by Ryan, Jenna
He looked tired, Darcy thought. Which only added to the appeal. A two-day growth of stubble; a black Polo shirt; faded, fitted jeans…She could get entangled all too easily—and more than willingly, given half a chance.
The already low lights dimmed. “Showtime.” Val grinned. “You’re in for a rare treat, Darcy darling. It’s mud-wrestling night.”
She hoisted her shoulder bag. “This might be a good time for me to freshen up.”
Marlowe trapped her hand before she could leave. “There and back, okay? No detours to help old ladies.”
Leaning over, Darcy kissed him full on the mouth.
The gleam in his eyes came and went so fast she might have imagined it. Then Val shouted, Marlowe released her and a series of strobe lights altered everything.
On her way through the crowd, the flickering lights played tricks on her, showing her an image of a faceless stalker, one whose voice had an over-the-top Tennessee accent and whose abduction MO ran to blindsiding and chloroform.
Inside the dingy washroom, a woman banged her fist on one of two closed stall doors.
“Move it. The show’s started, and I gotta pee.” She turned to Darcy. “Get in line. The other one’s out of order.” She banged again, then asked, “Can you see under the bottom? I’m not wearing my contacts, and I swear she’s tripping in there.”
Darcy bent to look. The second she spied the sneakers she knew it wasn’t an addict inside.
Surging upright, she grabbed the angry woman’s wrist. “Stop shouting. Come with me.”
But it was too late. The stall door burst open, and a man flew out.
He knocked the woman aside with his left arm and with the gun in his right, blasted the overhead lights.
Darcy made it to the door, but no farther. The man slammed into her and held her against the frame.
“It’s you and me now, babe,” he huffed in her ear. “Like it was always meant to be. We’re gonna end this thing tonight. Be glad it’s going down this way, Darcy doll, ’cause if your P.I. stays out of my way for once, he might actually live to see New York again.”
Darcy sucked in what air she could, told herself not to struggle or panic. If she stayed limp, he might think she’d hit her head.
“Oh, you are a smart little cookie,” he cooed. He lifted her hair with his gun, rubbed the tip over her cheek. “Always thinking.”
Apparently he wasn’t falling for the injury.
She hissed when he pressed harder. “I can’t…breathe,” she said through her teeth.
“So sorry, darling,” he apologized, but didn’t back off. His arm snapped up and out. “Move from the floor, and you’re dead, slut. Doctors say I’m a cat in the dark. It’s in the genes. Move again, and I’ll put a bullet in your heart. This little dance is between me and the Darcy doll.” The gun returned to stroke her neck. “I like the name Darcy, maybe better than Shannon. But then I’m touching Darcy. I never did touch Shannon.”
“If you like me, you’ll let me breathe.”
“If I let you breathe, you might wiggle your pretty self around and nail me in the balls. She cat, that’s what you are. A tigress.” He sniffed her neck, made her shudder. “My perfect match.”
He went taut against her, and she heard the fury in his tone as his arm jerked back up. “You so much as slide your foot on the floor again, bitch, and you’re dead. D’you hear—”
The rest of the question emerged as a loud oomph that had his breath whooshing out and his hat falling over his face.
The elbow she’d freed plunged lower the second time, a vicious jab to the stomach. She followed it up by ramming her heel down on his instep.
The gun dropped and skidded. She would have gone for it, but he caught her by the hair and flung her aside. Unbalanced, Darcy toppled first into the trash can and then into the wall. By the time her vision cleared, both man and gun were gone.
On her hands and knees, her companion screamed. Frightened, but not hurt, Darcy judged. She ran for the door. Another woman about to enter yelped when they collided.
Darcy swung her around. “Did a man run past you?”
“More like a locomotive. He smashed into me and took off that way.”
“Into the main room?”
“Guess so.” Her scowl became a snicker. “It’s okay, though. His hat fell off, so I got even by stomping on it.”
Darcy’s searching eyes located the flattened black hat with the once broad, now broken brim.
