Don of the Dead (21 page)

Albert tightened his hold.

He had arms like steel bands and muscles on top of his muscles. Every one of those muscles clenched, slowly squeezing my neck. This was something Albert had obviously done before and he was plenty good at it. What fun would it be to cut off somebody's air supply quickly? This way, bit by bit, one heartbeat at a time, I knew exactly what I was missing.

What I was missing was oxygen.

My ears buzzed, and even though all the lights in my apartment were off, the scene in front of me got even darker. I tried like hell not to pass out. Not that I was looking forward to finding out what Albert was planning to do to me. But the idea of blacking out and not knowing was even worse.

Somewhere during all my gasping and struggling, Albert's foot hit the edge of the living room carpeting where it met the hardwood floor in the hallway. His shoe caught and he staggered back. For one precious second, his grip loosened, and at the same time I gulped in a breath that felt like fire in my throat, I slipped toward the floor. No way he was going to let that happen. He caught me around the waist, grasped, and lifted, spinning me around so that my breasts were pressed against a chest that felt like poured concrete.

My ribs were being crushed, my breasts were squished, but lucky me, one of my knees ended up in exactly the right spot.

It was one of those silver platter opportunities and the only one I was going to get. I slammed my knee into Albert's balls.

"Son of a—" He yowled and let go and I hit the floor, butt first and full force. I didn't have the luxury of wallowing in the pain that shot up my tail-bone and into my back. As long as Albert was still hopping around on one foot, dropping the f-bomb and clutching his hands to his groin, I had the advantage.

I rolled to my knees and scrambled for the hallway that led to my bedroom. Thanks to a former tenant who had a problem either with the neighborhood or with intimacy issues, there was a lock on the door and my cell phone was in the pocket of mypeacoat . If I could get that far—

I didn't.

Still bellowing, Albert grabbed me, spun me around and let go. I slammed into the wall, headfirst, and like those characters in so many cartoons, I saw stars.

Except that there was nothing funny about the situation.

Pain racketed inside my head and something wet and hot trickled into my eyes. Rather than think about what it was and what it meant, I made a mental note.

Please describe the circumstances that led to your head injury.

I'd have a whole new paragraph to add to my answer on Dan's essay test.

If I lived that long.

As far as I could see (and with blood in my eyes and a strobe display going on inside my head, it wasn't far), I had one advantage. I lived there. Albert didn't. The lights were off. He didn't know that when he launched me into the wall, I landed about three inches shy of the table near the front door. The one where I dropped my purse and keys when I walked in. The one near where I leaned the big, black umbrella I took to Garden View with me on rainy days.

I struggled to my feet and groped along the wall, and when my fingers finally closed around the umbrella's wooden handle, I was filled with a sudden and insane courage. I spun to face my attacker, raising the business end of the umbrella.

"Bitch!" Albert swung one meaty fist and I ducked. The lamp on the table hit the floor and shattered.

I managed a thrust and before Albert knew what hit him, the metal point of the umbrella was nestled against his breastbone. I applied just enough pressure to get his attention.

"Out of here, scumbag." I poked him a little harder and Albert stepped back and toward the door.

"If I ever see your ugly face anywhere near here again… " I pressed again and again, he took a step back. "Well, let's just say that if I have to deal with you like this again, it's not going to be—"

He swung one arm, windmill style. My umbrella went flying. And one very pissed Albert came at me.

My only choice was to run, and at that moment, the bedroom wasn't an option. Not with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle between me and the hallway. I headed for the living room and put the couch between me and Albert, fighting for breath and the inkling of an idea that might save me from a situation that was looking grimmer by the moment.

At the front of the apartment, the streetlight from the opposite curb threw squares of light through the two front windows. When Albert came hurtling in from the hallway, it was the first I got a look at him. It wasn't a pretty sight.

A vein bulged on his forehead and his face was dark and mottled. Against the palette of burgundy and purple, that scar on his cheek looked uglier than ever. His ponytail was mussed and his eyes… well, let's just say that the phrase
if looks could kill
came to mind.

