Page 173 of Cold, Cold Bones
Black Uggs.
Black jeans.
Blond hair.
“Detective,” I rasped, trying hard to camouflage my fear.
“Doc.” The ebony lipstick had faded, but the malevolence in the smile was undeniable. “Rough night?”
“I’ve had better.”
“I’ll bet you have.” Henry’s features were distorted by the light angling down across them. “Can I help you up from there?”
Not waiting for an answer, she strode forward, unlocked the ankle cuffs, and yanked me upright. Both arms screamed and my knees buckled. My feet were dead weight.
Wasting no time on compassion, Henry dragged me toward the stairs and shoved me into a lawn chair on the far side. I had to double over to avoid smashing my senseless hands against the rusty metal at my back.
“Sorry.” Faux pity. “Did that hurt?”
Before I could respond, she unlocked the cuffs and, with them, secured my right hand to the right side of the chair. Moving likelightning, she clamped my left hand onto a second pair pre-attached to the chair’s left side. Again, I was helpless due to my own ineptitude.
“Not that you’re going anywhere.” Henry drew her Glock and waggled it in my face, so close I could smell the lubricating oil she used to clean it. I wondered if she was also packing the backup .380 ACP, the sap, and the knife.
Sudden terrifying thought. Did this lunatic have Katy? Was my daughter in this house? I was scared. Scared with a life-passing-before-me-end-of-days fear.
You still have the phone. No way my dialed call would still be live. No matter. Talk. Buy time.
Deep breath.
“I spoke to a friend in LA today,” I said, powering over my hoarseness.
Henry stared at me, feet spread, right hand on one hip. Glock firm in the other.
“She said rumor has it you made detective only because you have an uncle high up in the ranks.”
The stare didn’t waver.
“She also said you left the LAPD under less than cordial circumstances.”
Henry’s brows dipped ever so slightly.
“That you weren’t fired but were asked to leave. That you were promised a good record only if you resigned and went quietly.”
“Gold star for your friend.”
“She said word around the shop was that you were nuts. That you capped a homeless guy in an alley.”
“That shoot was ruled good.”
“That’s what she said. But by then the department had had it with the drama. And the uncle with the stripes refused to intervene.”
“You believe her story?”
“I think it’s probably bullshit.” I didn’t.
Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
Keep her engaged.