“Thanks.” She glanced at the woman still screaming behind her. “Can you help her?”
“Maybe. What’s she on? Hey, don’t leave me…”
Her voice faded into the blare of whistles, cheers and catcalls from the predominantly male crowd. Darcy was searching the tables when a pair of hands descended on her shoulders.
“It’s me,” Marlowe said in her ear.
Willing her heart back into her chest, Darcy spun around. “He was in a stall. He ran out. I think he came in here.”
Marlowe stared for a moment, then propelled her back toward the washrooms. “Val,” he shouted over the noise. “Guy’s here.”
Val, who was just emerging from the same corridor as Darcy, swiveled his head. “Where?”
They all searched. For who, Darcy wasn’t sure. Until…
“There.” When a group of men moved, another group became visible. “Behind the stage. It’s the baseball-cap guy. Damn!” She snatched her finger back. “He saw me.”
“Stay here,” Marlowe said. And he took off.
Beside her, Val hesitated, till Darcy assured him, “I’ll be fine in the crowd.” He followed his friend.
The mud-covered women in the ring circled each other like cats. Their wary movements brought to mind her attacker’s remark. Doctors had compared him to a cat in the dark. Key word: doctors.
Would knowing he’d probably been in therapy help them?
At the moment, Darcy couldn’t see how, but then her head was still reeling.
Medical records could be accessed and investigated by the police. So, she recalled suddenly, could a certain hat.
The air smelled of mud, sweat and beer as she forged a path through an increasingly boisterous crowd, back to the washrooms.
The hat was there, kicked to one side and badly crushed, but retrievable in one piece.
When she returned to the main room, she found herself scanning for exits. Like it or not—and Marlowe wouldn’t—it wasn’t in her nature to stand by idly and wait.
He and Val had used the side exit. If she took the front, she might spot the guy again, see his car, get a plate number.
Sights set, she worked her way toward the main entrance. She was ten feet from the door when a clawlike hand captured her wrist and jerked her to a halt.
“Hold up there, blondie,” a rusty voice warned. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere without me.”
HE HAD HIS YANKEES CAP on backward, but it was the same guy. Marlowe had seen enough of his face to be sure of it.
He wore all black, from T-shirt to sneakers. That might have made him more difficult to track through the network of interconnecting alleys he’d chosen for his escape if Marlowe’s adrenaline level and his resolve hadn’t been at a peak.
The alley bottlenecked into a single lane of foot traffic but broadened near the end. After a jog, it opened onto a busy street.
The man jumped over one trash bag, landed on another and fell. Gun drawn and with no one else in sight, Marlowe fired a warning shot.
Scrambling to his feet, the man continued to run.
When he reached the jog, he wove from side to side. He skirted a man climbing into a Dumpster and hopped over a junkie who was propped up like a rag doll against a dirty brick wall.
Stuffing his gun into his waistband, Marlowe followed. Baseball Cap stole a look over his shoulder as he wrapped a hand around the brick corner and used it to aid his left turn.
“Not this time, bastard,” Marlowe said softly.
The traffic noise increased.
A horn blared. Marlowe reached the corner, swung around it—and gave a feral smile when he realized the guy had been brought up short by a temporary fence surrounding a torn-up sidewalk.
Nowhere to run now except onto the street. The busy street, where every out-of-sorts driver in the city appeared to have congregated.
It didn’t surprise him that the man took his chances. He rushed out in front of a taxi, ignored a stream of curses, then spun into the next lane.
Marlowe did the same.
The man swerved, attempted to vault over a low sports car. But the driver was young and erratic and he whipped his vehicle to the right. Tagging the man’s hip, the car knocked his feet out from under him.
Marlowe pulled his gun and advanced straight-armed. “It’s over, pal. Don’t move.”
The fallen man licked nervous lips. He started to stand. Then he spied a break in the traffic and went for it.
Marlowe knew the man wouldn’t make it. The truck was approaching too fast, and with a cell phone wedged between ear and shoulder while he munched on a loaded burger, the driver had no chance to react.
