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Disengaging from the blankets, I sat up and pivoted to see who he was.
The guy was nothing but a shadow moving in the darkness. He wasn’t large, wasn’t small. No details of his features or clothing were visible.
Righting himself, the man began crawling and running his hands over the floor. Searching for the gun?
In seconds he was back at the bed. Rising on his knees, he extended both arms in my direction.
To strangle me? Shoot me?
I didn’t wait to find out.
Uttering a feral cry, I lunged forward, flexed my right arm, and drove my elbow into his throat.
The man fell back again, lungs in spasm. Hands clasping his neck, he fought for air.
911!
I groped for my phone. In my frenzy I knocked it from the bedside table.
Shit!
The man drew a single, ragged breath.
I swiveled back, coiled for another lunge.
Bracing with his free hand, the man struggled to his feet. Legs unsteady, he lurched across the room and disappeared through the sliding glass doors.
Eighteen minutes after I called, two cops showed up. Landers and Winston. Or Winters and Landston. Whatever. It was the middle of the night and I’d just been attacked.
I’d made myself tea, Ryan’s antidote for any stressful situation. The herbal brew was calming me some. That and the fact that every light in the condo was now burning.
Landers/Landston was the taller and older of the pair, with a pencil-thin mustache riding an equally thin upper lip. Winston/Winters may have hit five feet six in his boots. A complicated tat wrapped his overly developed right bicep.
Landers/Landston took the lead, his interview style unflavored by warmth.
“Are you in need of medical attention?”
“No.”
“Did the alleged attacker harm you?”
Alleged?
“No.”
“State your name.”
I did.
“Your business in Provo.”
I kept my description to the bare minimum.
“You’re involved in the probe into Superintendent Musgrove’s death?” Tiniest hint of surprise.
“Peripherally.”
“With Detective Monck?”
