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Champi again shakes his head. “I mean, you think his old man killed himself over his kid’s girlfriend?”
I stare at him, then Jacobson.
“Yourgirlfriend?” I open my mouth, close it. Finally I say, “Are you the one who killed them?”
Jacobson smiles, and shrugs. “What, you want that one pinned on me, too, Jane Smith?”
He walks over to me now and leans down, his face close to mine, his breath smelling of the scotch.
“You just had to get right back up in my face tonight, didn’t you? You just couldn’t help yourself. And you know why? Because the whole time you were defending me, you absolutely believed I was guilty. I swear, I thought it pissed you off that the jury said I wasn’t, even if a guilty verdict would have screwed up your perfect record.”
One more time I can’t help myself from doing something else, despite my current situation.
I slap him.
He is about to slap me back when Champi is out of his chair and grabbing his arm to stop him.
Like he’s the boss now.
“For Chrissakes, will you please shut up and let me handle this?” Champi says.
One Hundred Sixteen
“PLEASE DON’T SHOOT MY DOG,”I say to Champi after we’ve driven to my house and Rip growls at him from the kitchen doorway.
“Then put him in there and shut the door,” Champi says.
“Does Rob really want you to do this?”
He grins. “Do what?”
“I’ve got neighbors.”
“I’ve got a suppressor. Jump ball.”
He’s right behind me as I grab Rip by the collar and walk him into the kitchen, leaning down just long enough to scratch him behind the ear and whisper, “Love you, Rip.” Then I close him in the kitchen.
Think.
But there is no room for me to try anything, no play I can make with his eyes on my every move, and he’s keeping just enough distance between us that I can’t even think about going for his gun.
Or my Glock, currently in the hallway table.
Let me handle this,he said to Jacobson.
One of my yellow legal pads is on the desk on the far side of the living room. Champi points to it.
“You’re just gonna be one more who decided to end it all,” he says. “Like that poor bastard Paul Biondi.” He grins again. “And he didn’t have cancer.”
They know.
“Does he know, too? He has to know if you do, tight as you two are.”
“Does it really matter?”
He points again at the yellow pad. “Let’s get this done. I’ll tell you what to say.”
“Not happening.” Now I grin at him. “I’m dead anyway, right? But I’m not leaving behind a suicide note, you son of a bitch.”
