'What's her name?'
'Louise Blake.'
'How did John meet her?'
'She worked for the same company as him.' She gave me a pointed stare. I just watched her, and Jennifer added, 'By all accounts they were seeing each other for six months before he left me.' She gave me the pointed look again. 'Everyone knew but me.'
'I didn't.'
She wiped at her mouth with the back of a hand. 'Well, you're about the only one who didn't.' Her words became softer as she recalled the betrayal. 'Louise stole my husband from me, Joe. Now she wants help to find him. What does she want me to do, hand him right back to her?'
'Have you ever met her?'
'Not formally. I saw her a couple times where John worked.' Jenny laughed. 'When I think about it, I suppose you'd say she's a younger version of me. Without the baggage around the waist from carrying two kids. Basically John traded me in for a younger model.'
'But you still want me to find him?'
She sighed. Her gaze flickered toward the bedroom. The kids were very quiet and I wondered if they had their ears to the door.
'He's still their dad, Joe. He should be doing more to support them.'
Yes. A sad fact. But not something I was about to put into words.
Jenny said, 'Probably Louise is right: John does deserve everything he gets. But my kids shouldn't be made to suffer, should they?' She could look all she wanted but she wouldn't see any sign of disagreement from me. After a few seconds she asked, 'So . . . what do you think? Is there anything you can do?'
'There is,' I promised her.
And I meant it.
3
when working, i don't use a vehicle that i care about. I use an old car I picked up at an auction. That way, when the disgruntled dig a key into the length of the paintwork, I don't get too upset. The car has many scars. The only concession I make to roadworthiness is to have the engine regularly overhauled and tires of the puncture-proof variety. Both have proved invaluable in the past.
Before setting up the takedown on Shank, I had parked the old Ford a couple of streets away. Okay, I wasn't that protective of it, but neither was I going to make my wheels a sitting duck. I was approaching the car when the BMW swung into the street behind me. To be fair, I thought I'd seen the last of Peter Ramsey, yet here he was, back for more.
Maybe I should've done a better number on him the first time. My fault, but as I said, I can be a compassionate guy.
'This time . . . no messing about,' I promised.
In an effort at stealth, the music volume had been turned down. Still, the thud-thud rhythm sounded like the heartbeat of a predator coiling for the death lunge. Thick tires whistled on tarmac. The engine growled. Even without looking, I'd have known they were coming.
It was like patrolling in-country all over again. Only then I was an inexperienced rookie, immortal in my battle fatigues and holding a submachine gun. Unprepared for what happened, I hadn't even realized I'd been shot until I surfaced through a morphine haze the following day and blinked up at my nurse.
You don't hear the bullet that kills you. Which meant the two bullets Shank fired at me missed their mark. Good job I'd leaped forward at the right time. The sidewalk was a little unforgiving, but a scraped elbow and knee were the least of my worries.
The BMW was a sleek black shark, as dangerous as the .38 Shank aimed at me. It made sense that the driver swung the BMW onto the sidewalk. A half-ton of metal on my head would finish me as quickly as a slug in the heart.
'Get that son of a bitch!'
Even as I rolled away from the car, I had to smile at Shank's determination.
The BMW bumped down off the curb, knocking value off the alloys. I rose up behind them. From beneath my shirttails, I drew my own gun, a SIG-Sauer P226. Unlike these cretins, I had a full load. In addition, I knew how to shoot. One round into a rear tire, two into the trunk, and one through the back windshield for good measure. More than the deflated tire, panic spun the car across the road and drove it into my parked car.
In this part of town, gunfire would ensure that witnesses kept their heads down. On the other hand, a good old-fashioned car wreck would bring the ghouls running.
'Out of the car,' I shouted. 'Now!'
The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, blood frothing from both nostrils. Sound asleep for the second time that evening. Shank wasn't in much better shape. Half out the window when the car collided with my Ford, he was now on the road, crying like a baby and cradling a busted elbow. His gun had slid harmlessly beneath my car. Only the third guy, the big baldy, posed any threat.
'I said, Ou
Staring down the barrel of a SIG is enough to motivate most men. He was surprisingly sprightly when offered the correct form of stimulation. His hands went up. 'Okay! Easy, man, easy.'
His gloves were gone. Heavy gold rings made a rich man's brass knuckles on his right hand. Fancied himself a pugilist.
