9 The Hitwoman's Downward Dog (3 page)

"Where to?" he asked after I'd buckled my seatbelt.

I read him Ike Medd's address.

"Ugggh," he groaned. "Worst neighborhood in town."

I nodded, wondering if he said that because of the crime rate or because it was where he'd been raised. Either way, I couldn't see him wanting to return there. He was a higher class of criminal than those who resided there and he'd sent his drug-dealing family to prison when he was a kid, but that didn't mean some of Zeke's relatives who'd disowned him weren't still there.

"Maybe we should go get your car," he said.

"Okay." I tried to ignore the disappointment I felt as I realized he was going to leave me to deal with Ike Medd by myself. Not that I'm incapable of taking care of myself—after all, I had gotten paid to kill people (only some of which I was actually responsible for). I had experience with dangerous situations. It's just that it would have been nice to have back-up.

We drove to Armani's house in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

There was less of a crowd now. The police cruisers had left and only a crime scene technician van remained outside her house. The neighborhood adults had all retreated to their homes, peeking out behind their curtains instead of making a show of their nosiness. The neighborhood kids had congregated in the street for a game of soccer, but they too kept an eye on the Vasquez door.

Zeke parked behind my car.

"Thanks," I muttered, unhooking my seatbelt and jumping out of the car before he could deliver whatever excuse he'd cooked up for not accompanying me. He might be a con man, but I wasn't a sucker.

Climbing into my car, I bent over to tuck the gun Whitehat had given me under the driver's seat.

The sound of the front passenger door opening had me jerking my head up with surprise. I smacked my chin against the horn, causing it to blare for a millisecond, startling me more.

Zeke settled into the seat beside me.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He tilted his head the way my dog, DeeDee, does when she doesn't understand something I've said. "Sorry?"

"What are you doing here?"

Worry lines furrowed the spot between his eyebrows. "We're going to check out Ike Medd's place." He spoke slowly, as though worried I wouldn't understand what he was talking about.

"I thought you weren't going."

"Why wouldn't I go?"

"Because you brought me here."

He shook his head. "I think my car would attract unwanted attention in that neighborhood, but no one will look twice at your heap of junk."

"Oh."

"You thought I was going to let you go alone?" He shook his head, dismayed. "I know lots of people let you down, Maggie, but I'm not one of them."

"I know." I ducked my head, embarrassed that I'd thought the worst of him. Starting my heap of junk, I eased away from the curb. The kids parted like the Red Sea to let us pass.

"So you really think this boyfriend of Armani's is a bad dude?"

I nodded. "Gave me the creeps from the moment I met him. There's something about him that's just evil. And before you go telling me I'm paranoid or something, keep in mind that Marshal Griswald agrees with me."

"How are things going with him and Susan?" Zeke asked mildly.

I felt the urge to giggle hysterically. "How can you go from talking about a serial killer one moment to my aunt's love life the next?"

"As far as you know, he's not a serial killer," he admonished gently. "And I like Susan. She deserves some happiness after taking care of the rest of your family for all these years."

"She does," I agreed. "And I like both men who have fallen for her, but the stress of being part of a love triangle is too much for her."

"Be easier for you if she went with Bob," he remarked.

I glanced sideways at him, wondering what he'd meant by that. How much did he know about my illegal activities?

"Then again," he continued, "Griswald strikes me like the strong, silent type and she could definitely use that support."

I nodded. "She's just got to choose. This limbo they're in isn't good for anyone."

We spent the rest of the ride to Medd's residence reminiscing about all the lovers my Aunt Loretta (Susan's sister) had over the years.

Our good mood dissipated as we pulled up to the address. Trepidation made my heart beat faster as I parked in front of the dilapidated apartment building.

Even in the broad daylight it looked like the kind of place a mugger, or strung-out addict, or horror movie villain could jump out around a corner and with a single blow gut you like you were an overstuffed piñata.

"Home sweet home," Zeke muttered.

