Deadly Intent by Christiane Heggan

snapped shut. “All I have is
    thirty thousand dollars plus interest in zero coupons and a thirteen-thousand-dollar CD that doesn’t mature until three years from now.”
    Ian remained perfectly still. “I can cash both,” she continued in the same commanding tone. “I made some calculations and the total should come to approximately forty eight thousand dollars.”
    She saw him wince.
    “Take it or leave it.” She offered no apology, made no request for mercy. Both would have been useless.
    “What about a loan from your bank?” he said at last. “You’re somebody in this town. You’ve got clout, collateral.”
    “I went there this morning. They turned me down. With my business loan and the mortgage on the house, I’m overextended.”
    She folded her arms and watched him, feeling a perverse pleasure at the look of disbelief and disappointment on his face. It felt good to have the tables reversed for a change. How long that would last, however, was anyone’s guess.
    When Ian spoke again, his voice was surprisingly subdued. “How soon can I have the money?”
    She fought back a sigh of relief. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how frightened she had been that he would turn her offer down. “I’ll have to check with the bank, but probably no later than Friday afternoon.”
    “I’ll be here at four.”
    “No.” Her sharp tone made him cock his head. “You’ve caused me enough trouble by coming here. Just tell me where you’re staying and I’ll bring the money over.”
    He hesitated as though suspecting she might pull some kind of trick.
    “Don’t worry,” she said. “Unlike you, I’m a person of
    my word. If I tell you I’ll be there with the money, I’ll be there. Just make sure you have my mother’s letter—the original—with you.”
    He took another two or three seconds to answer. “I’m staying at the Clearwater Motel on Route 27.”
    She nodded. “I’ll be there at three-thirty. I’ll call if there are any changes.”
    “What kind of changes?”
    “I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “My schedule doesn’t revolve around you, Ian. Problems occur.”
    He stood up and walked around the desk. “See that they don’t.”
    Eleven
    Ian got behind the wheel of Rose’s Oldsmobile and glanced at the dash clock. Shit, he was late again. True to her word, Rose had started making the rounds of beauty salons in search of a job and had asked him to bring the car back by one. Well, let her stew. He didn’t give a fuck. His sweet deal was beginning to turn sour and he didn’t know what the hell to do about it.
    Finding out he’d be getting less than half what he had expected had been a huge disappointment. At first he hadn’t believed Abbie. Forty-eight grand. She had to be shitting him. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized she wasn’t lying. She was what you called house poor. In her case, house and business poor.
    Forty-eight thousand dollars was still a lot of money. More than he’d ever had in his life. And since he had never intended to split it with Earl, it was all his. But his bad luck hadn’t stopped there. Earlier today, he had learned through Rose’s cousin in Toledo that Arturo Garcia had showed up at her house, put a knife to her throat and demanded to know where Ian was. Marie, who was afraid of her own shadow, had claimed to have had no choice but to tell him the truth.
    Ian had almost pissed in his pants. Now that Arturo knew he was in Princeton, he’d call every fricking motel in the area until he found him.
    Common sense told him to get the hell out of Dodge. Hanging around until Friday wasn’t healthy. On the other hand, how far could he get on fifty-nine dollars? He pulled the money from his pants pocket and counted it again. The small roll hadn’t magically fattened overnight. Count it any way you want, it still came to fifty-nine stinking bucks. Even if Rose found a job today, she wouldn’t be getting a paycheck until next