Hard News (Rune 3)

She looked up at him. Her eyes didn't get much past the huge biceps.

"About you maybe getting him a new trial."

"Yeah?"

"I like Randy. He keeps to himself and doesn't give us any grief. But there're some people here don't like him much. I'm not supposed to be telling you this and I'm hoping it won't go any further than here...."

"Sure."

"But if you don't get him out soon he's not going to live to parole."

"The people who did that?" She nodded back to the infirmary.

"There's nothing we can do to stop them."

They arrived at the gate and the guard stopped.

"But what did Randy do?"

"What did he do?" The guard didn't understand her.

"I mean, why did somebody stab him?"

The guard's face snapped into a brief frown. "He ended up here, miss. That's what he did."

THE PLACE WAS PRETTY EASY TO GET INTO.

Like water through a sieve, Jack Nestor thought. Then laughed, thinking that probably wasn't the best word to describe a houseboat. The only problem had been there was a parking lot nearby and a booth with a security guard, who'd glance at the boat every so often like he was keeping an eye on it. But Nestor waited until the man made a phone call then walked past him and jogged up the yellow gangplank.

Once he was inside he pulled on brown cotton gloves and started at the back. He took his time. He'd never been on a houseboat before and he was pretty curious about it. He'd done some charters and been on more party boats than he could count and of course he'd done time in military LSTs and landing craft. But this wasn't like anything else he'd ever seen.

The decor sucked, for one thing. It looked like his nutzo stepmother's place. But he admired the pilothouse, if that's what you'd call it, which had beautiful brass fixtures and levers and grainy oak, all yellow with old varnish. Beautiful. All the controls except the wheel were frozen and he guessed the motor was kaput. He resisted a temptation to pull the horn rope.

Downstairs he carefully went through the bookshelves and the cheap, sprung-fiberboard desk that was a sea of papers and pictures (mostly of dragons and knights and fairies, that sort of shit). There were a couple of dozen videocassettes. They were mostly that make-believe stuff too. Fairy stories, dragonslayers, the stuff he never watched. Some dirty films too. Lusty Cousins. And something called Epitaph for a Blue Movie Star.

So, this chicky had a kinky side to her.

Then he rummaged through the closets and drawers in the bedroom and in the little supply room that had another dresser in it. He went through the kitchen and the refrigerator, which was the first place that most people who thought they were clever hid things and which was the first place most professional thieves looked.

After an hour he was convinced she didn't have anything here that interested--or worried--him.

Which meant the files would be at her office and that was a pain in the ass.

Nestor looked around and sat down on the couch. He had a decision to make. He could wait here until she came back and just waste her. Get it over with, make it look like a robbery. The cops would probably buy that. He was always surprised how people craved to accept the most obvious explanations. Easier all the way around. Robbery and murder.

Or rape and murder.

On the other hand, that might leave a lot of material floating around somewhere, material that shouldn't be floating around.

Still ...

A car door slammed. He was up fast, glancing out the window. He saw her--not a bad-looking girl if she didn't wear those stupid clothes, like the striped black-and-yellow tights and red miniskirt. It turned him off and made him resent her....

Oh, he knew that emotion. The feeling that he'd get looking at a wiry brown-skinned man in a khaki uniform, looking at him through a telescopic sight, feeling the hatred, working up a wild, spiraling fury (maybe because Nestor was sweating like a steam pipe in the heat or because bugs were digging into his skin or because he had a glossy, star-shaped scar on his belly). R

esentment, hate. He needed those feelings--to help him pull the trigger or press the knife in as deeply as he could.

Boots scraped on the asphalt outside.