It wasn't something I wanted to think about.

I backed away and Albert came around the couch and closed in on me.

"Looks like you don't take advice very good."

"Well." Even I'd learned that much from English 101. "I don't take advice well. And what advice, anyway? I was told—"

"You was told to mind your own business. And now… " He flicked his wrist. The blade of a long, skinny knife gleamed in the light of the streetlamp.

I took another step away from him. But like I said, the room was small; my back hit the wall. The knife blade glimmered and I stared at it, mesmerized.

I took a deep breath and held it. I don't know why. I guess I figured it would somehow keep it from hurting as much when Albert stuck that knife into me.

I was just about to find out when my front door shattered.

The lights flicked on and for a moment, I closed my eyes, blinded. When I opened them again, there was Quinn looking like a god and this time, it had nothing to do with his six-hundred-dollar suit, his Italian silk tie, or the fact that he was as hot and as tempting as sin.

It had everything to do with the gun in his hand.

"Back away,Vigniolli ." Quinn cradled that gun like he knew how to use it. "Drop the knife and get down on the ground."

Albert wasn't very good at listening to directions. Before I could move and before Quinn could get a shot off, he lunged across the room and had me by the throat. "I'm leaving here," he said, stepping behind me and using me as a shield. "And she's coming with me."

Quinn didn't lower the gun. He sighted down the barrel, his eyes and his energies focused on Albert, assessing every twitch, anticipating every move. "Don't be stupid," he said. "You think I was dumb enough to show up here alone? I've got three black-and-whites waiting down on the street. That makes six patrol officers and my partner. How far do you think you'll get?"

"Far enough." Albert stepped toward the door, keeping me between him and the business end of Quinn's gun.

And what was I doing? For starters, I was busy being scared to death. At least until I saw Quinn. Yeah, things were still looking pretty bleak. But there was something about how steady his hands were as he held the gun, something about the intensity of his focus that made me think that—somehow—he was going to get me out of that mess.

Of course, the trick was how.

I was still wondering when Albert and I arrived at my front door.

"See you, cop," Albert said, and before I could figure out what he was up to, he had one hand at the small of my back and the other gripped around my neck. He wound up and launched me at Quinn.

Before either of us knew what hit us, Quinn and I were tangled together on the floor, listening to the sounds of Albert's departing footsteps.

"Shit!" Quinn was flat on his back. He pounded the floor with his fist. "I'm going to lose him again."

I was flat on top of Quinn. Considering that I'd been imagining that I'd finish out the evening at the bottom ofLake Erie , it was not a bad place to be.

I scooped my hair out of my eyes and raised myself up far enough to look into his face. "What do you mean, lose him? What about the patrol cars?"

He looked away.

"And those uniformed officers?" My voice was demanding and as shrill as every article I'd ever read in
Cosmo
said that it should never be. Especially when I was being demanding. "What about your partner?

You know, the one who's waiting outside?"

Quinn sighed. When he moved to sit up, I had no choice but to slide off him. We sat on the floor side by side.

"I stopped on my way home from work," Quinn confessed.

"Which means—"

"No black-and-whites. No uniforms. No partner." He slammed his gun back in his shoulder holster.

"Shit."

"Yeah, you got that right."

He slipped an arm around my shoulders. "You okay?"

I wasn't, but things were starting to look up. I sniffled and snuggled into the warmth of Quinn's embrace.

"I walked in the front door," I told him. "And he was here. Waiting for me."

"It's okay now. He's gone." He rubbed my back. "I'm afraid I did some damage to your front door.

Sorry. But when I heard the commotion inside, I couldn't wait. We'll get the door fixed. We'll put on a deadbolt. In the morning."

"But what if he comes back before morning?"

"He won't. I swear."

Even in my weakened state, I knew Quinn could not make promises on behalf ofovermuscled hit men. I went along with his story, anyway. After what he'd done in the saving-my-life department it was the least I could do for him and besides, believing him made me feel better. So did Quinn's fingers tracing lazy circles over my back.

