Page 121 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He tries to buck and roll in the same motion.
I ride it, switch grips, and pin him with the weight God gave me and the practice the street taught me.
“Enough,” I tell him. “Wrong building. Wrong day.”
He spits something that sounds like a name and might be a word he uses to feel brave.
Security takes his ankles.
Rafe takes his free hand.
The man stares at me and finds nothing to work with.
He stops.
“Take him downstairs,” I tell security. “Not the lobby. The sub office. Call Alvarez.”
Alvarez is the only detective in this city who knows the difference between a problem and a scene and owes me for his nephew’s job.
“Tell Alvarez I’m in the building. He can pick the door.”
The younger guard nods and looks grateful for a name.
The older one eyes the knife under the cart and kicks it farther out of reach.
Rafe peels off to shadow them.
I pick up Elisa’s tote and hand it to her.
My hand is steady.
I decide to pretend it's always steady.
“Inside,” I tell her. “We get eyes and then we get seen. In that order.”
We take a different elevator.
I steer her into a small consult room near radiology because it has one door, a second exit through a staff hall, and a camera I know is live.
I wash my hands because it's a habit I like.
She watches me like a patient who wants to know if the surgeon is shaking.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I didn’t even?—”
“We don’t guess,” I say. “We let a machine tell us we’re fine.”
She exhales.
“Of course you called Alvarez.”
“Alvarez picks up when I call.” I touch my phone. “And I’m calling Dr. Conte.”
“Elisa Conte?” she says, trying for humor and not quite getting there.
“Mira Conte,” I say. “OB who learned this neighborhood the hard way and likes winning. She will run a quick scan and tell me what I need to hear.”
Elisa wants to fight me on that.
