“So?” Jo demanded. “Is that name supposed to mean something? Who is he?”
“You know that empty lot down on Ocean Avenue—the one where the Italian restaurant used to be?”
“Yeah,” Jo said, bemused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken.
“Five years ago, the man who ran it was out for a jog with his dog. A passing car swerved and hit the dog. It could have been an accident, but the driver kept going—didn’t even bother to stop. As you can imagine, the dog’s owner was pissed as hell, so he did some detective work and found a surveillance camera that had caught the whole thing. He got the car’s license plate and filed suit against the owner. The case was settled for a few thousand dollars, and the guy figured everything was over and done with. Then, the same day he received the settlement check, he got word that the building that housed his restaurant had been sold to an anonymous buyer, and he had two days to vacate the premises. The same night the restaurant closed for good, the building was bulldozed. It’s been an empty lot for the last five years.”
“Let me guess. The car that hit the man’s dog was owned by Spencer Harding?”
“That’s right, and Chertov is his bodyguard.”
“His bodyguard?” Jo scoffed. “Who the hell is this guy—some kind of mobster?”
“No,” Perretta said. “Just a man with enough money to always get his way.”
Days later, Jo was still infuriated. Even the smoothie in her hand and Nessa’s presence couldn’t cool her down.
“What was I supposed to do?” she asked as they drove along the winding road through Nessa’s neighborhood. “Lose everything I’ve built over the last three years just to make a point?”
The two women had become fast friends, despite the fact that they had nothing in common. Less than a week had passed since they’d met, and they’d already developed a routine. Each afternoon, Nessa would walk down to the gym, they’d work out for an hour, then grab Purple Haze smoothies before Jo drove Nessa home.
“You called the Harding guy’s wife,” Nessa said. “You warned her.”
“Yeah.” Rosamund Harding had politely thanked Jo for calling and assured her it was all a misunderstanding. But she hadn’t been back to the gym since. “Maybe I’m just paranoid. I looked up Spencer Harding. He’s an art dealer, for God’s sake, not some kind of supervillain. But why is he sending some thug to hunt down his wife? It’s like the start of a Newsnight episode. This kind of shit is how women end up getting hurt. I shouldn’t have let the bodyguard get away with it.”
“Well, he didn’t get away with it completely,” Nessa pointed out. “You did kick his ass.”
Jo gasped. “Nessa,” she said. “Did you just say ass?”
“I did,” Nessa responded proudly, like a kid holding out a straight-A report card.
“Sweetheart, that is some motherfucking excellent progress.”
“Awww, thanks, baby,” Nessa cooed. “I owe it all to you.”
Jo turned her eyes back to the road and whistled. “Would you look at that.” She slowed the car down to appreciate the sight of Brendon Baker’s yard. A week had passed since she’d spotted Brendon doing battle with the giant plant in his lawn. Now no trace remained of his perfect green carpet of grass. Weeds bursting with spiny seedpods or shiny black berries now competed for every square inch of space. Poison ivy climbed the trees, and thick green stalks shot out of the earth, exploding into umbrellas of little white blooms ten feet off the ground. “Those giant flowers weren’t here the last time I drove by. I like them. They add a certain Seussian touch.”
“You haven’t spent much time in the country, have you? That’s hogweed,” Nessa informed her. “Brush up against it, and it’ll scar you for life. The rest of those plants are dangerous, too. Nightshade. Jimson weed. Hemlock. The guy who mows my lawn told me all the landscapers think Baker’s been cursed. That’s one of the reasons he can’t pay anyone to come clear it out.”