Page 8 of Hotter than Wildfire

Montez tapped the photo. “Is that Ellen Palmer?”

Fisher’s eyes widened. “No,” he said then held up his restrained hands in defence when Trey’s hand moved back. “Don’t hit me! I know her as Irene Ball. She uses the name Eve for her singing. I’ve never heard the name Ellen Palmer.”

Trey looked at him and Montez nodded slightly. Trey’s hand went down and the dickhead’s breath whooshed out in relief.

“So.” Montez leaned forward a little. “How did you meet her and where?”

Fisher was moving into familiar territory, Montez could tell. He even relaxed a little, which just went to prove that civilians were terminally stupid.

“I’m a talent agent, working out of Seattle. You ever hear of Broken Monkeys or Pursuit or Isabel?” Fuckhead actually looked hopefully at Montez, trying to impress him. Montez simply stared at him until his eyes dropped to his knees. “Well…” he drew in a deep breath. “I make the rounds of clubs and bars, because the Seattle music scene is great and throws up a lot of talent. One night I was in this club, the Blue Moon. I was there to talk to a guy, not talent scout. Blue Moon’s had this pathetic singer for like, forever, got no voice and his keyboard playing sucks, but what the fuck? Beer’s good and the chairs are comfortable. I’m thinking, talk to my guy and get out. Only turns out the singer was dead and this chick is singing. And man…halfway into her cover of Every Move You Make and I knew she was gold, pure gold. Asked the owner who she was and he shrugged. Said she was one of the waitresses, girl just showed up one day. Didn’t have papers or nothing, but the owner—he’s not particular. Half his staff is off the books. Five minutes after she started singing, there wasn’t a sound in the club, and when she finished, she got a standing ovation. Never seen anything like it. So I go over to her, thinking she’s unknown, she’s hungry—she’s a fucking waitress for Christ’s sake!—I’ll sign her up and she’ll be grateful, know what I mean?”

Fisher looked around, searching for a little male solidarity. Montez shook his head. It was going to be a pleasure ridding the world of this shithead.

“Go on,” he said quietly. “You signed her up, correct?”

“Yeah, but man did that bitch drive a hard bargain.” A grating whining note crept into his voice. “Most musicians, they don’t know dick about the music business, they learn as they go along. Some of them never learn. But Irene—Eve—shit, it was like she was born to it. She negotiated the toughest contract I’ve ever seen, right down the line. Boy does that bitch know her numbers.”

Yes, indeed, Montez thought sourly. The bitch knows her numbers. And mine.

“And that was the easy part. Because when I started talking gigs and recordings, man she just went wild. Laid down the law. No concerts, only recordings. Recording studio had to be emptied out, musicians and sound engineer in another room with a separate entrance. And no interviews, no photos, no website, no nothing. That was her iron-cast bottom line and I tell you, I nearly walked away because who needs this shit. But then, hell—" The idiot smiled reminiscently, forgetting where he was. “That first album went gold, the second platinum. It was a smart marketing ploy.”

This was getting tedious. Montez wanted to wrap it up.

“So…where does this Irene, or Eve, live?”

Fisher shook his head. “No fucking idea.”

Trey’s blow drew blood this time. When the idiot stopped screaming, Montez tried again.

“Where does she live?”

“I don’t fucking know!” he shouted. “She wouldn’t tell me! The address in the contract is a PO Box in Seattle. No one knows where she lives.”

Fisher was too much of a coward to lie. Shit.

“What’s her cell phone number?”

Fisher’s eyes lit with hope. He rattled off a number with a Seattle prefix and Montez realized that was about all he was going to get out of this fuckhead.

“Okay, we’re done here.” Montez stood, and Fisher’s eyes followed him eagerly. Idiot thought the whole thing was over. Montez glanced at Trey. “Take care of this,” he said quietly, and exited the room.

He could barely hear the shot out in the corridor. Trey used a suppressor, just like he’d been told.

San Diego

April 6

Ellen Palmer checked the address on the small brass plaque outside an elegant, super-modern building in downtown San Diego against the scrawled words torn off a napkin and verified that they were the same.

She didn’t need to do that. She had a near-photographic memory, and if a number was involved, she never forgot it, ever.

Morrison Building, 1147 Birch Street.

Yes, that was it.

Ellen recognized what she was doing. She was stalling, which was unlike her. She was alive because she’d been able to take decisions fast and act on them immediately. She’d have been six feet under if she hadn’t acted fast. Stalling was unlike her.

But she was so damned tired. Tired of running, tired of lying, tired of keeping her head down, in the most literal sense of the term. Security cameras were everywhere these days and her enemy had a powerful face recognition program. For the past year, she’d rarely presented her naked face in public in daylight.