“What—”
Brett clamped his hand over Jonah’s mouth hard. Damn hard. His thick, rough fingers pressed Jonah’s lips into his teeth, nearly making his eyes water.
As quietly as he could with his gravelly voice, Brett whispered, “Being followed.”
He pointed at the stairs.
Jonah’s forehead was instantly cool, wet—panic sweat.
His mind flashed on District C11 again.
All the trouble the district was involved in, all the inconclusive investigations. Informants murdered by gangland toughs. Missing persons.
Goddamn bastards.
And now someone was following him and Brett…
Footsteps.
Quiet, slow, deliberate footsteps coming from the stairs, pausing occasionally, as though the person was stopping to listen. Each footstep louder, drawing nearer.
Jonah’s imagination flittered. Some drug lord who had a vendetta against Carlton. Or a cheap but efficient hitman. Someone involved with Amber’s disappearance.
The footsteps continued. Almost to the landing. Right around the corner.
Then a figure appeared. Dressed fully in black. Pants, shirt, toboggan hat. Jonah saw the man for only a moment, got just the vaguest view of the man’s shape, his short height, small size—before Brett grabbed him.
A flash, a rustle of clothing, and the man was in the air, lifted off his feet by the throat. Brett slammed him into the concrete wall.
BOOM!
Brett got into the man’s face, an inch away.
“Talk!”
Thrashing limbs. Hands clawing at Brett’s forearms. Feet flailing six inches off the floor. Gurgles from the man’s throat.
Brett pulled the man away from the wall and slammed him back into it.
BOOM!
The impact shook the walls, its sound screaming down the stairwell.
“Talk!”
Louder gurgling from the man’s throat.
Commotion from the garage beyond, on the other side of the steel door. An additional set of footsteps. Someone was approaching.
With one hand pinning the man against the wall, Brett reached out and grabbed the concrete planter that sat in the corner, fingers plunging into the soil, dragged it across the floor—the crunch of concrete against concrete—and brought it to rest against the metal door with a clang, another sound that boomed up and down the stairwell.
Shit, that thing must have weighted a hundred pounds, and he’d moved it like it was aluminum.
Brett straightened back up, face to face with the flailing, pinned man.
It was then that Jonah got his first good glimpse of the other guy.
And saw curly dark hair poking from the bottom of the hat. Pale, soft skin. Slender arms and hands.
It wasn’t a guy at all. It was a young woman.
And Jonah recognized her.
“Wait!!” He grabbed Brett’s forearm. “Wait, I know her!”
Brett’s snarling face turned to him, slackened.
“Put her down!”
Someone on the other side of the door tried to enter. The door clanked into the planter.
Brett brought the woman to her feet, took his hand from her throat.
It was Kim Hurley, Amber’s friend, someone Jonah had known for years.
She bent over, hands on her knees, coughing.
Tapping at the door. The touch bar rattled violently. A man’s voice. “What’s going on in there?”
Kim coughed louder, hacking. Quivering hands cupped her knees. Drool fell from her mouth, puddled between her black, chunky-heeled boots.
“You could have killed her!” Jonah said.
Brett looked at him. “Who is?”
“Kim Hurley. Amber’s best friend. She’s clean, man. She was our maid of honor two months ago, for God’s sake.”
Kim straightened up, gasping but no longer coughing. She rubbed her throat.
Brett approached her. “Why following?”
“I’m … I’m not. Well, I mean, I am, but…”
She stopped. Grimaced. A sudden wave of pain. She rubbed her throat harder.
The tapping on the door grew louder, changed to pounding. “What the hell is going on in there?”
Brett growled, swooped across the landing, yanked the planter aside, and threw open the door. “Go away.”
A thin man in glasses and a green flannel did exactly as Brett commanded, scurrying off into the garage.
Brett slid the planter back into place, looked at Kim.
“I’ve been keeping tabs on Jonah,” she said, a finger pointed at him, “since he’s the one keeping Amber’s story alive. I just … want to know, want to believe she’s still alive.”
“Bullshit,” Brett snarled. He swallowed. “You’re on a team.”
“A … a team?”
Brett pointed through the green glass. “Accord. Who’s your friend?”
Jonah looked to where Brett was pointing. Across the street, a silver Honda Accord was parked beneath the I-4 overpass. A silhouette behind the driver’s seat was just visible.
Kim shook her head. “What??”
Brett got closer to her. He didn’t say “Talk” again, just stared into her, hard, enough to make her tremble, cower away, look out the window at the car.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know who that is, and … there! There’s a cop right there. I’ll scream. He’ll see me with Jonah.”
Jonah looked over her shoulder. Outside, between the headquarters and the interstate, was a squad car with blue lights flashing, an officer standing beside it, a lingering crowd control officer.
“She’s right,” he said to Brett. “Please. Let her be. She’s Amber’s friend, man!”
Brett glared at him, then at her. Then he stepped back, giving her space.
She looked at Jonah, eyes wet, chest heaving.
“Kim…” Jonah said.
Her hands shook, fluttered. Her eyes darted between Jonah and Brett.
And then she pivoted, sprinted down the stairs, her palm screeching on the handrail, the thunder of her footsteps echoing harshly.
“Kim, wait!” Jonah called after her.
He turned to Brett.
Who was already dragging the planter back into place.
Brett pulled the door open and exited into the garage.
Chapter Ten
In the shade beneath the overpass, Finley looked through a pair of 10x25 binoculars, through the Accord’s windshield, to the top panel of dark green glass of the stairwell that ran up the center of the three-story garage.
Though the glass was tinted, it was perfectly clear, and Finley had seen everything that had happened, the full confrontation, in shades of emerald, a bit of drama playing out in a wine bottle. For a while there, it looked like the guy was going to kill her, snuff her our right there against the stairwell wall, but after he’d released her and there had been a few moments of conversation, he’d let the woman go.
“Kim, you dumb bitch,” Finley uttered, his binoculars tracing
