with a thud. This was going to be too easy, I thought. Then he surprised me by shooting his hand out and clamping hold of my ankle as I leaped away, pulling my leg out from under me.
My face hit the grass, and I twisted hard like a writhing snake, but he crawled on top of me and gripped my neck before I could slither away. He moved his bulky frame faster than most thugs I’d encountered.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been downed so fast, I thought as he tightened his grip. I’d been distracted by the cop. Hell, I could use another distraction about now.
I clawed at his arms, drawing blood, but it only made him angrier. He tightened the grip on my throat as he cursed and spat at me. Soon I couldn’t breathe, and my lungs silently screamed for air. I kicked up at his fat, muscled back but couldn’t reach his head. Blood pounded in my head. My God, I thought, I’m going to die here.
“Hey, Mommy, look at that man.” It was the voice of an angel—or a kid. Either way, it was divine intervention.
Drummond looked over his shoulder and, at the sight of the kid and his mother, he loosened his grip. I saw my chance and took it, somehow managing to wrangle out from under his three-hundred-plus pounds.
As soon as I was on my feet I gave him a furious uppercut to the jaw. The jolt of it ricocheted through my body. He groaned, wide-eyed, but he remained upright on his knees. Damn, I hadn’t meant to fight this guy—especially one built like a tank. He looked at me with astonishment.
“That’s right, asshole, you’re messing with the wrong girl.” To make sure he didn’t come after me again, I gave him a roundhouse kick to the side of the head and he toppled over like a bowling pin. He raised his head, too stupid to give up.
I took one last whack at him—a full frontal kick to the groin. As my kung fu master had taught me, I employed fei mai qiao. My leg flew like a feather, but the chi behind it walloped his crotch like a hammer. My ankle burned from the impact.
Finally, Drummond groaned in defeat and rolled into a fetal position. Only slightly winded, I knelt beside him and grabbed him by his lapels, pulling his face close to mine.
“You’re gonna die, asshole.” I pulled out my counterfeit Gibson Warrant—what I should have done from the very start—and waved it in front of his face. “See this? This is a court order from Judge Gibson himself with your name on it, Drummond. If you try to talk to Janet one more time, I have permission to shoot you on sight, no questions asked.”
His eyes narrowed on the folded paper, then he went pale. Thank God he had enough brains to keep up with the news and understood what I was talking about.
“This is your last warning. If you violate your restraining order one more time, you’re a dead man, Drummond.”
He set his jaw tight and for a minute I was afraid he was too mean and stubborn to know what was good for him. I smelled his fear, though.
“Understand?” I let go of him and stood, dusting myself off. “You have to leave town. Tonight. Any CRS who catches you harassing Janet can kill you. Legally. You understand?”
He closed his eyes and licked sweat from his upper lip. Then he nodded in surrender. “Yeah.”
“Good.” This would be the last time I saw this poor excuse for a human being. Maybe Judge Gibson had done this town some good after all.
Chapter 3
Blast from the Past
I grabbed my daily newspaper, which had been tossed into the boxwood outside my front door. Then I hurried upstairs and found Detective Marco flipping through my index of music. I had a big collection of classical files, as well as contemporary artists. He seemed fascinated by my choices. His thoughtful concentration surprised me.
I glanced around. Lola was gone. She’d probably slipped out the back door, which was just as well. I didn’t need her complicating matters. I took a moment to study the cop. He’d taken off his coat—a retro double-breasted linen sport coat dating back to the turn of the century. He even had on suspenders. They pinched his starched-white shirt and clung to a waistband that tightly fit his narrow waist. His olive skin above the collar attested to what I could assume, given his name, was an Italian heritage.
“So you like Morbun Four,” he said without turning.
“It’s a good group. What of it?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Ms. Baker, this isn’t an interrogation. Relax.”
I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t let any man close enough to find out what kind of music I liked, much less what perfume I wore. Which was none. I’d rather be down at headquarters asking for a lawyer.
“I thought you went to the store for sugar?” There was a smug gleam in his eyes.
“The sugar shelf was empty. I got a newspaper instead.” I tossed it onto the coffee table, headlines faceup. “It looks like Chicago’s finest still haven’t found the twelve Chinese orphans who were stolen from the Mongolian Mob. People think they can sell kids like cattle.”
He glanced at the newspaper and back at the music files. “Is that the paper I saw outside your front door?”
“I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation. What do you want, Marco? Ask your questions and get out. On second thought, just get out now.”
His intense focus shifted from the files to me and he cracked a smile. “Having a bad day?”
“Not particularly. All my days are bad. I like them that way. I know what to expect when I wake up in the morning.”
He studied me a moment with a perceptiveness that confirmed my original suspicion. This was no ordinary cop. Finally he turned from my music collection and faced me. “If I told you Mayor Alvarez sent me, would that make you feel better?”
My stomach hit the floor. “No, but it would convince me to let you stay and—what did you call it?—chat.”
“That’s right.”
“You thirsty?”
He nodded. “Sure. The mayor told me you weren’t as scary as you tried to appear. Guess he was right.”
“Isn’t he sweet. Did Alvarez really send you?”
Detective Marco shrugged strong shoulders he’d probably been born with. I resented him more by the minute. I didn’t need some prissy-dick, Brooks-Brothers-police-academy graduate in here pulling rank. What concerned me the most was how he’d found out about my connection to Mayor Ramon Alvarez. I’d done a top-secret retribution job for the mayor, which had been set up by my foster father. I didn’t think anyone but the three of us knew about it.
I went to the sideboard. “What do you want, Detective?”
“Alcohol straight up.”
I poured him a neat glass of classic Vivante—a tasteless liquor that took on any flavor that the imbiber thought about. If you couldn’t make up your mind, the taste would change with every swallow—rum one sip, brandy the next. And you never had a hangover from mixing drinks. I put the glass on the edge of the sideboard.
