Page 71 of Accidental Murder
Weaving through throngs of people, she headed for the South Gate. She froze when, through a gap in the crowd, she recognized a familiar face. Richard Troy, her aborted blind date. He was clad in a black shirt, black pants, and boots. His hand shielded his eyes from the overhead lights.
Quickly, she hid behind a rack of clothing. In her nightmare her uncle had screamed,Troy’s guilty.Was Troy the guy in the Town Car that had chased Eve and her? Was he in league withthe killer or killers? How had he figured out she’d come to the Cow Palace? Jacob was the only one who could’ve known.
No, not true. Whoever had tracked her to the 24-hour diner must have hacked the Facebook exchanges between Jacob and her. Unless, of course, Jacob had sent Troy.
She peeked from her hiding place and recoiled when Troy’s gaze locked on hers. He was speaking into a walkie-talkie. She searched for an escape route.
Blond Guy, who she now realized was Troy’s colleague, was standing near the East Gate also talking into a handheld device. She couldn’t get a fix on anyone at the North and West gates. Even so, Muscles and G.I. Joe—she was convinced they were a unit—might be there.
The South Gate had been unguarded when she’d entered. She sprinted in that direction, glancing once over her shoulder. Troy was close. Too close. He was almost upon her. She deviated toward the K-2 demonstration area, grabbed a ski pole from the Freerider display, and whirled around. She thrust the tip at Troy. He gripped the pole. Instead of letting go, she shoved him backward into the Mindbender ski exhibit. Like a series of dominoes, the skis collapsed, trapping him.
Customers yelped. At least a dozen dropped to the ground, as if under attack. Salespeople hustled to rebuild the skis display. A medic bent to help Troy.
Kayla didn’t hesitate. She beat a retreat out the South Gate and tore across the parking lot designated for people with disabilities. A shot rang out. She ducked behind a Coachman RV and sneaked a look to get her bearings. She’d parked Peter’s Honda Civic in the lot past the valet area, but she couldn’t run to it. Not yet. She’d be too exposed. Nearly all of the vehicles in valet were sports cars.
Through the side window of the RV, she caught sight of Blond Guy and Muscles. They were standing alongside G.I. Joeoutside the South Gate. Muscles raised a set of binoculars. G.I. Joe squatted.
Kayla inched to her right and hoped the RV’s tire would obscure her feet and legs. A minute elapsed before she dared to take another look.
Blond Guy, who had neared the area designated for the disabled, sneered. He signaled his pals with a whistle and twirled his finger in the air, the international signal for calling off a search.
Muscles, standing atop a van, acknowledged his buddy and jumped to the ground. G.I. Joe, who had remained at the South Gate, shrugged. The trio reentered the arenaen masse.
Keeping low, Kayla cut through valet parking. She drew up short when she spied the front end of a silver Porsche. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat. Jacob. She recognized his profile. Was he waiting outside to congratulate his crew for capturing her?
No. He didn’t seem to be searching for her. In fact, he didn’t seem to be moving at all.
Terror cut through her as she crept closer to the car and saw Jacob sitting slack-jawed. His throat had been slit.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Kayla drove awayfrom the Cow Palace at top speed, her lungs aching for lack of oxygen. Clear skies did nothing to calm her. Eve was missing. Sara and three other clients were dead. And now Jacob—murdered.
Breathe!She tried but failed. Eve’s theory of a league of hired killers, as far-fetched as it had sounded at the time, now seemed feasible. One of the killers must have tapped into Jacob’s computer when Kayla and he were exchanging messages. Must have followed him. Was Richard Troy the leader? William Norton had tried to run her down. Did he have the wherewithal to assemble a squad of killers? Dennis Wald might know how to organize a group of hitmen. She couldn’t rule out Nolan Trask, either. A quick slice to the throat would be something a CIA undercover agent could do with ease.
With focused precision, she returned her thoughts to Richard Troy. Her uncle had told her Troy served in the military. Were he and his pals formerly Special Forces? And what about Jacob’s partner, Baker? She knew nothing about him. What if he and Jacob had been manufacturing an illegal drug after all? Had Baker killed Jacob to keep the profits?
Despite the overwhelming feeling of despair that had taken root in Kayla’s soul, contacting Hanrahan and revealing the truth about her identity continued to be a nonstarter. The inspector wouldn’t believe Kayla if she told her a cabal killed Jacob and the others. Worse, she might suspect Kayla was the mass murderer.
She checked the time. Ten minutes to ten. Had Peter awakened and contacted the police about his stolen car? Had she made him so paranoid that he would catch the first plane back to France? Or was he waiting at the motel, expecting her to return?
She drove there, in case. She wanted to make things right. To explain.
When she arrived, she saw a dark blue Toyota Prius with Uber stickers on its windows idling in the parking lot. Aware that the police, after the Cow Palace debacle, might have put out an APB on her and were on the lookout for Peter’s car, she drove past. She parked down the street and stole on foot to the front of the motel. She hid beside a soda vending machine and peeked at the exterior of her motel room. The door was closed, the curtains drawn.
She shrank back when she glimpsed Peter exiting the registration office holding a cell phone to his ear.
“Yes, she’s on the run!” he barked. “And it’s all your fault.” He yanked open the rear door of the Prius. “How should I know where she’s going?” He climbed in. The car sped from the lot and swung left onto Geary.
Kayla raced to the hatchback as a horrifying notion resurfaced. What if Peter hadn’t flown to France on the red-eye Monday night? What if, after Ashley ended it with him, he followed her to Kayla’s and lost control?
No.She mewled. Not Peter.
But why else would he have been so angry on the phone just now?
Pulling into traffic, she recalled what Ashley said before she died:He wanted you.He. Anonymous. Not Peter.
Driving in the direction of downtown, she urged herself to think rationally. To reboot. To start at the beginning.
