No One Needs to Know by Kevin O'Brien Read Free Book Online

installed in her apartment. She felt more vulnerable outside, away from home. Doing something to her car seemed the obvious choice for whoever wanted her dead.
    Setting the mystery package on the roof of the Saturn, Cheryl dug out her car keys. She imagined the bomb going off when she opened the door. The big storefront window to the post office would probably shatter from the explosion. On the street corner, she noticed a woman with an umbrella, holding a toddler by the hand. Cheryl waited until they crossed the street—away from the parking lot. Then she took a deep breath, unlocked the car door and opened it. No white flash, no thunderous boom, nothing. She was still standing—and in one piece.
    Cheryl grabbed the package, and slid inside behind the wheel. Dropping her purse on the floor, she set the parcel on the passenger seat. She checked under her dashboard, and didn’t see anything strange there. In the movies, it was almost always when the person turned the key in the ignition that the bomb went off. At least that was the way it was with Robert De Niro in Casino, and Sam Shepard in The Pelican Brief. Cheryl decided just to get it over with, and she slipped the key into the ignition and gave it a turn.
    The car started.
    She uttered a pathetic, little laugh. While the engine purred, rain tapped lightly on the car roof. Cheryl took a pocket knife from her purse, and cut open the parcel. Inside, she found a Tupperware cake container—with an envelope taped to the top. She pried off the lid, and got a whiff of something citrusy and sweet. It was a golden brown Bundt cake—saturated with orange or lemon juice or both—and drizzled with a sugary glaze. One look and one sniff, and Cheryl could tell whoever had made this knew how to make desserts.
    She pried the envelope off the Tupperware lid, opened it, and pulled out a postcard. It was a photo of one of those restaurants that went up about thirty years ago, trying to emulate a fifties diner. Emblazoned across the top of the card, it said:
     
SUPERSTAR DINER
Just Off I-90!
 
ELLENSBURG, WASHINGTON
     
    On the back of the card was a note:
     
Dear Cheryl,
Please help me get out of this place! Actually, I enjoy working here as a chef, but I’d love to be in Seattle, cooking for you at Grill Girl. Here is a sample of one of my desserts. But I’m very creative with sandwiches, too. If you’re interested, don’t hesitate to get in touch.
 
Bon appétit!
Laurie Trotter
 
PS: I read in Seattle Met mag that you’d love to cater a party for Gil Garrett. He’s my godfather & an old family friend!
     
    Cheryl broke off a piece of the cake, still moist—with just the right firmness along the glazed exterior. She took a bite, and closed her eyes.
    It was incredible.

C HAPTER F OUR
    Tuesday, June 3, 7:07 P.M.
    Kent, Washington
     
    “J ust wait. She’ll try to make out like it was our fault the wrong bitch got blown up. I’ll bet she wants us to whack this Cheryl Wheeler for free—or on the cheap. I say, no way. It was her mistake, and she should pay us full price to correct it.”
    In the car’s passenger seat, Keefe Grissom wondered if his work partner, Jay Trout, was even listening to him. Trout sat at the wheel, watching porn clips on his mobile device. “You like that?” the porn actor was asking, between grunts. The girl was panting and groaning in ecstasy.
    The silver Audi was parked by the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. They’d been sitting in the car with the engine off for about ten minutes. Graffiti covered the big door, crabgrass sprouted through the cracks in the driveway, and on the dock sat an old shopping cart full of rags and garbage some derelict must have left behind.
    Whenever they met with this client, she’d always set the meeting in some bizarre, godforsaken spot. Shit like that came with the job. They rarely knew the names of their contacts. They nicknamed this one Zelda. She didn’t know that, of course. She was a