"Come on." He hitched an arm around me and before I knew it, I was up and sitting on the couch and he was leaning over me. His hair was a mess and there was a button missing off the front of his shirt. He peered into my eyes. "Let's get you to the ER."

"No. No ER." He already had a hand around my arm to help me up, and I plucked his fingers away. "I don't need the ER. Unless… " I gently touched the spot on my forehead that hurt the most. It was right above my left eyebrow and when I moved my fingers away and looked at them, they were red and sticky. "Is it bad? Do I need stitches?"

Quinn's mouth pulled into an almost-grin. "No stitches. It's hardly even bleeding anymore. But we should make sure nothing is broken."

"Nothing is broken." Just to prove it, I flexed my arms and moved my legs. Nothing hurt. At least not more than it should have. "I'm fine," I told Quinn. "Just a little—"

"Shook up? Yeah, I can understand that." He got up and headed toward the kitchen. "Got any booze?

And some ice cubes?"

"You want a drink?" It must have been some sort of cop ritual, a way to celebrate not dying another day. "The bar down the street is open until—"

Quinn stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway. He rolled his eyes. "The booze and the ice are for you," he said, before he ducked back into the kitchen.

A couple minutes later he came out carrying one of my dishcloths wrapped around a sandwich bag full of ice cubes. He had a glass of wine in his other hand.

"Your bar stock leaves a lot to be desired." He handed me the wine, sat down, and gently pressed the ice to my eyebrow.

"Ouch!" I winced.

"Hold still. And drink up."

"I can't do both."

He sat back. "Okay then. Drink up," he instructed me. I downed the glass of wine and when I was finished, he slipped an arm around me. He wasn't being friendly, he was holding me in place. He tightened his grip and applied the ice pack.

"There. How does that feel?"

I leaned against his shoulder and closed my eyes. How did it feel? My eyebrow hurt like hell. The rest of me felt like heaven! Quinn's hand on my forehead. Quinn's body next to mine. That left only one question.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked him.

When I opened my eyes, his expression was grim.

"I told you to stay away from theScarpettis ."

"I—"

"I warned you, Pepper. And I shouldn't have had to warn you. You're the one writing the book. You know what these people are like. Just in case you didn't get the message, I told you they were dangerous. Do you believe me now?"

"I believed you then. It's just—"

"It's just that you decided you knew more than I did. That's why you were nosing around The Family Place this afternoon."

I wasn't surprised that he knew. Between the police, the FBI, and theScarpetti crime family, I might as well post my daily schedule on the score-board down at Jacobs Field.

The realization soured my already touch-and-go mood. "So you showed up here to read me the riot act." I ducked away from the ice bag and Quinn's hand. "Am I supposed to be pissed or eternally grateful?"

His eyes lit. "I was hoping for grateful but not necessarily eternally."

"But you were betting on pissed."

"Yeah." He tossed the ice pack into my hands and got up. "But give me a little more credit than that, will you? I didn't show up here just to tell you to be careful. I've already told you that. You've already chosen not to listen. I'm not into games and you might as well know that right now. I'm not the type who's going to keep giving advice when I know you're not listening."

"Then what type are you?"

"I'm the type who stopped by on my way home from the office to tell you that BennyMarzano is dead."

I heard what Quinn was saying. It was just a little hard to process the information. Just in case it had anything to do with brain freeze, I set down the ice pack.

"You've got it all wrong," I told him. "I saw Benny this afternoon. I talked to him. He was alive and kicking—" I cringed. "Okay, so he wasn't exactly kicking. He was alive when I left The Family Place."

"I don't doubt it for a minute. But he wasn't alive by the time his wheelchair went down the steps of the deck at the back of the house and he landed on the beach with about thirty broken bones and a whole bunch of internal bleeding." Quinn picked up what was left of my lamp and put the pieces back on the hall table. "Coroner says it looks like an accident."

I thought of the steep drop to the lake and the wide wooden steps that led down to the beach. I hadn't had time to take off mypeacoat and inside it, I shivered.