Golden Trail
Page 78

It was made, not like Layne “made” it, yanking up the covers and letting them fall. The comforter was smoothed, the sheet and comforter folded over at the base of the pillows. The four pillows stacked neatly on top of each other, two by two.
Then he turned and looked at the long, double basin bathroom counter. Next to his toothbrush, Rocky’s pink and white one was in the holder Melody bought that was on Layne’s side of the sink. Also on Layne’s side of the sink was a makeup bag that had exploded. Tubes, bottles and tubs everywhere, applicator brushes, a stick of deodorant, a fancy bottle of perfume, a comb and a bunch of hairpins scattered around.
That morning, Layne had left before Rocky because he had to get to Indy to follow a man to work, a new case. The man didn’t go straight to work, as suspected. Rocky had brought a bag with her on Thursday night but Layne hadn’t paid much attention to it except the fact that he liked that she brought it. Clearly, Rocky had gotten ready at his place, standing at his basin doing her makeup and hair.
A memory tugged at him and Layne walked to the bed. He lifted the pillows on his side and found his pajamas folded neatly under it. Then he walked around the bed to Rocky’s side, lifted the pillows and found his tee that she’d been wearing folded under those. She’d done that, every morning, when they were living together.
Every morning.
He dropped the pillows and drew in breath through his nose, smelling the indistinct scent her perfume.
It was faint but it was still there.
Then he smiled to himself, turned out the lights, walked swiftly from the room and jogged down the stairs. He let Blondie in, secured the sliding glass door, gave Blondie a rubdown that lasted a lot less time than she liked and he set the alarm at the garage door and jogged to his SUV.
He swung in and drove to Rocky’s.
He was two steps from the landing to her door when the door was thrown open and she was out of it. He was one step from the landing when she turned to him, eyes bright, giving him the dimple. He stopped dead at the sight of her and she lifted both of her hands and slapped them, hard, on his chest just under his shoulders. So hard, he was glad he was wearing three layers, and she left her hands where they were.
“You will not believe what happened!” she cried.
On his step, eye to eye with her, the dimple appearing to be a permanent fixture, Layne smiled. “What?”
“I don’t even believe it!” she said on a near shout.
Layne put his hands to her h*ps and repeated, “Roc, what?”
Her head suddenly turned sharply to the side and then she looked back to him and exclaimed, “Oh! We have to go!”
Then she tore from his hands, turned so quickly her ponytail whipped across his face and flew into the apartment.
Layne followed her and closed the door, saying, “Rocky.”
But when he got into the apartment, she was already at the kitchen counter, pulling on a velvet jacket that was another berry color, this time blackberry. It fit her snug over her matching deep purple turtleneck. She buttoned the jacket with one hand and grabbed the handles of a bag that was on the counter.
“I’ve wrapped up the sandwiches, we’ll eat in the car. I’ve got drinks in the bag too.” She hefted up the bag and handed it to him, ordering, “You carry that.”
He took it and, considering he thought it contained sandwiches and drinks, its weight surprised him, his arm jerked down with it, she saw it and her shining eyes came to his.
“I made cookies. Chocolate chip. You get two. The rest are for Devin and the boys,” she announced then turned back to the counter, nabbed a scarf and her purse and started winding the scarf around her neck with one hand, the other one hooking the strap of her purse on her arm at the same time she started shooting around the apartment turning off lights.
“Sweetcheeks, this bag weighs a ton. How many cookies did you make?” Layne asked as he watched her move in her velvet jacket, tight dark gray cords and high-heeled black boots.
“Three dozen,” she answered, switching off the last light then heading toward the door, Layne following.
“Three dozen and I only get two?” Layne asked when she’d pulled open the door.
She whipped her head around again, her ponytail flying to land over her shoulder and curl around the scarf at her neck and she smiled up at him. “Okay, you can have three.”
He smiled down at her and muttered, “Thanks, baby.”
Her smile brightened even further, the dimple firmly in place then she exited the house, Layne moved out behind her, she turned and locked it and they headed down the stairs.
“All right, Roc, you wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” Layne asked.
“In the car, we need to get going,” she answered, hoofing it to his Suburban.
Layne bleeped the locks, Rocky climbed in and he handed her the bag which she set between her legs on the floor as he shut her door. Layne rounded the back and when he swung in his side she was already buckled up but straining the belt because she was bent forward and digging in the bag. She pulled out what appeared to be a huge, oval, foil wrapped sandwich while Layne pulled out of the parking spot.
“You gonna talk?” he asked when they were out of the complex, on the road and she seemed intent on unwrapping the sandwich, a sandwich that, as she unwrapped it, subsequently filled the cab with a mouth-watering scent of fresh roast beef.
“Get this,” she started, handing him the sandwich that had its foil-over-greaseproof paper unwrapped enough for him to eat, wrapped enough so that he could eat it without the gargantuan portion of warm beef and melted cheese stuffed in a hoagie roll dripping all over his jeans. “I called my attorneys this morning because, well…” she paused, “I told you about Jarrod playing dirty but I didn’t tell you how but he cut me off, money-wise. Rent is due at the end of next week and things will be…” she paused again, “well, you know, I told you about it.”
“Yeah?” Layne prompted through a mouth full of succulent, warm roast beef and tangy melted cheese when she stopped speaking.
“So, I called my attorneys to see if anything was happening with that. They promised to call Jarrod’s attorneys and, this afternoon, I had a text to phone them back urgently.”
Layne had a feeling he knew where this was going. He’d been letting Devin do his work and hadn’t asked for a status report since that first night. Layne was the only man Devin had worked with in his career, post-CIA, so Devin was used to working alone, doing his own thing and not reporting in or asking for instructions. Therefore, Layne’s feeling was that Devin had done his own thing.