Adieu Warm Sunshine

  Adieu Warm Sunshine

  by C. E. Case

  Supposed Crimes LLC

  Matthews, North Carolina

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2016 C. E. Case

  Published in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-938108-17-4

  For mom,

  Who introduced me to heroines

  and took me to the theater.

  Chapter One

  The sound of the gun was deafening. Even with her mufflers on, Sunny's ears rang, and her arms ached from the position and recoil. She yanked her mufflers off. "This sucks."

  "You missed by three feet," Vash said.

  She hadn't even hit the target. Just the wall. She sighed. She'd been to her first gun range before she was ten. She was a sharpshooter in college. She had even once taught shooting to fresh recruits. And now, one broken and healed wrist later, she couldn't hit a paper target. Too many tremors if she tried to squeeze.

  The sergeant walked past. "Empty the clip. This is a timed test."

  She raised her gun. Vash grabbed her mufflers and put them over her ears then adjusted his. She squeezed the trigger five times. The paper fluttered twice.

  Vash winced.

  The sergeant passed by again. "Passed. Sign this form." He offered Sunny a pen.

  "I didn't hit anything."

  "Sign here."

  Vash nudged her.

  She signed.

  The sergeant walked on.

  "Should I report that to someone?" she asked.

  "Why? It seems like a nice benefit to being on the DOJ payroll instead of the NYPD."

  She shook her head. "He probably does that to everyone."

  "Not me." Vash folded his arms. "Maybe it's a race thing."

  She snorted. "Or a gender thing."

  "Don't tell me your pretty little wrists don't hurt."

  "They do. A lot. Lunch?"

  "We're not getting any actual work done today. Why not?"

  "Mandatory training is mandatory," Sunny said.

  "Apparently not, from what we just saw."

  They headed out of the range and into the street.

  Sunny mulled it over, frowning. Her DOJ status as a loan to the NYPD's racketeering division was about as secret as the fact that she never carried a gun. Too afraid she might use it. In two years at the CIA and ten at the DOJ, she'd never needed a weapon at all.

  "My charm dissuades all criminals."

  "I think that's my charm," Vash said.

  She shrugged. Liaison or partner or whatever, Vash didn't go with her on every case. And she pulled rank whenever his street work was too boring. But they'd brought down a couple of mobsters, ever so politely, while they brought her in to speak Persian to immigrants charged with traffic violations or domestic disputes. One little old lady had embezzled 100K from her son's laundromat job while doing the books. Sunny had screamed RICO, and no one had listened. Just a slap on the wrist. Even though that was her whole job. She had never been asked to court to testify.

  "You're frowning," Vash said.

  "I am questioning my purpose."

  "Again?"

  "I'm about to turn thirty-five. Do I want to be a fake spook forever?"

  "Fake spook. I like that. Look, if shooting weren't hard, we wouldn't miss all the time."

  "I don't want to shoot anyone."

  "So what are you thinking about?" Ash asked.

  "Law school?"

  "Sunny, Sunny. You just need a good case. Something investigatory."

  "You're the detective, remember?"

  "But you rock the paperwork. Which is so important with a federal indictment."

  "Maybe you're right. I need a real case. Do you know how many hits the Patriot Act has brought up?"

  "No. No, I wouldn't know that. I swear." Vash put his hands up.

  She didn't even bother smirking. "Zero. Zilch. Nada. DOJ on the ground in NYC is great in theory, but..."

  "Please don't tell me you want another attack."

  "No, of course not. But if there is one, the falafel guys in the Theater District have it covered. Maybe I need to work in Vegas, where the real crooks are."

  "You'll never get funding. It's Muslim or get out, and you definitely don't want to live in Detroit."

  "Lions over the Jets any day."

  "Watch your mouth."

  She sighed, and looked at the river as they passed on their leisurely stroll to the subway station. She'd been made redundant, shipped off to the backwaters of crime, unneeded when the NYPD Blue had it all under control. She was just part of the system. New York felt small.

