Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
When he first arrived in the Tucson area, Beaufort had checked into a motel in Catalina, this one just about a mile away from his target. His goal was to find someone he could live with for free rather than pay for a room. She needed to be old enough so she wouldn’t laugh in his face, but young enough and good-looking enough that she could still believe she was worth it. No hookers. Tits would be nice but not essential. Sometimes women with big tits thought too much of themselves and got picky because they thought if you had those you could snag a guy with them any time you wanted.
He had gotten some new clothes, khaki trousers and a navy blue jacket at a local thrift shop called the Golden Goose, good-looking but not flashy enough to draw the wrong kind of attention.
It didn’t take long. He found her about seven miles away at one A.M. on a Thursday, an hour before the bar closed, when the good girls had gone home and the bad ones hadn’t given up hope.
Except for having some Mexican name like most bars in the area, this bar at the corner of Oracle and Houghton didn’t pretend to be upscale by having a theme, like the maritime theme at Pelican Pub. The theme here was Bar, pure and simple. A couple of men were left, looking so low they’d have to reach up just to tie their shoes. Losers. There were four women, two sitting across from each other in a booth, one jabbering loudly to the other that she shouldn’t go home to that creep, any guy who’d hit a woman blah blah blah she deserved better than that.
Another woman who looked like prime property sat alone in another booth. Her clothes were tight but not slutty, clearly giving it away rather than selling it. A little grim faced, staring into her whisky on the rocks like it was a crystal ball and the fortune was bad. He arced his way leisurely toward her booth, and ran his fingertips over the edge of the table, to send a message. She didn’t look up when she said, “Get lost.”
Women had changed since the seventies, Beaufort thought. Better know that now than waste his time with a bitch. He turned his attention to the only other woman. She was sitting at the bar, and that was a good thing. Being alone at a bar at one A.M. signified a lot of things.