Page 66 of Murder Notes

“It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It bleeds because they are dangerous.”

“Who?”

“The people they work for.”

“What people?”

“Go home before you bleed. Before your family bleeds.”

He turns and starts to run away. I start running after him, but we both stop abruptly when a black sedan squeals to a halt in the roadway in front of us and just beyond the alleyway. In a blink, two men are out of the passenger-side doors, both in ski masks and all black. Both pointing guns at me.

“Get in the car,” one of the masked men grunts at the older man, who does as he’s told, while my hand closes around my gun and I hope for an opportunity that never comes. The two masked men back away and slide into the car, which starts moving before one of the doors is even shut. I race after it, determined to get a license number, and round the corner in time to watch it speed away, but there is no plate on the bumper.

The old man’s words replay in my mind: It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I walk the streets after that old man disappeared, going from establishment to establishment, asking questions, trying to figure out who he was, and come up with a big, whopping zero at every turn. By the time I accept temporary defeat and hail a cab, I’m ready to be out of this city. I’m just about to slide into a car when my cell phone rings, and a glance at the caller ID tells me it’s Alexandra. “I need a moment,” I tell the driver, who scowls. “Hey,” I say. “I tip huge. I’m worth the wait. Or I can give it to someone else. What’ll it be?”

“I’ll wait.”

I nod and shut the door, leaning on the car and hitting the Answer button. “Alexandra,” I say.

“I would have called sooner, but I’ve been in court today.”

“That’s why I return calls on the way to court,” I say.

“I was prepping. Do we have to do this awkward thing we’re doing?”

“Yes,” I say. “We do. Why would Woods call you of all people?”

“It had to be random. Maybe he picked the only female at the DA’s office. It’s very odd and frankly, scary.”

The woman has Eddie in her bed and this is scary? “And you consider that message a confession?”

“I told Eddie I would need more for a conviction,” she says, pretty much avoiding the question before saying, “He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

I shudder with a made-up image in my head of those two naked and going at it. “No,” I say, feeling like this communication is as much a setup as everything else. “I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

“That’s it?” she demands. “No questions about Eddie? No conversation about us?”

“Nope. None of that.”

“None of that,” she repeats.

“You got it the first time.”

“Fine. Fine then. None of that.” She hangs up and right now, it’s music to my ears.

I slide into the cab and give the driver the airfield information before sinking back into the seat. We weave through hellish traffic, and by the time we finally hit the highway, the calm after the storm of an insane day allows my morning encounter with Kane and that damnable walk down memory lane to finally sink in. It happened. We talked about that night. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad just yet. I’ll decide later. Or never.

Once I’m at the airport, I face an ordeal over my service weapon, and since it worked with the cab driver, I throw cash at the problem to hurry things up instead of attitude. I figure in my mood this is safer for everyone, but I’m wrong. I’m not good at throwing cash at people, thus it goes incredibly wrong, and it turns out, my badge and that attitude I’d benched save the day. Finally, I claim my private chopper, settling into a cushy leather seat, worth every dime I paid for it and privacy. I’m pissed all over again at Kane. I didn’t kill him, he’d said. You know what happened.

“Yes, you bastard,” I whisper. “I know what I did and I also know what you did.”