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Well, and Jonas. But that was a given.
Still . . . he picked up his baseball bat, the one he kept near the front door—just in case. He’d been a defense lawyer for most of his adult life and had dealt with some nasty characters, so he made sure his Louisville Slugger was always nearby.
Flipping on lights, he made his way down the short hallway to the bedroom.
Empty.
He paused and felt the air. Did he sense a breeze? A draft of cold air over the heat waving from the old baseboard heaters? Probably nothing—the place was drafty.
Still, the skin at the base of his neck prickled.
A warning.
But he saw nothing.
Heard no one.
“Too much booze,” he chided. In the bathroom, he stopped to take a leak and caught a glimpse of himself. His thinning hair long enough to pull into a ponytail, his jowls fleshy despite the facelift he’d had fifteen years earlier, his thin skin showing veins beneath the surface.
Once a good-looking, smartly dressed, much-sought-after lawyer who could demand exorbitant fees for which he did exemplary work. The days when he had six assistants at his beck and call, when the staff boasted three knockout female clerks who never resisted him. When celebrities called him to take care of their indiscretions. Those had been the days.
Wasted.
Long gone.
But maybe, just maybe, they would be back and he’d make things right. A chin and neck lift, maybe a few hair plugs as he was getting a little thin over his crown and he’d be back at the top of his game. Again.
Returning to the living area to shut things down and turn in for the night, he noticed the light over the stove was out.
Hadn’t it been on earlier . . . or had he shut it off? Maybe the ancient bulb had finally burned out.
He waited.
Nothing moved.
He was getting paranoid in his old—make that later middle—age. He had to think of the future. He left the bat on a side chair, close at hand, then finished his scotch and thought he had time for one last smoke, so he lit up and started straightening his notes despite the headache starting to pound at his temples.
He felt something odd.
The air stirred.
He glanced toward the kitchen again.
Had he left the broom closet door open? Shit, no. When was the last time he’d reached for a broom or a mop or—
He felt the barrel of a pistol press against the back of his head—a deadly ring of cold steel through his thinning hair.What?
He froze.
His cigarette fell onto the carpet.
He nearly lost control of his bladder.
“Don’t move” was the command.
Click.
The sound of a pistol being cocked.