  #

  Angela Stellar was swathed in darkness as the curtain came down, muffling the sound of the politely-clapping crowd. No standing ovation this time. She took a deep breath and scurried to the wings as the lights came back on. Her wig, too, stayed on. God forbid she do curtain call as herself rather than a character. Someone else. The audience might realize she was a living, breathing girl. Assholes.

  A stage hand loosened her bustle and massaged her neck.

  The curtain went back up and the dancers filled the stage.

  Fucking dancing.

  She had always been a terrible dancer, but her voice and her acting—oh, how she could make the tears come at will—had gotten her here. To her third big leading role in a show. Her third show that would probably close in less than six months.

  Like all shows did, but she took it personally. If she couldn't sell seats, she'd have to go back home.

  Anger stewed in her as the dancers spun and took bows. Pamela Costis—in far less makeup than she'd had on before, so people could see her face, against regulation—took a great bow to a smattering of applause. Angela smirked. Pamela had tried to upstage her again.

  How Angela, the supposed star, didn't have enough clout to get the twirler fired was yet another source of rage. Pamela was making union minimum and trying to upstage her every night.

  Angela had never had to upstage anyone. She had been born a star. She hadn't stepped on any toes. She'd worked hard to earn her spot. Pamela clearly wasn't of the same breed. An obvious thing to spot, working on Broadway.

  Pamela couldn't sing.

  Dancers didn't do benefits. Singers did. Like Angela. Pamela was essentially worthless, and yet she'd been allowed to wash her face. Angela balled her fists.

  Her cue came, and she waddled out onto stage, smiling at the half-empty audience, taking a bow much less grandiose and more polite than Pamela's. After the show, she had to shower and sign autographs—no matter how small the production, obsessed fans always came. Angela simply found them creepy, but just like Pamela, they were another burden of the job she had to deal with tonight. Her life certainly wasn't what she expected. But the pay was good for Manhattan, and she supposed she could rely on that.

  A thousand dollars a show. At least something was worthy of her. Pamela probably made four hundred a week. That was a satisfying thought, and it brought a genuine smile to her lips.

  She took an encore bow and waved to the crowd, making eye contact and pretending to give well-wishes to each face that lit up.

  The curtain hit the floor.

  She yanked off her wig and stalked backstage, ignoring the pats on the back and the calls of "Great show!"

  Great shows meant nothing if no one came to see them. None of the professional bootleggers had even bothered to come tape it. How was she going to get on YouTube?

  The reviews had been poor, as the article taped to her dressing r
oom door showed. But she had been singled out.

  She was worthy.

  Derek stopped her before she shut her door. "I need you to do something for me tonight."

  It was always something, wasn't it?

  She slammed the door in his face. But she would do it anyway. She had to.

  Being a diva sucked.

  Her dressing room was full of photographs and roses. She inhaled their scent. Perfect. The shower, water lukewarm, as always, because the damned dancers couldn't wait their turn, sluiced away the makeup with the right application cream. She scrubbed. She was becoming herself, slowly, surely. Becoming who she was meant to be.

  One day she'd sing the Star Spangled Banner in front of a snowy football game with a hundred million people watching. That's what all the voice coaches were for. That's what all the good reviews were for.

  Maybe she'd try out for The Voice. Or even better, The Amazing Race. Maybe Pamela could be her partner.

  She snorted.

  Right now, it just wasn't enough. It wasn't enough money, it wasn't enough fame. Hell, the nights she had to walk home or take the subway, it wasn't even enough New York. Even if she could order Chinese at three in the morning.

  Not tonight. If Derek needed a favor, he'd arrange a car for her. A black car with leather seats and an English-speaking driver. Who cared if it was Uber, off his credit card, and not paid for by the show? Elegance was elegance.

  It was her only taste of it. On Derek's behalf. But that was okay, because at least he treated her like a star.

