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He rolled her onto her back, on top of her bound hands, and leaned until her face paled, and sweat popped out on her forehead.
“I’ve rethought this no names rule,” he remarked. “Considering this development, I think you should tell me who you are.”
Her eyes glittered, her chest heaved. “Fuck you.”
He leaned harder, forcing a high-pitched wheeze out of her, and without taking his eyes off hers, snagged the object he’d batted out of her hand. A little spray bottle. Son of a bitch.
“What’s this? A knock-out drug?” he asked. “What’s it for?”
She shook her head.
He studied her. “I have a hundred and eighty bucks on me, in cash,” he said. “But you spent five times that amount on those shoes alone. If you want money, you should be cruising the casinos on the Indian reservations. Not slumming in roadhouses with losers like me.”
She stared back, defiant. She was no junkie in search of a quick fix. She glowed with health. And with a face and body like that, she could bilk men out of all their money without having to resort to knock-out drugs. So what the fuck? If she hadn’t picked him for money, she’d picked him for some other reason. Two things came to mind.
Neither of them were good.
He leaned on her again, and gave Hypothesis Number One a spin.
“My father sent you, ney?” he asked, in Ukrainian.
Her eyelids fluttered, but he saw no comprehension. He had a lifetime of practice reading fleeting expressions of stone-faced people. A family survival skill. He got nothing from her. Not a twinge, not a flash, not a flicker. He swatted her face, made his voice even harsher. “Talk, you stupid whore,” he snarled, in the same language. “My father? My uncle? Tell me, or I’ll rip your tongue right out of your head!”
She spat at him, but that was payback for the slap.
He could be wrong, had been often, but he had to call it. She didn’t understood Ukrainian. She wasn’t sent by his family. So much for Hypothesis One. Sending a beautiful woman to fuck his brains out was hardly Oleg Aaro’s style, anyhow. The way the old man hated his firstborn, he’d be more likely to send six big guys with blackjacks.
He jerked open her fallen purse. Makeup, wallet, two blister-packs of tiny pills, distinguished only by colored dots on the foil. A phone, some sleek design he didn’t recognize. He flipped through the wallet. A driver’s license made out to Naomi Hillier of Bellingham, Washington. Credit cars, department store cards in the same name. A wad of cash. He leafed through it. Eight thousand, hoo hah. The wallet had none of the detritus of a normal life. No parking tickets, receipts, scribbled numbers, dry-cleaning pick-up slips. No manila envelope full of pictures of the cheating husband and the slut sister going at it doggy-style, either.
He brandished the spray bottle in her face. She bucked like a bronco. Maybe the stuff was lethal. But Jesus, why? Granted, he tended to piss people off just by existing, but if someone was that mad at him, one would think he’d have half a clue. Time for Hypothesis Two.
He lifted himself slowly off her. “Listen, Naomi,” he said. “You move one millimeter in any direction I don’t order you to move, and you get a faceful of whatever the fuck is in this bottle. Got that?”
She nodded.
Pulling clothes on was tricky, one handed. He didn’t bother with his T-shirt, since it would require a split second of being blind, which was one split second too long. He pulled on his jeans, shrugged the jacket over his naked torso, shoved the shirt into his pocket. Slid his feet into his boots without bothering to lace them. “On your feet.”
She struggled awkwardly to her feet. “Where are we going?”
“The police,” he said.
She started to laugh. “Because I’m not playing nice? Aw! I’m sure they’ll feel sorry for you, after you tell them how you spent your night.”
He twisted her bound hands up behind her. “Shut up and move.”
“I’ll tell them I was raped. Why do you think I wanted it rough, you stupid fuck? I got one of your condoms out of the trash and put some of your spunk into myself. I have you cold, asshole.”
Here it was. The money question. “I’m not taking you to the Sandy cops. I’m taking you to Portland. We’re going to talk to Detective Petrie.”
It was subtle, but he caught the sudden zing of tension. Her pupils, contracting. All he needed to know. Son of abitch.Hypothesis Two won, ding ding ding. This was about Bruno and his nutso girlfriend. Hit men jumping out of cars, dead bodies strewn on the streets of North Portland. Big trouble, and idiot that he was, he’d stuck his nose right into it. No, worse. He’d stuck his dick into it. Repeatedly.
He grabbed the girl by the throat, and pushed her onto the bed, pulling his knife out of his pocket. He snapped it open, twirled it.
Her eyes fixed on the flashing blade, frozen wide.
“You have a beautiful face,” he said softly. “You want it to stay beautiful? Tell me what you want from Bruno Ranieri, bitch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
