The Next Accident by Lisa Gardner

Author:Lisa Gardner
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780553900897
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2004-08-23T22:00:00+00:00

Rainie was still shaken by the time she pulled into the tiny commercial real estate building that housed Phil de Beers’s office. Clouds had rolled in. The air crackled with electricity. A nearly full moon had to be up there somewhere, but the night had taken on a dense, suffocated feeling. Even the crickets had gone quiet.

She got out of her car hunch-shouldered and skittish, ready to shoot first, question later. Nine P.M. Kimberly should be back in the relative safety of her apartment. Quincy had probably wrapped things up with his boss at Quantico and was now returning to New York City. Rainie just needed to finish up two last chores, then it would be her turn.

Instead, she stopped in the middle of the empty parking lot and searched the inky black depths for something she couldn’t name. Beyond her line of sight, she could hear cars humming by on the distant freeway. Four streetlamps bounced puddles of light off shiny black asphalt. The scent of honeysuckles and blackberries came to her, cloying and thick.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

She startled, then whirled, her right hand already reaching for her Glock.

Phil de Beers stood in the doorway of the building, the spitting image of his Internet photo as he gazed at her curiously. “Want to come in?” he asked politely.

She shivered violently and nodded.

“Brewed some coffee,” he said a moment later as he gestured her inside the building. “Don’t know what it is about thunderstorms, God knows they generate enough humidity to drown a rat, but they always make me feel in need of a good hot drink. Or whiskey. But on account of this being a professional visit, I thought I’d stick with coffee.”

“Bummer,” Rainie said, and earned a wide, flashing smile from the small, neatly dressed black man.

“You caught me. I do have some good ol’ sour mash. . . .”

“Yeah,” she said gloomily, “but I’m an alcoholic. I only get the coffee.”

“Bummer,” he echoed solemnly, and she decided that she liked him very much.

They went first to the tiny kitchenette shared by all the clients in the building. Phil splashed a delicate mist of whiskey into his brew. Rainie poured in cream and sugar until the private investigator began to laugh.

“I see some dependency issues,” he commented.

“Sugar and fat are socially acceptable drugs.”

“And you carry them well,” he assured her, conducting an unabashed sweep of her figure before leading her into his office. He took a seat behind his desk in a positively sinful red leather chair. That left a hard, spindly old kitchen chair that she figured was designed to discourage lengthy visits.

Phil held up a small glass dish. “M&M’s?” Rainie shook her head. He took a large handful. “I got some dependency issues, too,” he admitted cheerfully and munched on the candy while she finished taking inventory of his office.

The space wasn’t large but it was adequate. One wall contained two rows of bookshelves bearing thick volumes of Virginia State Law as well as piles of magazines. The other wall contained a gallery of framed prints.

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