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“We both know that’s a fucking lie,” he hissed. “Where shall I start?” He caressed her cheek with the point of the blade. “How about an eyelid? That’s a toughie for the reconstructive surgeon to fix.” He traced patterns on the skin under her eye. Smiled evilly, like a guy who actually enjoyed torturing women. He knew guys like that. He’d seen what their smiles looked like when they were working on their victims.
It didn’t feel good on his own face.
Veins throbbed in her temples. Her lips tightened, quivered drawing back from her teeth. Seconds passed. She’d called his bluff.
He put his knife down, like the limp dick his father had always mocked him for being. He couldn’t convince her that he was capable of cutting her. He had no credibility. In some circles, he’d been told, this failure would be to his credit. Right now, it was fucking inconvenient.
He jabbed the spray bottle under her chin, but she didn’t react this time. “Let’s go,” he growled. “If I hear you inhale, I spray you.”
She stumbled beside him, stiff but unresisting. Into the cinder-block stairwell. Out into the hotel parking lot, where dawn was threatening the horizon. She was shaking, hard, by the time he shoved her into the passenger seat of his Chevy and strapped her in.
He stopped, took a second to yank on his shirt, since it didn’t look like she was going to attack him. Those racking shudders did not look like an act. She’d forgotten that he existed. She was fucked up.
He cut off the bra knotted around her hands. Draped his jacket over her, tucking it under her chin. Thus thoroughly shoring up his persona as a real badass motherfucker. He blasted heat on her as they drove. He’d expected a shrill scolding, a string of inventive lies, or at least some slick, jive-ass rant. All he heard was teeth chattering.
He went back and forth in his head on what to do with her as he drove, but the more miles that went by, the worse she looked. And the narrower his options became.
He hated sticking his neck out, getting squashed onto an examining glass under blazing light and powerful lenses. He’d rather lose a limb. But what the fuck else could he do right now? With her? He couldn’t just dump her by the side of the road somewhere. Particularly now, with his genetic material inside her bodily orifices.
He clenched his jaw, grabbed his cell phone, dialed the number he’d found for Detective Sam Petrie the day before.
The guy picked up quickly, considering that it wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet. “Detective Sam Petrie here,” he said.
“Detective Petrie, my name is Alex Aaro,” he said. “I have with me a person of interest in your case. The one involving the three dead guys that turned up behind Tony’s Diner yesterday.”
“Ah.” Petrie paused expectantly. “And? Why is this person interesting?”
“She just tried to kill me,” he said.
Petrie made an encouraging sound. “Tell me more.”
“I will, but I’ve got to take this girl somewhere. Are you at the Justice Center now?”
“Ah, almost,” the guy replied. “Just have to park. “Where are you?”
“About ten minutes away. Look, could you meet me right out front, or in the lobby? I don’t want to have to look for parking with her.”
“Ah…” Petrie hesitated, sensing the swiftly rising level of weirdness. “What’s wrong with this girl? Is she hurt?”
“Just get her some coffee, would you? Or a pastry.” Aaro stared at Naomi’s grayish face, her chattering teeth. “Something with lots of sugar.”
“Mr. Aaro, do you—”
Aaro cut the connection and thumbed off the phone. His jacket had slid off her again and hit the floor. She vibrated against the seat belt. Maybe she actually was a junkie, and she’d missed her fix. He picked up speed, racing through the red lights. God, how he wanted this to be over. He hoped Petrie would show up on time.
He jerked to a stop on SW Third, right outside the imposing main entrance of the Justice Center, figuring he’d unload the girl and leave her with Petrie while he re-parked. Please, God. He took her purse, for Petrie’s benefit, but the phone he wanted to look at himself, so he tossed it into the front seat for future study.
He hustled her up the broad stairs of the entryway, through the glass doors. She weaved and wobbled, dangerously unsteady.
He glanced wildly around the place, trying not to look as desperate and harried as he felt, scanning for someone whose body type fit the voice from the phone conversation.
There. Tall guy, thirtyish, big jaw, tousled hair. Lots of stubble. He held a paper coffee cup, a white paper bag. Good man. He’d brought sugar. His eyes asked Aaro the question.
Aaro’s feet answered it, forcefully steering Naomi’s body toward the other man. “Detective Petrie?” he asked.
The guy’s eyes flicked over Naomi, who was breathing with a strange, audible wheezing sound now. “Yeah, that’s me. Hey, looks like your friend there needs the emergency room.”
“She’s not my friend,” Aaro snapped. “She just tried to kill me.”
