”

  Em punched his arm. “Hush. Little ears.”

  But Zeke was busy playing with the wooden truck Larry had made him and hadn’t heard a word.

  “Sorry,” Larry muttered.

  “Hey, I’m with you there,” Jillian said. “They almost stole my house. And thanks again for watching Zeke. He likes coming here.”

  “Anytime,” Em brightly noted. “Right, Larry?”

  “Absolutely,” Larry exclaimed a shade too heartily. “Anytime. We’re always here.”

  Oh God, they know. But in the end, Jillian didn’t care because she was still walking on air after countless orgasms–really, she’d given up counting them. And Jack might even call again. Which meant she could be walking on air again in the not-too-distant future.

  Truly, it had been a perfect morning. She’d had her house saved from the big, bad, unscrupulous bankers. And she’d been seriously pleasured by the big, gorgeous, highly talented Jack Morgan. He was super good in bed. And out of bed too, although she hoped there weren’t any binoculars at the Point Cabrillo light house because then Marcy Willard, the docent there, might have seen them on the balcony and would stare the next time Jillian met her in the grocery store.

  Although maybe a little embarrassment was a small price to pay for the su
percalifragilisticexpialidocious, world-class sex she’d just had the good fortune to experience.

  No maybe about it.

  Eat your heart out Mary Poppins.

  Chapter 19

  It was close to three when Jack reached Bodega Bay. Once a small fishing village, developers had moved in two decades ago, the population had exploded and now there were three stop lights on Highway One where once there were none.

  Since Bodega Bay was one of the new exurb, bedroom communities, at mid-afternoon, the downtown was quiet. A few old buildings had escaped the wrecking ball of urban sprawl: California cottage style shops, taverns, motels, a quaint, bright green with red trim, clapboard, four-square Chinese temple. And of course, the structure that had once been the major employer in town–the fish cannery. Jack parked behind the large two-story factory, its faded logo still visible on the corrugated tin siding like a dim memory of a John Steinbeck novel.

  Some Bay Area restoration architectural firm had lovingly renovated it, retaining the turn of the century ambience while incorporating state of the art green technology and all the modern conveniences.

  Walking through the back door of Jimmy Lee’s home and restaurant, Jack entered a kitchen bustling with staff prepping for dinner. Moving through the stainless steel, hangar-sized area, he spoke to some of the employees, waved to others, and when Estevez, the chef, pointed upstairs, Jack made his way to a blue door with a gold star like those on a Hollywood set. Jimmy had a sense of humor.

  “Hey, man.” Jimmy was lounging on a fire-engine red, buttery soft suede sofa, the kind decorators find in Milan or Paris–ultra modern, uber-pricey. He held up a spliff. “Wanna a toke?”

  “Can’t. I’m working.” Jack walked into the large, sunny room overlooking the harbor, the rich decor a mark of Jimmy’s business acumen and a decorator’s expertise. “You look relaxed.” Jimmy Lee also looked like he was sixteen when he was thirty-two. Small, lean, brown spiked hair, an earring in one ear, skate boarder clothes and a half-in-the-bag gaze.

  “Have to. Need to smile all night. Customers expect the smoozing.” He slid up into a sitting position, his grin shit-faced. “Have a seat. Want something from the kitchen?”

  “I’m good, but thanks.” Jimmy owned a high-class restaurant–strictly organic, seasonal food, local wines from bio-dynamic vineyards. It kept the IRS off his back, covered up the source of his real money and gave him something to do. He had a real knack for mingling. Customers came in just to talk to Jimmy, have him make them feel good. Not to mention The Green Zone showcased one of the best bartenders in the Bay Area and that was saying a lot with mixology an art form on the Coast. Jack sat down in one of the chairs arranged in a seating area around the sofa and gave a small nod to one of the more successful slacker/entrepreneurs. “Sounds like you found something for me.”

  “Maybe.” A thin residue of smoke drifted from Jimmy’s nostrils. “I might have a line on your big dude. Don’t know if he’s a match. That’s for you to decide.” He took a long drag on the spliff then pinched off the ash, dropped it in an ashtray, swung his feet off the sofa onto the floor and slowly exhaled before he spoke. “Your call brought up old memories. Not the good kind.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, then let his hand drop. “After I first came down here–maybe a couple of months after I set up--an asshole cop busted me. He found my stash behind the false wall in my closet and charged me with dealing half a pound. I had twenty. He kept the rest.” Jimmy squinted at Jack. “Heard that one before? Anyway, my lawyer gets me off for first offense, I do the probation and swear that’ll never happen again. I wouldn’t do well in jail. I’m claustrophobic and with all the crowding, not to mention my pretty face...” He shrugged. “Well, you know all that. So after your call, I checked to see if the asshole’s still around. I find out I wasn’t the only one he’d ripped off. He’d been doing it for a long time. They finally caught him cold coming out of the evidence room with a load of cocaine on him and in him and sent him away. Not for long. The cops take care of their own. He’s been out two years.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Matt Hayes.”

  “Know where he lives?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What he’s doing now?”

  “Maybe. You ever hear of Gavin Remington?”

  “The smooth-talking shark? That one?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Hayes’s his bodyguard or enforcer or whatever else money buys.”

