Page 228 of It Happened on the Lake

“Over here.” Trick was shepherding him to the edge of the smoking area. “Want one?” Trick said, shaking the pack so a couple of Marlboros poked out.

“No. Gave them up, too. A long time ago. Oh wow.” Joel stumbled over some electrical cords as Trick lit up.

Man, he was dizzy. “Maybe I . . . maybe I should sit . . .” His mind was spinning so fast, he grabbed onto Trick’s arm to keep from falling. “What’s the matter with me?”

“Nerves,” Trick said, cigarette clamped between his teeth. He held Joel up with surprising strength.

“Not nerves. I just feel . . . feel bad.” He had to steady himself on the railing. “Wow, what was in those drinks?” And the second the words were out of his mouth, he knew. He looked into Trick’s eyes but couldn’t see through the shades and curling smoke. His own vision was too blurry. “You little fuck,” he whispered, just as Trick smiled again, his overlapping tooth exposed over the cigarette. “You did this!”

“You must’ve graduated summa cum laude from the university,” Trick said with a humorless chuckle. Quick as a cougar striking, he lifted Joel off his feet.

“What? Hey, no!” Joel scrambled to right himself, but he couldn’t control his limbs.

And it was too late. He was unable to stop Trick from hoisting him to the top of the rail. “Sorry, pal,” Trick said. “But I gotta run. Got business in Eugene. And this is a helluva lot faster than the elevator. Adios.”

He pushed with enough force to send Joel hurtling over the railing, headfirst down the fifteen stories to the crowded sidewalk below.

Chapter 57

Janet Collins didn’t answer her doorbell.

Nor did she respond to several hard raps on her front door.

“Not home?” Chelle asked.

“Probably still at work.”

“Let’s see.” Chelle checked her notepad. “I’ll radio Suki and see if she can call and check. I know she works at a used car dealership on Eighty-second, but I don’t have the name of the place.” She radioed into the station while Rand walked the perimeter of the house, a daylight basement with a brick façade and fenced backyard with long grass and strewn with fallen leaves from the birch trees planted near the house. A basketball hoop stood on one end of a wide patio with a sliding glass door. He peered through the glass and found himself looking into a family room with an old plaid couch, a couple of beanbag chairs, and a TV with wires snaking out of it, toward a gaming console on the braided rug.

No one in sight.

Slider locked.

As he rounded a corner to the front of the house, he caught a glimpse of the one room with lights. Through partially open blinds he saw the refrigerator and some cupboards, but no one visible. No movement within.

Chelle tried the door again.

Still no answer.

The garage door had a row of windows above the lower panels. Stretching, Rand was able to peer inside.

“See anything?” Chelle asked.

“Too dark. There’s a flashlight in the Jeep. Glove box.”

Chelle retrieved the flashlight and he shone the beam inside. A four-door Oldsmobile Cutlass was parked in front of a washer and dryer. Lying on the greasy floor next to the two steps leading into the house was a woman.

She wasn’t moving.

Blood was smeared everywhere around her, staining the concrete steps and pooling beneath her head.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I think we found her.” He slipped the flashlight into his pocket and, using a handkerchief, grabbed the handle of the wide garage door and pulled it upward.

Groaning, the door rumbled upward, and he shot through, running straight to the woman and crouching near her.

She was lying face up, her features battered, bruised, and cut, her nose and possibly cheekbones broken, one eye swollen shut, the other fixed.

And she wasn’t breathing.