  She'd do what she'd have to do and be showered, clean, and ready to take on the night.

  #

  "Pam!" came the cry before she was fully out the door. Then a more polite, "Pamela!"

  Pamela almost didn't recognize her own name. There were over a million people within a mile of her, and she was a lowly dancer. On the second try, she lifted her head and tracked the sound to find Millie waving cheerfully from behind the barricade.

  Pamela went over, not smiling, still startled and wary. She had enough gumption to say, "Hey, Millie, how's it going?" by rote. She could deal with fans.

  "You were fantastic tonight!"

  Pamela's smile then appeared. How could it not? Rare was the fan that could identify the dancers. Rarer still were the ones who cared. Millie was a dancer groupie, which meant she'd figured out that befriending the lower members of the pack might get her access to the higher, the actors who made five figures per show. Pamela hated their guts, but their fans were all right.

  "Thanks," she said and let herself beam.

  "Where was Roger?" Millie asked, worry showing in her face.

  Pamela hesitated. "He got fired."

  "Oh." Millie flushed. She didn't ask why. There were rules for fan friends.

  Pamela leaned closer. "Drugs."

  "Oh." Millie's expression turned to disappointment.

  Eric came out the stage door, all bravado and armor of a leading man who was, in fact, terribly shy and introverted, who'd found an escape through acting, who'd been bullied throughout school for his size and affectation, who was actually straight, though some people would never be convinced.

  He wore his good looks readily enough, that's what the degree in theater taught him, but the swarm of boys and girls around him was baffling.

  Pamela understood.

  Millie straightened up from the barricade when she saw him.

  "It was good to see you, Pamela," Millie said.

  "You too."

  Millie slunk along the barricade toward the star, elbowing less aggressive people out of her way.

  Pamela surveyed for anyone else who needed her attention. Finding no one, she stepped down the makeshift corridor to the end, away from the crowd, but not away from the theater. She was undecided what to do. In New York there were plenty of options at midnight on a Thursday night.

  She leaned back against the brick wall, slouching slightly. She'd showered and let her hair down, put on just enough makeup to justify working in a glamorous field, and got comfortable jeans that suited the oddly warm—well, not cold—November night.

  Angela came out of the stage door in a fur coat—only a goddamn starlet could get away with a fur coat, fake or not—and smiled and touched outstretched hands and apologized profusely, a bright smile on her face, before stepping into a waiting town car.

  "Bitch," Pamela muttered.

  Even Eric looked embarrassed as a wave of fans turned from him to her and then, upon her leaving, turned back to him. Second string. A group of girls were squealing over being so close to Angela, their idol. A veteran theater-goer had caught Eric's eye, and they were sharing a good-natured eye roll.

  Pamela felt alone. Dancers and musicians passed her with barely a grunt, instruments banging her and the barricade. The choreographer slipped by without anyone but her noticing. As his retreating back moved toward the subway, Pamela regretted not seeing if he wanted dinner. He probably didn't.

  She looked at her fingernails as she contemplated. Black. Mandatory. She didn't want to take the train home and sleep. She wasn't even tired.

  Another town car took position at the curb. Pamela and Eric took no notice until a minute passed and no driver had gotten out to hold the door and the grand dame, Madge Winward, didn't appear. Pamela vaguely remembered she was going out the front tonight for a press dinner. Eric had said as much when he popped out, to dissuade anyone waiting.

  The public entrance was on another side of the building. One out-of-place car shouldn't matter, but it was just interesting enough to stimulate Pamela into attention. Better than staring at her fingernails, at least. She literally didn't have anything better to do.

  She had convinced herself it was a car bomb by the time the driver's side door opened and a tall, dark-haired woman in an elegant suit got out and looked directly at her.

  Pamela's eyes widened. She felt free to stare back under that obvious invitation to look and straightened up slightly when the stranger's gaze didn't turn to Eric or security or anyone else. Just her.

