New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“Just details for my report, sir.”

“I do e-work, freelance.”

“So you work at home.”

“Primarily.”

“Nice and quiet,” she commented.

Quiet, she thought, unlike the rest of the building. Why would a freelance e-man soundproof his apartment? Why would he have a room locked and bolted from the outside?

“Were you working two hours ago when the incident took place?”

“Yes, I was, which is why I didn’t see or hear anything.”

“That’s too bad because the window behind you has a direct view of the crime scene.” She glanced left. “Is that your office?”

“That’s right.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do.” He continued to smile, but annoyance slithered through. “My work is sensitive and confidential.”

“Requiring you to lock it up, from the outside.”

“Better safe than sorry. Now if that’s all—”

“You said you live alone.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s a lot of food for one person.”

“Do you think so? But then you’re very thin,

aren’t you? Officer Dallas, unless you believe I mugged a couple of people on the street a stone’s throw from my own home, I’d like to get my food put away and get back to work.”

“I didn’t say a couple of people.”

He sighed, hugely. “You must have. Now, I’ll show you out.”

As he came around the counter, walked toward her, she shifted her balance, instinctively laid her hand on the butt of her weapon.

“Mr. McQueen, I’m wondering why you wouldn’t report a crime, or at the very least contact nine-one-one when a woman was screaming for help.”

“I told you I didn’t see anything. And if I had, some of us choose not to get involved. Now—”

“You don’t want to put your hand on me, sir.”

He held his up in a gesture of peace. “And I don’t want to contact your superior and report this harassment.”

“I’ll contact my partner downstairs. He’ll come up and you can report us both.” Fergus would kick her ass most likely, but damn it there was something here. So she pushed just a little harder. “And then you can explain what’s behind that door.”

“Officer Dallas.” His tone, his expression transmitted mild annoyance mixed with reluctant amusement. “Have it your way.”

His fist rammed fast and hard. She dodged, but the punch glanced off the side of her cheekbone, and her face exploded with pain. The single stumble back gave him the time and space to kick the weapon she drew out of her hand.

She pivoted, her right hand numb, her face throbbing, swung into a spinning kick, followed it with a back fist. She landed both, would have tapped her communicator for assistance, but caught the glint of a knife.