I wasn’t sure if that was because Medd’s humble abode wasn’t the kind of place Martha Stewart would approve of or if he was reliving his own unpleasant memories of the neighborhood. "You can wait here," I offered, having traumatized him enough for one day by swinging the tire iron at his head.

His response was to get out of the car.

I scrambled out too.

"Which is his?"

I pulled the scrap of paper I’d scribbled Ike Medd’s personal information on and squinted at my chicken-scratch. "2C. Guess we won’t be peering in the windows."

Zeke frowned. "I suppose that since the police confiscated your tire iron you don’t have any other weapons in the car."

I thought of the gun Ms. Whitehat had provided, in its hiding spot beneath the driver’s seat. "Just Barry Manilow."

Zeke looked at me the way people often look at my mother who lives in a mental hospital.

"It’s a CD," I explained hurriedly. "If you break it, it’s sharp and could cut someone. Want it?"

Instead of answering, Zeke marched resolutely toward the front door of the apartment building. I hurried to catch up with him.

As we drew near, I saw that the door wasn’t closed completely because someone had splintered the wood surrounding the lock.

Silently I followed Zeke through the doorway and up a flight of stairs, taking care to avoid the sticky pile of who-knows-what on the third step from the top.

Half the hallway bulbs were burnt out, making the walk to 2C eerily dim.

My stomach roiled, but I wasn’t sure if it was because the place reeked of rotting garbage and stale pot smoke or plain nervousness.

Pausing outside of 2C, Zeke and I stared at one another.

"Now what?" he whispered.

"We knock." Before he could protest, I rapped loudly on the door three times.

I held my breath, straining to hear sounds of movement in the apartment. All I heard was a TV droning in the next-door unit.

I reached for the doorknob. Miraculously it turned and the door slowly swung open.

"You can’t go in there." Zeke grabbed my shoulder to prevent me from stepping inside.

I shook him off. "You stay here."

"And do what?"

"Be a lookout. Warn me if someone’s coming."

"How?"

"I dunno. A secret signal."

"Like what? A bird caw?’

I nodded.

Cupping his hands to his mouth, Zeke called, "Caw! Caw!"

I winced. "That sounds more like a hamster on crack."

"I have no doubt there are rats on crack in this building." Zeke shuddered at the thought.

I stepped inside the apartment, wrinkling my nose against an overwhelming scent of chemicals, no doubt to cook drugs with. At least I hoped that’s what they were and not embalming fluid or something else disgusting a serial killer keeps on hand.

For a deranged psycho, Ike Medd kept a tidy home. His living room looked like something out of an Ikea catalog, simple and clean, without much personality.

I tiptoed farther inside, doing a quick scan of the bedroom—bed made, with nary a piece of clothing out of place. The same was true for the kitchen with the exception of a magazine beside the coffeemaker.

It was the most personal item in the entire place, so I picked it up, fully expecting it to be a girlie magazine or gun owner’s periodical or maybe that Japanese cartoon cat thing.

It was something even more shocking.

A yoga magazine!

I was so surprised as I opened it to a dog-eared page featuring human pretzels that I didn’t register the strangled sound coming from the hallway.

It grew louder.

"Caw! Caw!"

Grabbing the magazine since it was the only thing I’d spotted that revealed
anything
about Ike Medd, I raced toward the exit door. I skidded to a stop just before I cannonballed into the hallway.

I strained to listen. I could hear two men talking. One of them was Zeke. It sounded like they were close to the stairs. I couldn’t make out what they were saying over the thumping of my heart.

I peeked around the corner.

Zeke and two men whose faces I couldn’t make out because their backs were to me were arguing. Zeke was doing a lot of out-of-character hand waving, which I guessed was meant to keep their attention on him while I made my escape.

I tiptoed out of Ike's apartment and began to walk quickly in the opposite direction, fervently hoping there was another exit. I'd made it three doors down when I heard a loud, "Hey!" yelled in my direction.

Without looking back, I broke into a full-out run, the pages of the yoga journal flapping with every stride. Heavy footsteps followed me. I ran faster, rolling up the magazine so I could swat my would-be attacker like he was a misbehaving dog.