The front end struck the man in the side, sending him airborne for a good ten feet. He landed shoulder first in a heap.
Marlowe lowered his gun and yanked out his cell.
“Pedestrian down,” he told the 911 operator. “Unconscious. Bleeding heavily.”
The hand clap on his back didn’t distract him as he related the street name and block number. Breathing hard, Val motioned for him to continue while he took charge of crowd control.
“Darcy’ll be okay,” he called back. “I had to follow you. You know how it works.”
“Yeah, I know.”
With paramedics en route and Val directing traffic, Marlowe checked the fallen man’s neck for a pulse. He found one, but it was thready and fast.
When a street patrol arrived, Val returned to crouch beside him. “How’s he doing?”
“Hanging on.” Without moving the man, Marlowe studied the gun that was strapped to his ankle.
“His face is pretty messed up.” Val frowned slightly when he noticed his friend’s expression. “What is it?”
Stashing his own gun, Marlowe reran the incident in the park near Darcy’s place. He nodded at the injured man’s leg. “Guy’s carrying a Glock.”
“Yeah, so?”
“The bullet that winged me last week came from a Ruger.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Here we go,” Val cautioned cheerfully. “PO’d female at twelve o’clock. You’re a dead man.”
Judging by the look on Darcy’s face, Marlowe had a strong feeling he might be. She strode out of the club and across the street to stuff two balled fists into his stomach.
“Do you have any idea how tired I am of being grabbed, groped, bullied and shoved?” Without turning her head, she pointed a finger at Comet trotting a prudent five feet behind her. “He nearly scared me to death. One more hand clamps on to my arm, and I swear I’m going to chop it off. Whose brilliant idea was it to sic Comet on me any—” Her eyes widened in alarm when she noticed Marlowe’s red-splattered jeans. “Is that blood? Did he shoot you?”
“No. It’s the cap guy’s blood. He was hit by a truck. He’s on his way to the hospital.”
“Is he alive?”
“For the moment.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“There was no ID in his pockets,” Val revealed. “Only a couple of twenties and some change. We’ll run his fingerprints, maybe get lucky.”
Although impassive expressions had always been his stock in trade, when Darcy drew back to regard him through her lashes, Marlowe wondered if he might be slipping.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
He motioned at Comet, who saluted them and melted into the crowd. With his thumb, he erased a smudge from her cheek. “Let’s just say I’m starting to wish like hell that Vince and Frankie Maco really were behind this.”
A PATROL CAR FOLLOWED Darcy home. Discreetly, but she knew it was there. Just as she knew the officers inside would remain on watch until Marlowe asked Val’s captain to remove them.
Damon Marlowe must have been one good cop in his time. Blydon was bending over backward to accommodate him.
Which brought to mind the question of why he’d quit. Had he been driven to it by circumstances in general, or by one particular incident? Did he ever plan to tell her about the mysterious Lisa Val had mentioned? Should she push and ask, or wait and let him volunteer the information?
For the moment at least, it was a moot point. Marlowe, Val and Blydon had rendezvoused at the hospital, where they would undoubtedly remain until either the doctors sent them on their way, the injured man regained consciousness, or he died.
In spite of his actions, Darcy didn’t wish him dead. Preferably the baseball-cap guy would go to jail and she and Marlowe would wind up…together? That seemed as unlikely as the hospitalized man being an innocent bystander in this horror story.
“Okay, enough,” she said out loud. Switching off the engine of Marlowe’s Land Rover, she collected her gear and hopped out.
Across the street, Hannah Brewster raised a second-floor window. Mindless of the fact that it was after 10 p.m., she yelled, “It’s nice to see you, dear. You’ve been away more than you’ve been home lately. How was Atlantic City?”
“It was good,” Darcy returned at a more reasonable level. “Hot.”
“Wonderful. Oh, I’m going to have Cristian paint your house. Is that all right with you?”
“It’s fine, Mrs. B.” She smiled. “Good night.”
“Wait. Darcy?” Her landlady flapped a hand. “I baked an almond–wheat germ cake today.”