  The woman wore a blue scarf over a black shirt that accentuated pale skin. Pamela couldn't see the color of the woman's eyes, but they were piercing even from a distance. She slowly realized that the woman was attracted to her, looking her up and down with an intensity Pamela had felt before. Lust surged through her in response, unwelcome and uninvited. Feelings she couldn't have for the beautiful-but-off-limits Angela or her co-swing Brie, the other specimens she was surrounded with every day, freed themselves upon a stranger's fantasy. It was obvious, too, that the woman had money, which was an attraction in itself. She had a lot Pamela didn't, and Pamela suddenly wanted it. With that steady look, a thousand possibilities made themselves known.

  So she cocked her head.

  The woman smiled and nodded toward the passenger door.

  Pamela glanced around, waiting for someone to stop her, but even Eric gave her a wink. That, at least, reassured her that the car and the woman were real. She shrugged and walked forward, checking her pocket for her phone and her Visine, before pulling open the door and slipping inside. The woman joined her on the driver's side.

  The woman offered a hand. "Hi, I'm Sunny."

  Pamela barked a laugh. "Sunny? That's a—" Stripper name, she bit back. This woman was definitely not a stripper. She took the proffered hand.

  "It's a long story," Sunny said. Her fingers were cool against Pamela's, and Pamela wondered how they'd feel all over her.

  She smiled. "I'm Pamela."

  "Nice to meet you."

  "You too. What are you doing on Broadway on a Thursday night? Are you a limo driver?"

  Sunny shook her head. "It's another long story."

  "I'm going to have to get used to that answer."

  Sunny dropped her head and gave Pamela a long gaze. "Yes," she said. Mirth shone in her eyes, but her tone of voice was serious.

  Pamela had an out. Did she want to go home with a perfect stranger who was saying she would sta
y a stranger? Maybe Sunny was a stage name. Pamela didn't regret giving her own, though. She had thought by getting into the car she was buying some glamorous reality, but this was just going to be a fantasy.

  "Works for me," she said. "Are you clean?"

  Sunny looked toward the road and the cars in front of them. "Yes. You?"

  "No STDs," Pamela said, feeling evasive for the first time. "I'm really more of a serial monogamist. Ironically." Apparently, if her tall, dark stranger wasn't going to share, Pamela was going to overcompensate.

  Sunny nodded. "I don't do this a lot either. I'm very focused on my work."

  One of those, Pamela thought. "Sure, yeah. I work every night, so I rarely meet people outside the industry."

  "A good way to put it."

  But here they were.

  Sunny started the car.

  #

  Sunflower "Sunny" Darling drove toward Wall Street. Once past 34th street, the traffic cleared up, and the ride went swiftly. Too swiftly to give her much time to think. She was in the car with a stranger she hadn't vetted, hadn't screened, hadn't investigated. A potential danger.

  But she'd swept her gaze over the group milling outside the stage door, looking for threats—hazards ranging from shooters to panhandlers—and had only seen her. The blonde studying her fingernails with a far-away look, radiating warmth in the cold night, with a curve to her jaw that made Sunny feel—

  Was she really carried away by someone's jaw? She risked a glance at Pamela. The jaw was just an ordinary jaw. But then Pamela, feeling her gaze, smiled at her with curled lips and green eyes, and Sunny felt the thing again.

  Safety. Not danger.

  She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safe. Long before she'd joined the Company. So she invited the creature into her car and was shocked when Pamela accepted.

  She wanted to interrogate Pamela. Why had she gotten into the car? What was she thinking? Did she really just want a one night stand that badly? Pamela had said otherwise, but the warmth that had come on in the street was now heat, and Sunny sensed blood pounding toward an inevitable conclusion. What was going on? Had she been made?

  Her enemy, she thought, would never come in the form of a blonde on Broadway.

  "What do you do?" Her opening gambit. A perfectly American thing to ask.