Suburban Secrets

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She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the persistent sensation that her head was going to explode.

The crystal dish on her dresser where she usually kept the ring was empty. Beside it lay a red credit card.

No, not a credit card. A hotel room key.

“Jesus.” She clutched her head between her palms. The previous night played in her head like a Fellini film.

The last time she had seen her ring, it was lighting up that gorgeous guy’s smile. He’d chugged the drink she’d put it in, and caught it in his teeth, like a frat boy playing quarters.

Her stomach churned. Oh, God. What was his name? Nick something. Barlow? Bartlett?

No, something more ethnic.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Balboa. Like Rocky. Yo, Adrian. That was it!

It all came back to her in a rush. He was staying at the Baccus, a swanky hotel in Center City. He’d invited her back there. But she’d chickened out. Took a powder. Scrammed. Punked out.

Why is the voice in my head talking like Sam Spade?

She took a moment to hyperventilate before she grabbed the room key from the dresser.

Okay. Alright.

Just what were the odds a young, gorgeous godlike stud would still be there, waiting for her to show up, with a twenty-thousand-dollar ring between his teeth?

She ran into the bathroom and ralphed in the sink.

CHAPTER 4.5

Saturday, 11:53 a.m.

Over Easy

It had taken Pete all night, but he’d finally tracked Balboa down at the Baccus. Dumb shit had checked in using a fake name but his own credit card.

Pete stepped into the elevator and flipped open his cell phone.

“Lou. I’m at the Baccus. Any movement from the Russian?”

“Nah. Everything’s quiet here. Just the girlfriend coming and going. You shoulda seen what she was wearing last night.” Lou whistled into the phone.

“Glad to hear you’re having a good time.”

“Hey, a man’s gotta entertain himself.”

“Just make sure you’re not ‘entertaining’ yourself when the Russian makes a move.”

Lou laughed, and Pete flipped the phone closed.

The elevator arrived on the seventeenth floor, and Pete unbuttoned his coat, to give himself easy access to the weapon in his shoulder holster. He didn’t think he would need it. Balboa was a lover, not a fighter. But you never knew.

He walked quickly to Balboa’s door and waited there, listening. He didn’t hear anything, but that wasn’t surprising. Balboa typically slept until noon.

He pounded on the door, watching the peephole for light or movement. Still, nothing.

After a cursory look up and down the hall, he pulled a key card from his pocket. The card had been doctored with copper tape, to which he’d attached a wire with a toggle switch hooked to a nine-volt battery. He slid the card into the lock and flipped the switch, holding his breath.

The lock popped, and he pushed the door open.

The room was dark, the curtains still drawn. He flipped the light switch, half expecting to see Balboa snoring in the king-size bed, but he wasn’t.

The room was empty.

“Shit.”

Pete gave a thorough search through the drawers and the pockets of the clothes hanging in the closet.

He found a pair of pink ladies’ underwear and a black handbag which, a search revealed, belonged to one Grace Becker.