Slap. Slap. Slap.
Brandi Potts’s new running shoes pinched her toes a little and were getting wet as she ran through the city streets. It was later than she liked to run, as it was after midnight. If she weren’t so fast and didn’t always travel with her small canister of pepper spray, she might have been worried. But tonight, pounding through the Portland streets, music pulsing from her iPhone, she felt invincible, just as she always did when her endorphins kicked in. Right now, with the rainfall increasing and only a couple of miles left on her run, those little feel-goods were definitely horse-kicking in.
Around a corner, across a street against the light, faster and faster she tore along the sidewalks and paths, feeling the exhilaration of rain against her face, listening to an up-tempo song from Katy Perry as she cut through the park. The thought of a hot shower, good book, and tumbling into bed were her incentive. That, and needing to have a personal best in her next race.
Soon.
She had her eye on her next marathon. Okay, really if you wanted to get technical, a half marathon, but still. Thirteen-plus miles was nothing to sneeze at, even if her never-going-to-commit boyfriend, Jeff, thought the race was child’s play. What a jerk. She called him a running snob to his face and something a little harsher behind his back. She should break up with him. But after she’d finished her full marathon. Only then. Take that, Jeffrey-Boy!
To train for the upcoming race she was into power walking, racewalking, and, of course, running, which was her workout for tonight though she would have rather avoided this section of town where that damned near-murder took place on the set of Dead Heat. Dodging a crazy-ass bicyclist who streaked past, tires zinging in the rain, caused her to veer, shorten her stride. She nearly stumbled, then caught herself and swore. “Bastard! Jerkwad idiot!” Seemingly oblivious, he sped off, gliding away, leaving her seething as she turned down the street where one of the key scenes in Dead Heat had been filmed, the very spot where the terrible accident had taken place. Her guts clenched as she thought of the day. She’d been there as an extra in the movie. She’d seen Lucinda Rinaldi stagger and fall, and had immediately sensed something was seriously wrong.
Now, as Brandi found her stride again, she thought about that accident. The police had quickly deduced that Sig Masters, the actor who had fired the gun, hadn’t known the weapons had been switched. Brandi wondered. She’d never liked Masters, considered him a bit of a bully. And he was an actor, so he could probably fool the cops. The only problem was why would he do it?
Motive, motive, motive!
Dead Heat’s last scene had been changed so many times, who could tell who the intended victim was? Maybe Lucinda Rinaldi, another A-one bitch, had just been caught in the crossfire, literally in the wrong place at the wrong time. At one point Cassie Kramer’s character was supposed to be the second runner, then Allie’s, in a reversal of the sequence during the reshoot. Maybe Sig hoped to kill Cassie or Allie. God knew the two sisters were insufferable in different ways. Cassie, not much of an actress and a mental case to boot, now fancied herself to be a scriptwriter. As if. Then there was Allie, an egomaniac’s egomaniac. It was as if Allie had to prove to everyone else, or maybe herself, that she was a certifiable star.
Brandi turned her head and spit at the thought, never breaking stride. Thinking of the Kramer sisters made her grimace. She didn’t like either one. Having both Allie and Cassie on the same film, in Brandi’s estimation, had been a recipe for disaster. And she’d been right. What had Karen Stenowick been thinking? Casting the two siblings in the same film had been a colossal mistake. Brandi thought the idea of putting the two women in the same film had been a ploy for publicity, as Cassie couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. There had been rumors Dean Arnette had wanted to lure Jenna Hughes back to the screen by offering her the bit part of psycho aunt to the heroine. Jenna, another head case, had refused and the part had been written out.
All in all, Dead Heat might end up being a complete disaster and Lucinda Rinaldi almost paid the ultimate price.
Well, it was all water under the celluloid bridge now.
Brandi kept running.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
But thoughts of the accident kept coming to mind as she now was on the same flippin’ street where it had all come down. During the filming she’d sensed the electricity of the set filmed in a real storm, though the lightning and thunder had been faked, of course. But the Portland drizzle, enhanced by sprinklers, had added to the dark mood.
Tonight no one, not one damned soul, was on the street, yet she suddenly had the eerie sensation that someone was watching her. She glanced around quickly. Saw no one. Nonetheless the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. As much as she tried to convince herself that her fears where hyped because of the horrendous accident on the set, that her mind was playing tricks on her, she was still unnerved.
Something was wrong here.
Something evil lurked in the darkened facades of the stores and shops, she could feel it.
The skin on the back of her arms prickled.
Turning down the music, she listened hard. Nothing out of the ordinary. All she heard were raindrops splashing on the ground, water gurgling in gutters and downspouts, her own breathing and . . . were there other footsteps? Quick-paced? Running? She swept her gaze anxiously side to side.
The street was empty.
Just as it was supposed to have been when Lucinda Rinaldi was shot.
A cold stone settled in the pit of her stomach. She kept moving, kicking it up a notch, her shoes hitting hard against the wet concrete. Only about a mile and a half to go. Then she’d be home where she’d lock the door behind her, tear off her wet clothes, and hit the shower.
Maybe she’d indulge in one glass of wine. Maybe two. Just to calm her jangled nerves.
The night closed in around her, streetlamps glowing ethereally in the dampness, the air heavy in her lungs, but despite the cold, she was sweating, moving through the city. Gritting her teeth she started up the slight hill, felt the strain in her calves and thighs.
Work through it. Push yourself. Show stupid smart-ass Jeff what you can do!
Again she heard the sound of footsteps but she attempted to ignore the ridiculous feeling that someone was following her. Come on, who could keep up with her anyway? She chided herself for her case of nerves.
Even if someone else was running, big deal.
It was the damned city, right?
People were out at all hours doing all sorts of things, including getting their miles in. Unless the other runner had a machete or a gun, he had the right to tear up the streets just as she was doing.