Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [31]
In the shade of the truck's interior, Paul fumbled around until he located the right order. Hefting the box, he closed the truck. As an added precaution, Dugan primed the alarm system. After what happened this morning, he knew it was wise to be careful.
Whistling tunelessly, Paul carried the boxes to the gate, pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled immediately. "Yeah? Hello..."
"Fit-Chef," Paul replied. The lock clicked and he pushed through the metal gate, entering a circular plaza surrounded by townhouses. In the center of the complex, the blue waters of a swimming pool shimmered invitingly, though the poolside was as deserted as the streets outside.
Tiffany's was the fourth door to the left, but Paul didn't need to press the doorbell. She stood outside, awaiting her delivery. Even without makeup, Tiffany Baird was a stunner. Today she wore a baby blue nylon kimono that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were naked, tiny feet slipped into matching blue plastic flip-flops. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail that spilled down her shapely back, held in place by an elastic hair band. Once again Paul noticed the third finger of her left hand lacked a ring.
Tiffany Baird greeted him with a smile that was tempered with surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"Hello, Miss Baird," Paul replied. "I guess I got lucky."
"I thought that Mexican kid was delivering today."
Paul frowned. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were disappointed to see me."
"Not at all," Tiffany cried, pushing an unruly lock of hair away from her face. "It's just that the delivery is coming so late and all, I figured something must have happened."
Dugan handed her the package. She set it down on a plastic lawn chair, signed the electronic manifest he presented.
"Actually, Ignacio's day turned to crap," Dugan said. "His truck got jacked a couple of hours ago. The punk who stole it pistol whipped Iggy, put him in the hospital."
Tiffany ripped the lid off the box. "Jesus. Ain't nobody safe?" she grunted.
"Apparently not," Dugan replied. "It's crazy, too. It's not like he's driving a Brinks truck, just a shit load of diet food — er, pardon my French."
Tiffany sniffed, frowning at the contents of a plastic container. "Edamame again. They call this protein?"
Paul watched her rummage through the box, realized she wore nothing under the thin kimono.
"If you ever get sick of that rabbit food, let me know. I'll buy you a steak at Smith and Wollensky's."
The bold invitation had come out of Paul's mouth before he realized what he was saying. Now, face flushed with embarrassment, he waited for the polite rebuff — and felt like kicking himself.
Tiffany licked teriyaki sauce off her fingers. Then she grinned. "Fit-Chef is a real full service company, huh?"
"I... I'm sorry," he stammered.
"Don't be," Tiffany replied, tapping his nametag with an ebony enameled finger. "In fact, you better watch yourself, Mr. Dugan. I might just take you up on your offer."
Dugan blinked. "How about this Saturday?"
Tiffany's grin broadened. "How about Sunday. I work Fridays and Saturdays."
Paul nodded, speechless.
"You've got my phone number in that little computer of yours," Tiffany said, hefting her delivery. "Give me a call on Friday and we'll set a time."
Dugan stood blinking in the sun for a full thirty seconds after Tiffany Baird closed her front door. Finally he turned and, whistling again, headed back to the truck.
Crossing the sidewalk, Paul Dugan was too distracted to notice the late-model black Ford Explorer with tinted windows parked across the street. Still lost in a fog of euphoria, he deactivated the alarm and unlocked the door.
A shadow suddenly crossed the sun, then something exploded inside Paul Dugan's head. A sharp jolt of pain roiled his spine. His knees gave out and he dropped to the hot asphalt. Seemingly in slow motion, he reached out to steady