Rounding the corner and spotting an EXIT sign, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man chasing me. He looked pissed, and he looked like the kind of guy who wouldn't be stopped by a swat on the nose.

Fear made me faster. I flew down the steps of the exit staircase. Not that getting outside would help much. In this neighborhood, no one came to the assistance of their best friend, let alone a complete stranger.

Still, when I burst through the door, I looked for help. There was none. Just like there was no place to hide in the empty lot.

As I cleared the corner, I heard a heavy grunt behind me and a hand grazed my shoulder. I zigged and he must have zagged because the contact was broken. Lungs burning, heart bursting, I headed for my car. If I could get to it and the gun beneath the driver's seat, maybe, just maybe, I could save myself.

The big guy wasn't giving up the hunt though. He was breathing just as heavily as I was and I could hear him growing closer with every step. I wasn't going to make it.

"Help!" I screamed, which was quite the feat considering I was struggling to breathe. "Help!"

Spotting my car, I gave one last kick and sped up just a bit more.

I never saw the other car coming up on my right, until its bumper practically kissed my knee. Instinctively, I pivoted away from the moving vehicle, which threw me off balance and sent my tumbling to the ground, scraping my palm as I tried to keep my face from ending up on the pavement.

Somehow the car stopped and didn't run me over.

But it, or, more likely its occupant, did run off the man who'd been chasing me. When I looked back in the direction we'd come from, I spotted him jogging away as fast as he could.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" a familiar voice boomed as I spotted its owner's shoes rounding the corner to stand in front of me.

I flinched, more because my hand and knee stung from their scrapes than because of the ire of the person who'd just barely managed to stop from running me over.

I squinted up at him. "Sorry about that."

"Sorry?" he shouted. Then, realizing it was bad form to scream at a woman lying prone on the ground, he forced himself to speak in a reasonable, measured tone. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, Maggie?"

"Not trying. No."

"That guy was chasing you." Grabbing my arm behind my elbow, he hauled me to my feet. "I could have run you over."

I looked my savior in the eye, but immediately averted my gaze, unable to face the fury I saw. "I'm really sorry."

Detective Brian Griswald didn't let go of my arm. "I should throw you in jail."

"For what?" I asked, startled.

"Interfering with a police investigation."

"I thought you had to wait to investigate."

"Technically, Maggie. I said 'technically.' You really think I'd leave your crazy friend out there with no one looking for her?" Shaking his head, Brian let go of me and leaned tiredly against the hood of his car. "You need to let the professionals handle this."

"Okay." I nodded enthusiastically, remembering the big guy who'd chased me and wondering what had happened to Zeke. Had the other man attacked him or was he being chased too?

Brian shook his head and exhaled loudly. "Do me a favor and don’t BS me on top of everything else."

"Come again?"

"I've seen what you do for people you care about. Last time it almost got you killed."

I nodded, knowing he was referring to my efforts to save my father from the Lubovsky Crime Family. Of course, what he didn't know was that I'd killed people, albeit bad people who deserved it, in order to take care of myself.

Suddenly a figure rounded the corner of the building and ran toward us.

"Get in the car!" Zeke shouted before realizing that the detective was standing beside me.

Brian peered past Zeke, making sure no one was following him. "You dragged him into this too?"

I couldn’t very well tell him that Ms. Whitehat, blackmailer extraordinaire, was the one who’d gotten Zeke involved in this mess. "He’s one of my oldest friends." I shot Zeke a warning look as he slowed to a stop beside me. "And besides he’s flirted with Armani."

"
Everyone
has flirted with Armani or vice versa," Brian said drily.

"Nice to see you again, Detective Griswald," Zeke said, extending his hand like we were at a cocktail party making small talk.

Instead of Brian taking it, he shook his head. "You need to go back to the B&B right now."

"Okay," I agreed automatically.

"My car," Zeke protested weakly.

"To the B&B or to the station," Brian said firmly. "Your choice."

"I can get my car later," Zeke agreed.