man’s arms closed on his waist in a powerful clamp. As Jeff hit the floor, Carrie shrieked, and he could already feel the man’s hands clawing their way up his body toward his throat.
“Don’t kill him!” Carrie shrieked.
He raised his left forearm to keep the man’s clawlike grasp from closing on his throat. With his right fist he delivered a series of short, hard punches to the man’s face and left ear.
The man released his grip and raised his arm to fend off Jeff’s right hand and turned his face away. Jeff used the moment to give a great, wrenching turn to speed him in that direction, scrambled away, and got to his feet.
The man was still so unimpressed with Jeff that as he too rose, he barely looked in Jeff’s direction. Instead, he glared at Carrie while he touched his bleeding nose tentatively, and then his battered left ear.
Jeff had no hope now of escaping the fight or ending it. All he could see was the inviting sight of the big man’s momentary inattention. He advanced and delivered eight rapid punches, throwing each as he pushed from his back foot, so he battered the man backward with each one, until the man was pinned against the front of the stove.
Jeff felt the elation of battle, the hard, clean impact as his fists struck again and again in adrenaline-fueled fury. But slowly, he began to sense that something was not right. The exertion of pounding this man was making his arms tired. As he hit the man, he could see that the swollen eyes were open and watching him. There was a cold, reptilian quality to the way the eyes held him.
He hadn’t seen it before, but there was no question of what it was. The big man was watching, waiting for him to wear himself out. In another few minutes, Jeff would barely be able to hold his arms up, barely be able to dance to avoid the thick arms. But when that moment came, the big man might be marked and bruised, but he would not be exhausted. He would still be able to fight. It would be his turn.
Jeff looked into the eyes, at the cold hatred behind them, and he knew that the man was keeping track, making his own personal calculation of his hurt. He was, in some perverse way, happy because he was soon going to exact a ferocious reprisal.
Carrie was suddenly at Jeff’s elbow. “Roger, it doesn’t matter what you do, I’m not going back with you, so I’m leaving now.” She picked up her suitcase and started to drag it toward the door.
It occurred to Jeff that to an observer it would look as though he was not the one who needed help, but he was, and Carrie’s announcement that she was leaving was not good news. He kept swinging, knowing his punches were hitting more and more sloppily. He had to keep punching, because he knew that if his punches stopped, Roger’s would start.
When Carrie spoke, Roger seemed electrified. He straightened and stared at her with the sort of anger that he had been lavishing on Jeff. He ducked low so Jeff’s next swing missed him, and lunged at Carrie.
When Roger moved, Jeff’s eye settled on the iron skillet on the stove that had been hidden behind his body. He snatched it up and swung it in a single, desperate backhand motion. It hit the back of Roger’s head and made a sound like a hammer hitting a coconut. Roger’s lunge changed midway into a dive to the floor. He slid a couple of feet on the smooth kitchen floor, then lay still.
Jeff stood motionless for a moment, the skillet now hanging from his hand, trying to catch his breath while he watched Roger for signs that he might get up.
Carrie had the door open and she was tugging her suitcase out onto the steps. “What are you waiting for? Round two?”
Jeff set the skillet on the stove, clutched the handle of his suitcase, but felt too tired to lift it. He extended the handle, wheeled it to the doorway, and bumped it down the steps. He hurried to the car, wondering if he should have tied Roger up, or done something to prevent him from following.
Carrie was waiting, having put her suitcase in the back seat instead of waiting for him to open the trunk. He lifted his in too, got into the driver’s seat, and turned to her. “Are you leaving your car here?”
“Technically, it’s only my car because it’s the one he let me use. Don’t worry. I didn’t leave him any keys.” She gave him an appraising glance. “You want me to drive?”
“No, thanks.” He started the car and backed down the driveway, feeling relieved when he got past the door without having Roger burst out into his path. He hit the button to lock the doors, pulled into the street, shifted, and headed to the turn that would take him down the hill.
“Jeez,” she said. “I thought you were going to get us killed in there. Haven’t you been in a fight before?”
“What do you mean? Roger is a very big, strong guy, and he didn’t manage to hit me even once.”
“He was getting ready to, and it would have been awful. You can’t dance around like that and tap him. I could tell it was just pissing him off. That’s why I decided to make him freak out like that—so you would have to come to your senses to save me.”
“Come to my senses?”
“Yes. Before he killed you. We’re both very lucky that the place he was coming from was the airport. Anyplace else and he’d have had a gun.”
“Don’t you ever date anybody who’s not a criminal?”
She shrugged and smiled sweetly. “I guess all this time I’ve been searching for you.”
29
IT WAS HOT. Lieutenant Slosser’s office door was closed, and the three detectives were gathered in the room with their coats off, their shirtsleeves rolled up, and their ties loosened. Even Detective Louise Serra, who favored black suits with matador jackets, had hers off, so the gun in the small belt holster she wore was visible.
Slosser leaned back in his desk chair, masking the eagerness that he felt. “So who are they and where did you find them?”
“There are two of them,” said Timmons. “Both of them young, and would you say ‘attractive,’ Louise?”
“Probably not, but you can. You say young and attractive goes with it. They’re teenagers.”
“Right. Their names are Ariana Rodriguez, and Irena Estrada. The surnames may be fake, because the IDs are. The first names are probably real, because a lot of people know them under those names. They were picked up in Sunland in a BMW that was registered to Alvin Tatum.”
“The Alvin Tatum that got killed in the Malibu massacre?”
“The same. The car was parked on the street in Sunland near a corner where some coke dealers sell. At one, two A.M., this Beemer is not going to be noticed. At eight A.M., it kind of stands out. A patrol car comes by, the officer spots it, runs the tags, and it comes up stolen from a murder victim. They left it there and put it under surveillance for a couple of hours. Along come these two girls, Ariana and Irena, on foot. They unlock it with the remote on the key chain and get in. The chase cars roll in and block it, and they’re in custody.”
“What did they have on them?”
“The false IDs I mentioned. They each had a gun and a box of ammunition. If you unloaded the guns, the ammunition refilled the boxes. Both guns were new, probably never fired after the factory test firing. They both had the instruction booklets that came with them.”
“What did they have to say?” Slosser asked.
“Not much. Ariana said they had borrowed the car from a friend because they didn’t want to walk home in this heat.”
“Was Alvin Tatum the friend?”
“No. They didn’t know the friend’s real name. He calls himself Gordo—Fats.”
“So they claim to know nothing about anything.”
“Right.”
“How hard did you try?”
“Hard.”
“Then it’s my turn. How much time do I have?”
“They were brought in at ten. Nobody has asked for a lawyer or anything yet.”
“Good. I’ll see them in Room Three” He stood. “Tell me you’ve read them their rights.”
“We read them their rights,” Timmons said. “Here’s the file on what we’ve got so far.”
