Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [82]
She picked up the keys she’d dropped on the seat. She had a change purse attached to the key ring—she usually kept a few dollars in there for parking. No credit cards, though, and not enough for even a fleabag motel.
She pulled up to a red light and unzipped the change purse. One lousy dollar bill—which would get her exactly nowhere. She was about to dump the key ring back on the leather seat beside her when she noticed the key.
It hadn’t been there yesterday. She knew those keys very well—the key to her car, a key to La Casa, one for the gates that no one had closed in years. But there was a new key, next to the old, familiar ones.
The light changed to green, and she turned left. There was no guarantee, but she had a pretty good idea who had put that key on her key chain. It was worth the risk.
She’d never been particularly good at finding her way through the city streets, and yet she found herself back in Rico’s neighborhood almost instinctively. It was Saturday night, and the street was jammed with people, lights and noise. She drove very slowly, past the rows of apartment buildings, looking for his. Looking in vain for a parking spot.
She found his building, but the cars were so thick she could barely drive, much less find a place to park. She was inching along, scarcely moving, when someone knocked loudly on her window.
It startled a little shriek out of her, but she pushed the button and lowered the window. It was the gang member from that morning, looking not the slightest bit safer by the garish streetlight.
“Hey, lady, you came back. Doc’s at work, but he’ll be back soon. You need a parking spot?”
“I don’t—” But he was ignoring her, letting out a piercing whistle.
“Hey, compadre, move that rust bucket so the doc’s lady can park her car!” he ordered in a loud voice. A spate of angry Spanish answered him, but one of the ancient cars pulled into the street in front of her, leaving her with just enough room to park the Range Rover.
“There you are. Nice car, lady. I like it better than the BMW. Is it new?”
“I stole it.”
The boy grinned. “Way to go, lady! We’ll make sure no one touches it. Just go on up and the doc’ll be home soon. If you want I can let you into his apartment. I know how to jimmy his locks.”
“That’s okay. I think I have a key.”
The boy grinned. “You go on up, lady. Don’t you worry about the car. We take care of our own, and if you’re Doc’s that makes you one of us.”
And for the first time in hours Rachel-Ann’s panic began to fade.
19
It came as no surprise when the strange key fit Rico’s door. She had no idea when he’d put it on the key ring, she only thanked God he had.
The apartment was still relatively neat, though there were dishes in the sink. She washed them. She wasn’t quite sure why—it just seemed like the thing to do. She wandered into the living room, over to the wall of bookshelves.
She turned on the TV, but he only got three channels and they were grainy. No Weather Channel. She flicked it off again, then her eyes narrowed as she looked at the photographs on the shelf. There was Consuelo and Jaime, older than when she’d last seen them, looking happy and secure. One of Rico and a pretty young woman holding on to his arm. And one of Rachel-Ann, no more than sixteen years old, young and innocent and still hopeful.
She wasn’t sure which picture bothered her more—the unknown woman clinging so happily to Rico, or the image of a youthful Rachel-Ann.
She took the afghan off the sofa and set it carefully on the desk, just as he had the night before. She opened up the sofa, stripped off all her clothes and crawled beneath the covers, waiting for him in the darkness.
Half an hour later, she got up, put her underwear back on, and got back in bed.
An hour later she got up and pulled the skimpy dress back on. Her panty hose were shredded, and she tossed them in the trash. It was cool in the apartment, or maybe