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Margot made the call, but it went to voicemail. She wouldn’t be surprised if Shaw didn’t take calls after hours.
She decided not to leave a message. Just wearing a cowboy hat and boots didn’t mean his new client was a rogue cartel assassin. She figured that, as crazy as it would sound on the phone, it would sound even crazier in a voicemail.
Margot spent the drive home watching in the rearview mirror. She felt it was kind of silly since Mal would know how to get to her house, which made her wonder why he was following her in the first place. He had to know her well enough to know she was going home.
It was easier to tail someone if you knew the final destination since there was no real worry about them losing you. There would be no reason to stay tight since, if they got too far away, it would be easy to catch up. Mal should know this; nearly everything Margot knew about tailing people and spotting a tail she had learned from Mal. If he was doing it right, she should have never been able to make him.
It made her wonder what he was thinking. He hadn’t answered her question about how long he’d been on her tail, which made her think it had been a while, maybe since the incident out in the orange groves with Dean Stone.
If he’d been tailing her all day, he might have seen the cowboy come out of Shaw’s office. The guy certainly came off as a creep, but creep was a long way from hitman. It could be that Mal had jumped to the same conclusion, but he wouldn’t risk being made merely due to seeing a creepy guy in western wear leaving a building Margot had gone into.
She had her phone in her hand as she went into her apartment. Her fingers were on the screen ready to call Mal and ask him what exactly he thought was going on. She put the phone away without calling. If he had something to tell her, he could have at any time while they argued in the parking lot. He either had nothing and had just got sloppy after following her for perhaps weeks or he wasn’t willing to say. Either way, Margot saw another phone call as a waste of time.
Margot went to the liquor cabinet instead. Seeing how little was in the bottle of Maker’s Mark, she wished she’d fulfilled her promise to the liquor store owner instead of putting it on Mal. After some further thought, she was glad she had left without buying any booze. If she had a full bottle, she wouldn’t stop at one glass of whiskey. One would calm her and quiet her brain so she could sleep without thinking about Mal or Randy or Stick. More than that and she was likely to drink until she passed out and regret it in the morning.
She filled a glass with ice and poured whiskey over it. She congratulated herself on having a drink of choice that any idiot could make before sitting down to sip her whiskey. She finished it faster than she wanted to and was wishing she could make another when she accidentally drifted off to sleep.
Margot woke up gasping for air. She was still sitting in her chair with a glass of melted ice on the table beside her. She’d been dreaming. It was a recurring dream that had been haunting her sleep off and on since she was a teen.
In the dream, she was fighting in some kind of mixed martial arts tournament, battling an opponent bigger and stronger than she was. The details of how she got there might change, but she always ended up on the ground with her opponent choking her out. There was no counter and no escape. Margot’s only choice was to tap out.
No matter how many times she tapped though, her opponent wouldn’t let go. She’d look to the referee who would just shrug. Her opponent never spoke, but Margot knew instinctively she wouldn’t let go after Margot passed out. She was going to hang on until she was dead.
The panic and adrenaline of knowing she was near death did nothing to help her get free. The chokehold was tight. All Margot could do was continue to tap her opponent’s arm and hope she would let go.
She never did and, as always when Margot went to sleep in the dream world, she woke up in the real world. It had been a while since she’d had the dream; she hoped it wouldn’t become a regular occurrence again. She rarely got good sleep afterward.
Margot drank the ice water. She dragged herself back to her bedroom.
Chapter 8
The drive out to the desert was actually relaxing, more so than finding herself fighting a losing battle for her life every time she fell into a deep sleep. Mal, who apparently suffered from some wicked nightmares himself, had suggested more than once that she learn to lucid dream so she could take control of the situation. Margot had yet to figure out how to do it. After last night, she didn’t see herself asking him for tips on lucid dreaming any time soon. Maybe never.
Perhaps once they weren’t a couple, they should have gone their separate ways. She wouldn’t have said it before the events of the last couple of months, but maybe Mal was just as bad as a business partner as he was a boyfriend and a cop.
Maybe everyone who said he was just a thug and a killer had it right and it was Margot who had it wrong.
She put on some music, put her brain on autopilot, and drove. Margot was glad she wasn’t nursing a hangover, but one of the few thoughts she had was she needed to restock the liquor cabinet. She might even go to the liquor store with the grumpy owner just in case Mal hadn’t done his part and spent some money in her store.
Even though she managed to keep the stress of everything going on out of her mind, Margot still kept an eye on the rearview mirror. She made mental notes of every car behind her and kept track of them until they were no longer following her. She arrived thinking either no one had tailed her or whoever did was really good at it.
When she pulled up to the substation, Brantley was waiting by his department-issued Ford Explorer, looking at his phone. He tipped his hat as she got out of her car.
“I figure we take my car,” he told her. “I checked my GPS last night and those coordinates aren’t exactly on the road. I’m guessing your little Toyota isn’t a four-wheel drive.”
Margot preferred taking her own car, but he was right about the four-wheel-drive, so she shrugged and asked, “Do I have to ride in the back behind the cage?”
“No, ma’am. You can ride up front with me. You need to keep in mind I am a happily married man and keep your hands to yourself.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Can we go by the motel first?”
“We haven’t cleaned up yet.”
“Even better.”
Brantley shrugged. “I suppose you can tell me what you think about the crime scene.”
“That’s what consultants do. I’m not sure what I’m going to be able to tell you. It’s not like I was an ace homicide detective before I left.”
