On the TV, the reporter enthused about the career Lee could’ve had, how he might’ve been “the new Brandon Lee.”
“Only on the surface,” Dawn muttered, tucking the whip chain into her pocket and crossing her arms over her chest. She glanced at Kiko, hoping to draw him out with a conversation guaranteed to turn his attitude around. “There’s a difference between people like Lee Tomlinson who just look like a famous celebrity and people like…” She swallowed, not wanting to mention the next name but, then again, sort of needing to if she was ever going to grow up and get over her neuroses. “…Jacqueline Ashley.”
There.
Kiko perked right up at the magic words.
Dawn blew out a breath. Kiko’s crush, their new friend Jac, had gotten a makeover that had changed the faceless starlet into an Eva Claremont throwback, a bloodcurdling almost-double who was persistent about becoming Dawn’s buddy. She was continually calling with invitations to spar at the fencing studio where they’d met, but Dawn hadn’t taken her up on it yet. Someday she would, just to get past the fears Jac’s resemblance dredged up. Maybe.
“I guess,” Dawn said, “there’s something different about Jac when it comes to the hype. You can tell she’s the real star and Lee’s a poseur.”
Catching on to Dawn’s protective arm cross, Breisi rose to a stand and came over from the mirrored wall to pat her coworker’s shoulder. The other woman had been in the room the day Jacqueline Ashley had revealed her Eva makeover. Just recalling the moment made Dawn dizzy, ill, longing for her mom to come back while, at the same time, hating her for leaving. Hating her for being so beautiful and perfect while Dawn was neither.
“Have you talked to Jac?” Kiko asked, all puppylike. “Is she still doing that ‘buccaneer boot camp’ for her movie?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my girl.” He performed his rendition of Happy Kiko, reveling in a geeky glow. “Her first big gig.”
“She’s trying to get me a job on the set, but…”
They all nodded. Even though Jac’s movie wouldn’t shoot for another month, Dawn had been forced to call all her industry contacts to tell them she’d be out of commission for a while. Did that finally make her an ex-stuntwoman?
Once again, she felt the machete in her hand as she winged it down to terminate Robby.
With one final squeeze to Dawn’s upper arm, Breisi handed her gun over, dug into her cargo pants pockets for beanbags, and gave them to Dawn. “What do you say you muchachos take a run at me now?”
Kiko scrunched his nose. “I’ve gotten into a mental mood with this break, Breez. Unless you and Dawn want to go at it. I’d love to see a good catfight.”
“Gross.” Dawn made as if to punch him, and he flinched, even though he knew she wouldn’t go there.
“I’m just being honest about my all-American, red-blooded maleness.” He grinned.
“Kik,” Breisi said, business in her tone as she moved to the opposite side of the gym. “You want to work or not?”
“Okay, okay.”
As he left, Dawn busied herself by loading a beanbag into Breisi’s gun. By chance, she glanced over, catching sight of Kiko by the far corner, turning away from her. He inspected his gun, slipping a hand to his back, holding it like it was paining him. But in the next second, he was loading a beanbag, acting as if everything was normal.
Frowning, she took off the rubber-soled work boots she’d been wearing for the gym floor, then her socks. Kiko was a big boy and she wasn’t going to tell him to take a rest; she knew damned well that bringing up the subject would only encourage him to prove her wrong by playing that much harder. The best thing would be to keep an eye on him, and that was that.
Waiting until Breisi closed her eyes and settled into a defensive hunch, Dawn changed position, ready to give the other woman a few karma bruises.
But before the first shot could be fired, the TV blipped off, the room going quiet.
Her body readied itself, pounding, heating, because she knew what was coming next.
The Voice eased through the speakers, low and rough, still-of-the-night lethal.
“I need all of you in my office,” he said. “We’ve finally got something.”
THREE
THE LEAD
I F there was one way to describe the joint that housed Limpet and Associates, it was “Vincent Price on mescaline.”
With its grand staircase edged with gargoyle-decorated balustrades, its creaky hardwood floors, its knight-in-creepy-armor sensibilities, the place floated in the twilight area between kitschy and truly haunted. Dawn wasn’t sure which was more accurate because, based on what she’d seen so far, anything was possible.
As the team walked from the back of the house to the front, they passed under a massive iron chandelier that resembled a claw topped by melted candles. Then, while everyone climbed the stairs, she couldn’t help eyeing a painting that hung over the granite fireplace mantel and dominated the room.