He sniffs the air softly as he turns around to face me. “Are you okay, Miss…?”
“I’m fine.”
“I smell burned flesh.”
“You know the scent of burned flesh?”
“In my line of work, I’ve come to know the scents of many things.” He takes a step toward me. “Some pleasant and some not so pleasant.”
I hold my ground. “Your line of work? They allow you to dress like that in your line of work?”
“I’m a detective. I don’t wear a costume like those other clowns.”
He’s no more than five feet away from me now, his hands still up in the air and his flashlight in hand. His black hoodie still pulled up over his head. Combined with his black pants, he does a good job of blending into the darkness. Still, I have two advantages here. My left eye and the fact that I know I have an advantage in the dark. Knowing you have an advantage is half the battle, because nothing is stronger than confidence.
If I wanted to, I could close that five-foot gap between us, reach forward, and tear out his esophagus in one second flat. If I were operating at full power. But I’m not. And he can smell it.
He can smell my burned flesh. He can smell my weakness from five feet away. And he wants me to know. But why? Why not just pounce on me and finish me off? Why not just pull out that fucking .44 and blast me between the eyes?
Because he wants something. Everybody wants something. And whatever this guy wants, he needs me alive to get it.
“You refer to your fellow officers as clowns?” I reply, trying to color my voice with some mock disgust.
He chuckles and the sound sends a chill through me. “I’m not an officer. I’m a detective. I had to use my brain to get to this position, just like I had to use my brain to get your boss to tell me where you live.”
I want to shout, “You killed that man!” but that would be very stupid of me. Instead, I maintain my composure as he takes another step toward me, closing the distance between us to no more than three feet.
“Are you going to tell me what you saw? Or should I come back tomorrow after you’ve had some rest?”
He’s giving me an out. Why?
“You killed that man.” I speak these words calmly, almost conversationally.
Through the darkness, I can see and feel his muscles tense. “That man was following you.”
He’s not even going to deny it. I don’t know if I should be more frightened or impressed.
“No, he wasn’t,” I reply.
“Yes, he was. He is — was a known sexual predator. I’ve been following his case and waiting for him to strike. You were going to be his next victim.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, he’s been watching you for a few days. And he certainly didn’t appreciate me trailing you tonight. Which is why he pulled up next to me and attempted to shoot me. I shot him first.”
I let out a puff of shrill laughter. “Oh, that’s a good story. I’m sure it will make headlines.”
He gazes at me, completely silent and still. Though I know he can’t see me through the darkness, especially with my makeup and sunglasses and the hood over my head, I can’t help the nervous feeling building in the pit of my belly. Something tells me playtime is over.
“I’ll come back to speak to you tomorrow.” He turns to head for the door. He stops as he places his hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for your time, Miss…?”
“Alex. Just Alex.”
“Thank you for your time, Alex.” He twists the doorknob and my body tenses as I await the soft glow of the lights in the corridor. But he doesn’t open the door. He looks over his shoulder and, even through the darkness, I can see the soft shadow of a smug grin on his face. “You should get that stab wound looked at by a physician.” He reaches into his back pocket and I brace myself for a gunshot. But all he pulls out is a business card. “This community clinic will take care of you free of charge. No questions asked. Just tell them Detective Rousseau sent you.”
Chapter Three
All week long, I lie on the sofa recuperating, staring at the door, waiting for someone to kick it down and arrest me for killing Shorty. Or turning him into a vegetable. But it never happens.
So I’m left to wonder in silence about Detective Rousseau. Poring over every detail of our conversation in my apartment, and every detail of the doctor visit to Highland Medical Clinic on Wilshire Blvd. Though it was hard to maintain my usual level of alertness with my anxiety level skyrocketing.
Highland seemed like a legit clinic on the outside. Inside, it looked like a typical doctor’s office: dingy industrial carpet, uncomfortable vinyl chairs, a few small tables displaying magazines from a time when the La Brea tar pits were free of mammoths.
I approached the plexiglass window, my heart pulsing in every inch of my weakened body. My stab wound throbbing, reminding me that I couldn’t just turn around and walk out. For the first time since I left home, I needed help.
I introduced myself to the receptionist, keeping my head down, hoping she couldn’t see the streaks of makeup that inevitably turn up on my collar. I whispered Rousseau’s name and it’s as if I just told them I was Princess Diana. They had a wheelchair waiting for me just inside the door leading to the back office area. The receptionist rolled it out into the waiting room for me. A medical assistant in purple scrubs held the door open while the receptionist rolled me into a corridor leading to an examination room.
She tried to help me out of the wheelchair, but I held up my hand to stop her. “I can do it myself, thanks.”
Moving carefully, I climbed up onto the examination table. Gritting my teeth and trying not to let the pain show in my face. By the time I looked up, the doctor was already in the room. They weren’t going to make me wait.
“Good morning, Alex. I’m Dr. Grossman.” She holds her delicate hand out to me and I wince a little when I reach forward to shake. “Would you mind lying back so I can take a look at that injury?”
I don’t ask how she knows I’m injured. I figure Rousseau probably called ahead to give her a heads up. Maybe threatened to put a bullet in her Ivy league brain if she didn’t treat me well.
Dr. Grossman’s silver hair falls softly over her shoulder as she tips her head to the side. Watching me curiously as I painfully move backward on the table. Unlike the receptionist, she doesn’t attempt to help me or ask if I need assistance. She also doesn’t ask me to remove my hood or sunglasses. Rousseau must have been quite forthcoming with her.
Once I’m supine on the vinyl examination table, she comes to my side and reaches for the bottom of my black hoodie. I feel vulnerable and my anxiety is multiplying. In this harsh lighting, at this close range, she’ll see the industrial makeup on my face and neck. With the overhead lights shining down on my sunglasses, she may even see through the lenses.
“Alex, I’m going to ask you to please try to remain calm. Take a few slow, deep breaths. Can you do that for me?”
My chest trembles as I draw in a long breath. Then I let it out and there’s the unmistakable whistling wheeze of an asthma attack. I haven’t had one in years. They only happen when I’m under duress.
“A few more deep breaths,” Grossman encourages me.
I do as she says and the wheezing subsides on the ninth breath. Then I close my eyes because I can’t bear looking at the harsh fluorescent lights above me. She gently lifts the bottom of my sweatshirt just enough to see the wound.
“I’m going to have to put you under to clean this out.”
“No!”
“But —”
“No!” I try to sit up and she gently grabs my shoulders.
“Okay, okay. We won’t put you under. But this will need a lot of local anesthetic. Just lie down. I’ll be right back.”
She shot me up with demerol, which made me feel really good. Then she injected some local anesthetic into my abdomen so she could cut me open even further and clean out the wound. I told her I couldn’t feel anything, but it was a complete lie. The demerol and the anesthetic had mostly worn off about two thirds of the way into the procedure.