In this heat? Darcy eased her cotton top away from her midsection. “That’s nice, I guess.”
“I’ll send Cristian over with a generous portion for you and Marlowe.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. B. Good night again.”
Cupping both hands to her mouth, Hannah shouted a final, “You have a good evening, you hear?”
“Me and everyone else in the neighborhood,” Darcy murmured.
Several yards away, an unmarked police car rolled to a halt. Strange, she thought in mild amusement, but a part of her preferred the idea of Marlowe’s transplanted informant hanging out in her bushes over a pair of cops parked at the curb.
Adjusting her myriad shoulder straps, she started up the porch steps.
“Darcy?”
Now Cristian called to her, though not as volubly as Mrs. Brewster.
Balancing a plate in his hand, he cast a backward look at the boardinghouse. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Aunt Hannah tonight. She’s been glued to that window ever since I got home. I thought she was watching for me, but I guess not.”
He held out the plate as she disengaged the alarm. “I hate to say it but this is the weirdest cake I’ve ever tasted. Mr. Hancock helped her make it, and it still came out funny. Real food’s better, don’t you think? Chocolate, ice cream, peanut butter…” He blinked at the smile she sent him. “What? You don’t like real food?”
“Oh, I love it.” Darcy used her hip to open the door. “Chocolate most of all. I’m just not sure I remember how it tastes.” Sidetracked by a sound, she peered past Cristian. “Did you hear that?”
He glanced over. “No, I…” Then he swung around when the bushes behind him crackled. “But I heard that.” He bent forward, squinted. “Could be a cat. They like to roam at night.”
So did certain rodents, Darcy reflected, some of whom were human.
“Guess we should look, huh?” Cristian said when another branch snapped.
Depositing her laptop, shoulder bag and camera next to the cake, Darcy accompanied him down the porch stairs to the shrubs that separated her yard from the neighbor’s.
“I couldn’t cut this hedge down,” he whispered. “Aunt Hannah wanted me to, but it’s on the other side of the property line and—Holy crap!”
This as Podge launched out of the bushes, feet first and yowling.
A shocked Cristian caught him, but immediately let go. “Wow! Uh, wow!” His laugh was tinged with nervous embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t expect that.”
Darcy calmed her racing heart. “Neither did I.”
Within seconds, Hannah Brewster was hastening across the street in her muumuu, breathlessly calling for Podge to calm down and stop making such a fuss.
Braving the cat’s wrath, she picked him up. He scratched her twice, but she maintained her grip, holding the wriggling animal at arm’s length.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she apologized to Darcy. “He’s been a crotchety beast all day. I’ll take him home and lock him in the cellar.” She extended her arms a little more. “Cristian dear, do you mind?”
Clearly unenthused, her nephew reached out a tentative hand. When the animal didn’t swipe at him, he ventured cautiously, “You can probably put him down, Aunt Hannah. Whatever spooked him, he’s getting over it.”
Darcy allowed the cat to sniff her fingers. “It’s okay, Mrs. B, you can leave him here.”
Hannah’s eyes touched on the distant cruiser. “Could be he caught his tail on a branch.” She summoned a smile. “I’ll go back home, then.” A light winked on across the street in one of the second-floor bedrooms. Her smile relaxed. “Yes indeed, I’ll do that. Cristian, you come as well. I’ll fix you some cake and iced tea.” She patted Darcy’s hand. “Good night, dear. Sleep well.”
Darcy waited until they were gone to stare down at Podge, now calmly washing his face at her feet. “Okay, that was weird, right? I mean, it wasn’t just me.”
Before going inside, she glanced at the boardinghouse and visualized a garrote being snapped in a short-order cook’s strong hands.
Then tipping her head to the side, she regarded the tall stand of cedars that ran along the entire west side of her own house.
WHILE DARCY DISLIKED hospitals, Marlowe hated them. Being in one set his teeth on edge. So it came as no surprise that by 1:00 a.m., he wanted to shove his fist into something. Or someone.