Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“Not in a real warm, fuzzy place, huh?”

My attempt to lighten the mood failed miserably. He took another swing at my face, connecting harder this time. My cheek tingled with the shock of his blow. I tasted blood which tickled my chin as it dribbled from the corner of my mouth.

He pressed me against the stove. With his face an inch from mine, he whispered, “Cooper’s landlady told me you were in his room. Why don’t you save me the trouble of searching your little shithole apartment and tell me what you found there.”

“Just some papers,” I whispered.

“Nothing else? You’re sure?”

I nodded. I thought about the package I hadn’t received. Did it have what he was looking for?

“Wasn’t there a key with those papers?”

“What if there was?”

“Any idea what that key went to?”

“How would I know?”

He gritted his teeth in a menacing grin. “Anyone ever tell you you have an annoying habit of answering a question with another question?”

“Really?” I said, flinching when I realized I’d inadvertently done it again.

He grabbed my chin with one huge hand and squeezed, forcing me to look him in the eye.

“So you wouldn’t have any photographs or recordings from Cooper?”

“What would I be doing with those?”

He pressed harder. “Answer the goddamn question, counselor. Yes or no?”

“No.”

It was the truth, but his eyes narrowed and he said, “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” I sputtered. “I really don’t have anything like that.” Though I might have, if I’d been here earlier to sign for the package . . . .

He stared at me for a long moment. “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.”

He wrenched one of my arms behind my back, pinning it between me and the stove. The other, he held at the wrist. With his free hand, he flicked on a burner. “We’ll soon see how much you’ll tell.”

He started to push my hand toward the flame. I thrashed around, trying to free my legs enough to knee him in the balls, but he pressed me too tightly.

“Wait!” I cried in a desperate warble. “Okay, I know there was a key, but I don’t know what it unlocked. And I don’t have any photos or recordings. Don’t believe me? You can search this place and my office, but you won’t find them. Burning my hand won’t change that.”

He stopped, his gaze locked onto mine. “No, but it may teach you not to play with fire.”

I squirmed some more, mining every ounce of strength to keep my hand from the flame. As we struggled, someone knocked on the door.

Little D, perhaps. I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Whoever it was began pounding the door as if thrusting a battering ram against it. Between my screeching and the pounding, Oscar freaked out. He launched himself from the cabinet onto Diesel’s shoulder and dug his front claws into my attacker’s face. Diesel howled and stumbled, tripping on Oscar’s dish and flailing his arms. I leapt away from the stove and glimpsed Oscar streaking to safety as I fled the apartment. Passing Little D, who stood on the landing, cell phone pressed to his ear, I gasped, “He’s inside,” and ran downstairs.

Diesel barreled out of the apartment and hit Little D in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. I looked up the stairwell and glimpsed Little D, lying in a heap as the killer lunged for the stairs. I ducked down the steps leading to the basement apartments and cowered. After Diesel left the building, I exhaled and emerged from the stairwell to find Little D recovering. He limped down the stairs and joined me on the ground floor landing in time to watch a black compact burning rubber out of the lot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Little D didn’t hang around for the cops. He said he and the police didn’t “get along.” He had dialed 911 because it seemed faster and easier than breaking down my door. I gave the police a report. When the patrol car left, I called D to give him the all clear.