Wicked 01 - Wicked Game by Lisa Jackson

Author:Lisa Jackson [Jackson, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Serial Murders, Fiction, Romance, Romantic Suspense Fiction, General, Thrillers, Suspense, Crime, Police, Oregon, Stalking, Women College Students, Cold Cases (Criminal Investigation), Missing Persons, Women Psychics, Mystery Fiction, thriller, Mystery and Detective Stories
ISBN: 9781420103380
Google: i04UyL2asa0C
Amazon: 1420103385
Publisher: Zebra Books
Published: 2009-02-01T06:00:00+00:00

Glenn Stafford was dead drunk. Drunken. Drunked…

He eyed the liquid at the bottom of the bottle and could not believe-simply-could-not-believe-that it was gone except for a swallow or two. He’d done that? Drank down the whole dang thing?

Vaguely he remembered the cooks going home and the wait staff closing up. Several people had stuck their heads inside his office and given him updates on the ending of the evening, but they were gone now, the restaurant closed. Scott had cruised through again and given Glenn the old evil eye.

Screw you, buddy. I’ll get goddamn good and wasted if I want. It’s my booze, too!

Now he staggered to the door, steadying himself on the jamb. The place was quiet. Unearthly quiet, he thought. Unearthly. Kind of like he felt. He could see his feet moving one in front of the other as he navigated his way toward the front entrance. Outside, the parking lot lights made little bluish moons on the pavement. Inside, the ambient lighting around the floor sent a diffused yellow glow to sections of carpet.

Glenn turned back toward the kitchen and bar area. What the hell? He deserved another bottle. He thought of Gia. Man, would she be pissed. Probably lying naked on the bed waiting, hoping he’d come in and screw her just to make a damned baby. Talk about taking the fun out of things. She’d called twice-or had it been three times?-but he’d told the hostess to tell his wife he was busy, and he’d let his cell phone go straight to voicemail.

Now he squinted at the rows of bottles of booze and caught sight of himself in the mirrored wall behind the hedge of liqueurs and spirits. Damn, Stafford. You’re…too…stocky.

“Stocky,” he said aloud, then grinned at his reflection like an idiot. Fuck ’em. It was time for another drink.

He rooted around and found an unopened bottle of Bushmills.

Clink.

He cocked his head toward the sound, his hand hovering over a bottle. He was alone, right? Hadn’t Luis said, “Good night, I’ll lock up, Mr. Stafford,” a little while ago?

The noise had come from the kitchen.

Or had it?

Maybe he’d tipped one bottle into another himself as he was checking labels. He was a little wasted. He could have thought he’d heard something from the kitchen. Yeah, that was probably it. He strained to listen, but could hear nothing but that irritating smooth jazz that Luis hadn’t turned off. Still…

“Hey,” he called, swaying on his feet, his fingers around the neck of his next bottle. Geez, maybe he didn’t need another drink.

He sniffed and froze. Wait a minute. Was that smoke? Was someone in the kitchen smoking?

“Goddammit,” he muttered. Holding the bottle by its neck, he weaved his way into the kitchen. Under-cabinet fluorescents showed him the gleaming stainless steel surfaces and he felt a moment of pure pride. Why wasn’t the restaurant making it? Why…

Glenn’s nostrils flared. The smell of smoke was much stronger here. “Who’s there?” he yelled.

Bang!

Something hit the floor. Hard.

“Jesus!” His heart began to thud.

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