Deal Breaker (Myron Bolitar 1)

In the backyard she saw the shades were not pulled down in the kitchen. The lights were off too. It was pitch black here, the pink not getting the illumination of the streetlight to cast its glow. She peered through the kitchen window, cupping her hands around her face to cut off the reflection. A sliver of light from the front room slashed across the room. On the table sat a purse. And a set of keys.

Someone was home.

A sound behind her made her jump. Jessica spun, but it was too dark to make out what it was. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Crickets singsonged unceasingly. She pounded on the door with both fists.

“Nancy! Nancy!”

She heard the panic in her voice and scolded herself for it. Get a grip. You’re spooking yourself.

She stopped, took a few deep breaths, felt herself relax. She took another look through the window, pressing her face right up against the glass. She was watching the sliver of light when it happened.

Someone walked by.

Jessica jumped back. She hadn’t seen the person, hadn’t seen anything, except the sliver of light disappear for the briefest of seconds. She looked again. Nothing. But someone had gone past and blocked off the light. She put her hand on the kitchen doorknob.

This time the door was not locked. The knob turned easily.

Don’t just go in, dodo! Call the cops!

And say what? I knocked on a door and no one answered? That I then started peeking through windows and saw someone moving around?

That doesn’t sound so bad.

Sounds bad enough to me. Besides, I’d have to find a phone. By the time I do that, whatever is going on may be over. I may have lost my one opportunity.…

Opportunity for what?

She pushed the voice away. Then she opened the door. She waited for the door to squeak madly, but it slid open with remarkable silence. She stepped into the kitchen and left the door open. Better for the quick getaway.

“Nancy?

“Kathy?”

She clasped her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant that. Kathy wasn’t here. Jessica wished like hell she were, but that would be too easy. Kathy wasn’t here. And if she were, she certainly would not be afraid to open the door for her sister. Her baby sister. The sister with the bright smile. The sister whom she loved.…

The sister you let slip away. The sister you impatiently rushed off the line the night she vanished.

For several minutes Jessica just stayed in the kitchen. There were no sounds, except those maddening crickets. No running water. No shower. No scurrying. No footsteps. She opened the purse and extracted the wallet. Driver’s license and assorted credit cards—all in the name of Nancy Serat. She flipped to the back and stopped suddenly at a wallet-size photograph.

The picture. The sorority sisters picture. The last picture of Kathy.

She dropped the wallet as though it were something scaly and alive. Enough, Jessica said to herself. She moved toward the light. One foot slid out, the other followed. In a matter of seconds Jessica was at the door. It was open a crack, allowing the light to cast its sliver now unimpeded. She pushed through, crouching like a cop with a gun, preparing for the worst.

And the worst was what she got.

Jessica stumbled back. “Jesus Christ—”

Nancy lay flat on her back, her hands at her sides. Her eyes stuck out like two golf balls, staring at Jessica. Her face was a deep purplish-blue, like a giant bruise. Her mouth was wide and twisted in pure agony. The tongue lolled out like a dead fish. Nancy Serat’s entire expression was still frozen in a look that begged and screamed with its every cell for oxygen. A thin line of still-wet saliva clung to her chin.

A cord of some kind—no, a wire—was wrapped around Nancy’s neck, barely visible. Most of it had sliced clean through the skin and was embedded deep in the flesh. A circling lash of blood marked the spot where the wire had entered.

Jessica stared, lost. The world vanished for several moments, leaving behind only the horror. She forgot about the scurrying when she first rang the bell. She forgot the shadow that had cut off the sliver of light.

Jessica did not hear the approaching footsteps. Still staring at Nancy’s face, unable to tear her eyes away, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her head. She saw white flashes. Her body folded at the waist and pitched forward. A tingling numbness followed.

Then nothing.

Chapter 25

Fedora Hat knew what he was doing.

“Stay a few steps behind me,” he barked at his new partner.

In the garage Fedora and Musclehead (who, Myron was happy to see, seemed to be out of commission) had underestimated Myron. Fedora would not make the same mistake twice. Not only had he always kept eyes and gun on Myron but he was making sure that his new partner (the Mustache) kept both himself and Esperanza a safe distance away.

Smart.

Myron had been tempted to make a move, but even his best move was useless in this circumstance. If he managed to get the gun away from Fedora, there was no way he’d be able to turn it on the Mustache before he’d shoot either him or Esperanza.

He would have to wait and watch. He knew what Fedora and Mustache intended to do. They hadn’t been hired to buy him ice cream or teach line dancing or even beat him up. Not this time.

“Let her go,” Myron said. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“Keep moving,” Fedora replied.

“You don’t need her.”

“Move.”

Mustache spoke for the first time. “I might want a little company later,” he sneered. Then he stopped and pressed the gun against Esperanza’s right cheek while he licked—actually licked—her left cheek with a wet cow-like tongue. Esperanza stiffened. Mustache looked at Myron. “You got a problem with that, pal?”

Myron knew words would be either superfluous or harmful at this stage. He kept his mouth shut.

They turned a corner. The stench of garbage was overwhelming. It was piled at least six feet high on both sides of the narrow alley. Fedora quickly scanned the area. It appeared to be abandoned.

“Go,” he said, giving Myron another poke with the gun. “End of the alley.”

Myron felt as if he were walking a plank. He tried to take it as slowly as possible.

“What are we going to do with the piece of ass?” Mustache asked.

Fedora’s eyes never left Myron. “She’s seen us,” he said. “She’s a witness.”

“But we weren’t hired to ace her,” Mustache whined.

“So?”

“So let’s not just waste a piece like this”—he smiled—“especially when we can fuck it first.”