Ties That Bind

Chapter 3

HE SAT IN HIS 1995 HONDA CIVIC, sweating profusely. Its air conditioner hadn't worked for years. The car was a real piece of shit, but perfect for the crappy life he had going. He combed his fingers through his hair and caught his reflection in the rearview mirror.

He lifted his sunglasses to look into his own eyes. They had changed. They were dark, even sinister. He put the shades back in place, rolled his shoulders forward to dislodge the tension in his neck, and took a cleansing breath. With the air came a waft of smoke from the cigarette burning in the car's ashtray.

He had parked close enough to observe the activity at 36 Bay Street, yet far enough away to be left alone. At least he had hoped so. Cruisers were parked in front of the house, and forty-eight minutes ago a department-issued SUV had pulled to a quick stop.

All this activity because of his work. It was something to be proud of.

He picked up the cigarette and tapped the ash in the tray.

Statistically, the murder itself was nothing special. Another young lady. People would move on. They always did.

It was the city's thirtieth murder of the year. He was up-to-date on his statistics. But he was always that way; he was a gatherer of facts, of useless information. Maybe someday his fact-finding and attention to detail would prove beneficial.

He wiped his forehead, and sweat trickled from his brow and down his nose. The salty perspiration stung. He winced. His nose was still tender to the touch. That crotchety old man at the bar had a strong right hook.

He rested his eyes for a second, and when he opened them, a Crown Vic had pulled to a stop in front of the house. He straightened up.

A woman of average height—probably about five foot five—with blond hair walked toward the yellow tape. But it wasn't her looks that captured his interest. It was her determined stride. And something was familiar about her.

He smiled when he realized why.

She was Detective Madison Knight. She had made headlines for putting away the Russian mafia czar, Dimitre Petrov, but the glory hadn't lasted long. People like Petrov had a reach that extended from behind bars and the rumor was that Petrov had gotten the attorney who had lost his case killed.

He must have hit the bigtime to have Knight on his investigation. An adrenaline rush flowed over him, blanketing him in heat. Energy pulsed in his veins, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He strained to draw in a satisfying breath.

Tap, tap.

Knuckles rapped against the driver's-side window.

His heart slowed. His breath shortened. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to look at the source of the intrusion.

A police officer!

Stay calm. Play it cool.

He drew the cigarette to his lips. Damn, his nose hurt so much when he sucked air in that he had to fight crying out in pain. He left the cig perched between his fingers, and the cop motioned for him to put the window down.

"I need you to move your vehicle."

Thank God for his dark-tinted glasses or maybe the cop would see right through him. "Sure."

The police officer bent over and peered into the car. "Are you all right, sir?"

Following the officer's gaze to his unsteady hand holding the cigarette, he forced himself to raise it for another drag. His hand shook the entire way. "Yeah, I'm—" Her lifeless eyes flashed in his mind. He cleared his throat, hoping it would somehow dislodge his recollections. "Sure... I...I'll get out of your way immediately."

The cop's gaze remained fixed on him, eye to eye.

Could he see through him, sunglasses and all? Was his guilt that obvious?

"All units confirm a secured perimeter." The monotone voice came over the officer's radio.

The cop turned the volume down without taking his eyes off him. "What happened to your nose?"

What was this uniform out to prove?

He forced another cough and then took yet another drag. He tapped the cigarette ash out the window. The office stepped to the side, but based on the look in his eyes, he wasn't going anywhere.

He needed to give the cop an answer. His words escaped through gritted teeth. "Bar fight."

The officer nodded. His eyes condemned him. "I need you to move your car—" he drummed his flattened palm on the roof "—and try to keep yourself out of trouble."

Too late, Officer. Too late.