Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle Read Online Free PDF Page B

nasty letters. She’d FedExed a sample, of a semilyrical nature:
    Our lives are linked with chains of steel ,
    Chains of steel, my Lady Blue .
    Saw a chainsaw in a hardware store .
    Thought of you, babe. Thought of you .
    Block print in a Neanderthal hand. Cheap ballpoint ink. Unsigned. Hardly Dee’s favorite fan mail. And no proof that the “stalker” had sent it.
    Dee was set for three shows in Portland due to a venue screw-up. She’d been scheduled to play one date in a major arena; her manager had discovered the booking error after the tickets went SRO. Not wanting to disappoint the legions who’d finally made her a star, she’d rented a smaller hall. Intimate. Close to the audience. Close to the stalker. She was scared.
    Bodyguard, I’d advised.
    You, she’d insisted. We’d discussed terms, including Miss Gibson. Then the tickets came. For the planes and all three shows.
    Great seats.
    â€œI thought it didn’t snow in Portland,” I muttered as the chauffeur and I struggled through gusts of icy wind layered with Makes as soft and wet as soapsuds.
    â€œFirst blizzard since ’89,” he grumbled. “Just for you.’
    â€œYou drive in snow much?” I asked.
    â€œNope,” he said, brushing ineffectually at the windshield with a gloved hand.
    In the terminal I’d noticed folks standing around, eyes glued to picture windows, staring with wide-eyed wonder at a paltry six inches Bostonians would have shrugged off with a laugh. I felt a jolt of pity for these two-season folk—rainy and dry—wished I had a shovel to offer the driver instead of a handgun.
    I blinked bleary eyes, figured that since the flight had landed after one in the morning, it was now past 4:00 a m. Boston time. The little sleep I’d enjoyed on the Denver leg had been more than countered by the Bailey’s binge. I could barely stand upright in the slashing wind.
    I was grateful when the chauffeur opened the passenger-side back door, understanding when he didn’t wait politely to close the door behind me. I heard the lid of the trunk open, felt a brief stab of regret, Separated from my luggage again.
    I drive a cab part-time when I can’t make enough PI money to crack my monthly nut. My eye went automatically to the front visor. No photo, no license. Not to worry, I told myself. It’s not a cab; it’s a limo. No regulations, most cities.
    I halted, one foot poised on the shag carpet. The front door locks were shaped like tiny letter T’s . The rear locks were straight, smooth, and short, like the filed-off jobs in the backseats of patrol cars.
    I engineered a quick reverse, backing into a pile of slush that soaked through my thin boots. “Have a scraper in the trunk?” I asked as casually as I could manage, trying to come up beside the chauffeur.
    He gave way. “Jeez, I dunno. You wanna look?”
    The leather soles of my boots slipped on the slick stuff coating the pavement. I had to concentrate on my footing. No excuse, just the truth. When the “chauffeur” tackled me high, midback, he had no trouble flipping me head over heels. I barely had the presence of mind to tuck my head to my chin. If I hadn’t, I might have snapped my neck as the huge trunk lid came slamming down.
    Thank God and the Ford Motor Company for the depth of Lincoln Town Car trunks. Ditto for the plush carpeting. My head thunked against my soft-sided duffel.
    Dammit. Yes, I was jet lagged, half drunk, in a strange city at a beastly hour, but Dee had described her “stalker”: heavyset, big as a small refrigerator, built on the same square lines as my “chauffeur.” I cursed and cursed again Uniforms’ll get you every time; you trust a guy in livery, a guy-parading your name on a signboard.
    The engine revved far too quickly for my assailant to have cleared the windows properly. As we fishtailed into motion I tested the limits of my