She sucked in a deep breath and jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He crumpled back with a whoof of surprise. She leaped ahead, heard the slap of leather as the security guard chased her. Jim shouted something inarticulate, and she glanced back to see him urging on the guard while he faded back around the corner. He’d be okay.

Now all she had to do was run.

Truthfully, her ankle felt like burning sticks and baling wire, popping when she put her weight on it. The pain made her off-balance, and she stiff-armed the doors awkwardly; the massive pane of glass swung out and hummed like a bell when it hit a doorstop. She sprinted out into a wall of freezing wind.

The guard was close enough that she heard him grunt with effort. Her ankle popped again, a hot thick sound in the night air. Overhead, the moon glared, bloody with the edge of sunset.

A ghostly sea of cars and thick shadows. People walking to or from them stared as she ran, darting between rows of Cadillacs and BMWs and Infinitis; a few ticked like bombs as their engines cooled. She ducked behind a smoke-tinted gray Volvo and carefully peeked around for the guard.

He stood in the middle of the row, scanning cars. He had one hand in his jacket. Jesus, was he armed? He could have shot her. She felt a wave of weakness and ducked as his gaze swept her direction.

A police car, lights flashing cheery red and blue, turned in from the highway and cruised toward her. Robby swallowed hard and flattened out on the gritty asphalt, slid under the Volvo. The engine was still welcomely warm. She lay on her back in a sticky smear of oil, and breathed shallow gasps that tasted of exhaust.

The patrol car cruised by, tires crunching. She folded her arms over her chest and waited, staring blankly at the blackened metal hovering a few inches above her nose.

Jim would have disposed of the wallets by now, changed clothes, exited at the other side of the mall. He’d be catching a bus.

Robby blew out her breath and grimaced as a drop of warm sticky oil fell on her forehead and oozed into her hair.

She remembered, for no particular reason, the lost look on Velvet’s face as she’d left her there on the corner.

Chapter Seventeen

Sol

The hooker did a lot of bargain shopping. Sol Lip-sky glared at the picture hanging crookedly on the wall by her front door—big-eyed fluffy cats in a flaking gold frame—and rummaged through the mail lying on the battered table. Sales circulars. Electric bill. An offer to apply for a secured credit card. A letter from somebody who used cheap white envelopes and blue ballpoints—Mom, he decided. Handwriting too good for anybody younger.