  “Money buys anything you want with that douche bag. You need a politician’s vote, he’s your man. You need a vote turned, he’s your man. You need someone to put together a legislative proposal to log in Yosemite or drill off Santa Barbara, he’s more than willing to give it a go. Which means the farm hand they strung up on the dump fence wasn’t just a farm hand.” Jack flashed a smile. “Thanks Jimmy. I owe you one.”

  “No way. Not after what you did for my baby brother. Stupid kid.”

  Jack grinned. “Like you.”

  “And you,” Jimmy said, his brows rising faintly.

  “No shit. Morrie saved both our asses back home.”

  “And now we’re contributing members of society,” Jimmy drawled.

  “Is that what we’re doing? Sometimes I feel like I’m running in place. You take down one punk and another one pops up. You shut down one gang and a new one rides into town.” Jack lifted a hand to the well-appointed room. “This looks better. Take it easy, count your money at the end of the night.”

  “Don’t forget I’m only semi-retired. Still gotta hustle now and then. But you could do something else. You don’t need the cop hassle.”

  “That’s what I told Morrie when I came back. I was retired I told him. I was gonna make wine.” Jack blew out a breath.

  “And here you are looking for a douche bag.”

  Jack leaned back in the Charles Eames chair, put his feet up on the matching black leather hassock and sighed. “Thing is–there’s part of the game”–another small sigh–“I like.”

  “The part when you take’em down.”

  “Yeah. That part. Sometimes it makes up for the rest.” Jack lifted his chin. “What’s that smell? It’s good.”

  “Something new down from Humboldt. They call it Jack Skellington’s Dance. Wanna try some?”

  Jack shook his head. “I still have to drive into town.”

  “Next time one of my people go up north, I’ll have some dropped off at your place. That troll still in your garden?” Jimmy grinned. “Never thought of you as a kitschy guy.”

  Jack shrugged. “It was a gift.”

  “From someone you don’t want to piss off.”

  “Yeah. Someone’s idea of humor.”

  “She must be worth it. I’d have tossed it in the ocean long ago.”

  “I have really good manners,” Jack said, his voice between neutral and sardonic.

  “With women.”

  Jack did one of those little see-saw things with his head. “Mostly, I suppose. And why not?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man. I figure choice weed and plenty of money make up for any lack of tact. So far so good.”

  Jimmy’s bar and his bartenders’ wizardry drew a young, hip, female clientele who liked pretty drinks in pretty glasses concocted from first class liquors and other ingredients purported to be healthy–odd juices, green tea, fringe fruits from hard-to-reach corners of the world. Jimmy had all the pussy he could handle.

  Jack smiled. “In that case, keep it up and keep it going.” Sliding his feet off the hassock, he rose from the chair. “Did I mention, the victim left a young brother behind?”

  “Did the boy see anything?”

  “I doubt it. Although, he’s not real talkative.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open. I expect they might go after the kid.”

  “Could be. You hear anything, give me a call. And thanks again. This is the first solid lead to come down the pike.”

  An hour later, Jack was seated in Harvey’s office in the back of his tr
endy, brewery bar, one of Harvey’s beers in hand, a potent sense of anticipation animating his thoughts.

  “I’m not saying it’s them,” Harvey said, powering up his computer. “But Leon said these guys were crazier than usual and with a gun shop like his, way the hell out in the desert, he sees more crazies than most. Which is why he records everything. Just in case, he says. His security is top notch. Virtually invisible, runs even if someone cuts the power.”

  “Sounds like he’s been hit a few times.”

  “Once too many. Give me a minute to pull up the video file he sent. I don’t have a teenager’s skill; too late to the game. Here it comes, wait, no, okay I got it now.” He swung the monitor around so both he and Jack could view it. Jack set his beer on the desk and leaned forward.

  Two men in dirty T-shirts and jeans followed one another through the glass door of the gun shop, the view visible behind them--Nevada’s high country desert moonscape. Empty, desolate, grey-brown, Death Valley without the sand.

  “Zoom in,” Jack said. His voice sounded strange, miles away; his heart had started pounding like a sonafbitch. “More...more–stop. Bingo,” Jack whispered. There he was, big as life, one of the over-confident posse who’d sauntered into Ella’s yard. Scrutinizing the long-haired blond man with born-again ink on every visible portion of skin except his face, Jack’s nostrils flared, like a wolf on the scent. “That’s my guy,” he said, softly. “No doubt. Bring up the other one.”

  Harvey zoomed out and waited for a good shot of the second man. He came into full view, up close and personal, when the pair reached the counter. Harvey zoomed in. “Seen him before?”

  “Yeah. He’s in the morgue. Twelve of them came for the kid, acting like they were bulletproof. Straight on, like a stroll in the park. Lucky for me, they weren’t professionals. I took down a few of them before they ran for cover, but the dirty blond’s still out in the world. I never got him in my crosshairs.” Jack sat back in his chair.“Does Leon have an inventory of what they bought? How much? What kind? Everything’s cash I suppose. Does he keep records?”

  “He used to be an accountant. Records are an obsession. A couple different sets of books, but you know that.”