his hands over all the cabinet surfaces inside and out, and scooted the refrigerator away from the wall to search the space behind.
Nothing.
Back in the living room, Tom unzipped the sofa cushions and felt inside, threw each of them to the floor, and overturned the sofa. He ignored the thumping from the unit downstairs.
The television was the only thing left. Letterman was interviewing some actor. Tom pulled it screen-down onto the floor. The plug yanked out of the wall.
Nothing back there. Tom turned to the door. He opened it.
Flip leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Tom told him, “Get in here.”
Flip walked inside and stared at the way Tom had thrown the television facedown. “The TV? I might have to bill you for that.”
“Sit down.”
“I like standing.”
Tom pulled the ankle monitor out of his back pocket. “I’m putting you on a tether.”
Flip’s face leveled. “That’s going to mess up my social life.”
“Tough. I’m sick of you lying to me. Sit down, Convict.”
He didn’t move. Those doll eyes held fast on Tom’s.
“I don’t have all night. Here’s how this is going to work. You sit down and put this on, or I violate you right now and take you downtown.” He drew his weapon.
Flip’s jaw flexed. “Violate me for what? Not answering my phone?”
“You think I need probable cause or something? This isn’t the first time you’ve been on parole. You know how it works. Now I’m going to give you three seconds to sit down and ankle up, or we can take a drive and get you processed.”
He grinned. “You don’t need to get excited, Officer. I’m law-abiding. I got nothing to hide.” Flip went to the sofa.
Tom stood over him. “Put it on.” He tossed the monitor in Flip’s lap and stepped back.
Unfastened, the curved black band gaped on top of Flip’s sweats like a plastic trap, the rectangular transmitter on one side the size of a box of cartridges. It was expensive, and it had taken Tom half an hour of wrangling to get departmental permission, but he couldn’t surveil Flip all the time. This way he could do it from the computer in his office.
Flip’s grin was long gone. He lifted up the device and examined it.
“Just put it on.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to figure it out, Einstein.”
Flip bent over and peeled up the leg of his sweats to reveal his left ankle. He slipped the band around and found the slot to insert the tip of the band. It clicked through but left a gap between his ankle and the strap.
The weight of the Glock felt like the handshake of an old friend in Tom’s fist. “Tighter.”
Flip looked up at him. Black eyes fixed, he snapped it one more notch.
“Now put your hands behind your back.”
Flip sat back and tucked his hands between the sofa and the small of his back.
Tom came to him and, not taking his eyes off him, kept the nose of the Glock pointed at Flip’s chest. He reached down with his left hand to the floor so his aching knees didn’t have to take the strain of kneeling. “You want to sit very still right now, Convict.”
Flip only stared at him.
Tom tugged at the monitor. Firm.
Now, to rise. Tom used his left hand for leverage. But his knees betrayed him. A sharp pain, the deepest in months, pierced his kneecap. Both hands instinctively went to the ground. The Glock pointed away from Flip for an instant.
Tom knew what was about to happen.
The convict snapped away from the sofa. His hands cleared out from behind him.
Flip’s close-cropped head flew at him.
The Glock clattered to the carpet. Flip was on top of him.
Flip’s fist eclipsed the ceiling lamp. The impact was a thunderbolt exploding inside Tom’s brain.
Another.
Blackness.
19
Exposed by the blaring light outside Diane’s building, Flip waited for someone to exit or enter so he could tailgate his way in. No one moved on the silent street. He felt naked out here.
Finally someone came into the lobby, walking like he
Nothing.
Back in the living room, Tom unzipped the sofa cushions and felt inside, threw each of them to the floor, and overturned the sofa. He ignored the thumping from the unit downstairs.
The television was the only thing left. Letterman was interviewing some actor. Tom pulled it screen-down onto the floor. The plug yanked out of the wall.
Nothing back there. Tom turned to the door. He opened it.
Flip leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Tom told him, “Get in here.”
Flip walked inside and stared at the way Tom had thrown the television facedown. “The TV? I might have to bill you for that.”
“Sit down.”
“I like standing.”
Tom pulled the ankle monitor out of his back pocket. “I’m putting you on a tether.”
Flip’s face leveled. “That’s going to mess up my social life.”
“Tough. I’m sick of you lying to me. Sit down, Convict.”
He didn’t move. Those doll eyes held fast on Tom’s.
“I don’t have all night. Here’s how this is going to work. You sit down and put this on, or I violate you right now and take you downtown.” He drew his weapon.
Flip’s jaw flexed. “Violate me for what? Not answering my phone?”
“You think I need probable cause or something? This isn’t the first time you’ve been on parole. You know how it works. Now I’m going to give you three seconds to sit down and ankle up, or we can take a drive and get you processed.”
He grinned. “You don’t need to get excited, Officer. I’m law-abiding. I got nothing to hide.” Flip went to the sofa.
Tom stood over him. “Put it on.” He tossed the monitor in Flip’s lap and stepped back.
Unfastened, the curved black band gaped on top of Flip’s sweats like a plastic trap, the rectangular transmitter on one side the size of a box of cartridges. It was expensive, and it had taken Tom half an hour of wrangling to get departmental permission, but he couldn’t surveil Flip all the time. This way he could do it from the computer in his office.
Flip’s grin was long gone. He lifted up the device and examined it.
“Just put it on.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to figure it out, Einstein.”
Flip bent over and peeled up the leg of his sweats to reveal his left ankle. He slipped the band around and found the slot to insert the tip of the band. It clicked through but left a gap between his ankle and the strap.
The weight of the Glock felt like the handshake of an old friend in Tom’s fist. “Tighter.”
Flip looked up at him. Black eyes fixed, he snapped it one more notch.
“Now put your hands behind your back.”
Flip sat back and tucked his hands between the sofa and the small of his back.
Tom came to him and, not taking his eyes off him, kept the nose of the Glock pointed at Flip’s chest. He reached down with his left hand to the floor so his aching knees didn’t have to take the strain of kneeling. “You want to sit very still right now, Convict.”
Flip only stared at him.
Tom tugged at the monitor. Firm.
Now, to rise. Tom used his left hand for leverage. But his knees betrayed him. A sharp pain, the deepest in months, pierced his kneecap. Both hands instinctively went to the ground. The Glock pointed away from Flip for an instant.
Tom knew what was about to happen.
The convict snapped away from the sofa. His hands cleared out from behind him.
Flip’s close-cropped head flew at him.
The Glock clattered to the carpet. Flip was on top of him.
Flip’s fist eclipsed the ceiling lamp. The impact was a thunderbolt exploding inside Tom’s brain.
Another.
Blackness.
19
Exposed by the blaring light outside Diane’s building, Flip waited for someone to exit or enter so he could tailgate his way in. No one moved on the silent street. He felt naked out here.
Finally someone came into the lobby, walking like he
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