he flipped on the lamp beside him.
“Jameson, I presume?”
The man jerked, the Beretta in his hand wavering a moment. “Jesus, Sinclair, you scared the hell out of me.”
Matt was right, the man looked like a linebacker, even dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket. The only color on him was his unruly hair. Even his eyes were black, which was unusual for someone with red hair.
“I thought the plan was that you’d come in the morning?” Reeve probed.
Jameson shrugged. “You know how Murphy is. He says one thing, then changes his mind. Didn’t anyone call you and tell you the change of plans?”
“No. No one called.”
“The jerk,” he said, shaking his head. “But hey, if you wanna call and confirm, I’ve got Murphy’s home number right here.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate getting woke up in the middle of the night though.”
Reeve shrugged. “I believe you,” he lied with a straight face.
Jameson cracked a smile and relaxed his shoulders a little. “I think we met once, at your party when you were leaving the force. Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.” That was another lie. When Reeve had been sitting on the deck earlier that night, he’d remembered Jameson, finally. At the party he’d mentioned, Reeve had walked into the men’s room and seen Jameson and another cop snorting cocaine. Jameson had laughed and offered him a hit. Reeve had refused. That’s why his name had sounded so familiar. He hadn’t liked the guy back then; he didn’t like him now. He certainly didn’t trust him.
Pretending to let down his guard, he clicked the safety on his Glock and set it on the coffee table. “How about a beer or something?”
“Nah. Thanks anyway, but I need to get going.” He clicked the safety on his Beretta, then slipped it inside his jacket. “Where’s the girl?” he asked.
“Upstairs, asleep,” Reeve answered, nodding toward the loft.
Rocking back on the heels of his black boots, he said, “Well, we’re going to have to wake her.”
Reeve stood slowly, glanced at the gun on the coffee table, and then ignoring it, headed toward the stairs. On the way up, he felt Jameson’s eyes on his back. He made his way down the dark hallway and into Peyton’s room.
He stood in the dark bedroom for a minute or two, waiting, listening, then hearing a creak in the hall, he walked to the bed. “Wake up, sleepy head,” he said quietly as he leaned over. “It’s time to go.” Reaching under the pillow, he pulled out a SIG-Sauer 9mm and held it behind his back. Be patient, he told himself.
It happened in a blink of an eye.
The light flicked on, illuminating the room, and Jameson flew around the corner, shooting at the unmoving form beneath the covers. He’d used a silencer to deaden the sound. Then, in a flash he pointed the gun at Reeve’s chest.
Reeve stood perfectly still, meeting Jameson’s cold black eyes. “How long have you been on Donatelli’s payroll?”
“Long enough,” he said. “You, of all people, know what it’s like trying to survive on a cop’s salary.”
“Yeah, especially when you have a coke habit.”
Jameson sneered. “Don’t get cute.”
Smiling, Reeve said, “I wonder what Donatelli’s gonna say when he finds out you didn’t get the girl.”
The man’s face fell. “What are you talking about?” His eyes darted toward the bed. Bullet holes dotted the blanket, pillow and the mound beneath. Suddenly it must have hit him that there wasn’t any blood seeping through the blanket. With the gun still trained on Reeve, he moved to the foot of the bed and gave the covers a jerk. Instead of finding a bloody dead woman, there were a couple of bullet ridden quilts rolled into log shapes.
“Where is she?” he shouted.
Reeve’s eyes left Jameson’s miserable looking face to look past him in the hall. “She’s right behind you,” he said.
Jameson laughed. “Nice try. You must think I’m some kind
“Jameson, I presume?”
The man jerked, the Beretta in his hand wavering a moment. “Jesus, Sinclair, you scared the hell out of me.”
Matt was right, the man looked like a linebacker, even dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket. The only color on him was his unruly hair. Even his eyes were black, which was unusual for someone with red hair.
“I thought the plan was that you’d come in the morning?” Reeve probed.
Jameson shrugged. “You know how Murphy is. He says one thing, then changes his mind. Didn’t anyone call you and tell you the change of plans?”
“No. No one called.”
“The jerk,” he said, shaking his head. “But hey, if you wanna call and confirm, I’ve got Murphy’s home number right here.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate getting woke up in the middle of the night though.”
Reeve shrugged. “I believe you,” he lied with a straight face.
Jameson cracked a smile and relaxed his shoulders a little. “I think we met once, at your party when you were leaving the force. Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.” That was another lie. When Reeve had been sitting on the deck earlier that night, he’d remembered Jameson, finally. At the party he’d mentioned, Reeve had walked into the men’s room and seen Jameson and another cop snorting cocaine. Jameson had laughed and offered him a hit. Reeve had refused. That’s why his name had sounded so familiar. He hadn’t liked the guy back then; he didn’t like him now. He certainly didn’t trust him.
Pretending to let down his guard, he clicked the safety on his Glock and set it on the coffee table. “How about a beer or something?”
“Nah. Thanks anyway, but I need to get going.” He clicked the safety on his Beretta, then slipped it inside his jacket. “Where’s the girl?” he asked.
“Upstairs, asleep,” Reeve answered, nodding toward the loft.
Rocking back on the heels of his black boots, he said, “Well, we’re going to have to wake her.”
Reeve stood slowly, glanced at the gun on the coffee table, and then ignoring it, headed toward the stairs. On the way up, he felt Jameson’s eyes on his back. He made his way down the dark hallway and into Peyton’s room.
He stood in the dark bedroom for a minute or two, waiting, listening, then hearing a creak in the hall, he walked to the bed. “Wake up, sleepy head,” he said quietly as he leaned over. “It’s time to go.” Reaching under the pillow, he pulled out a SIG-Sauer 9mm and held it behind his back. Be patient, he told himself.
It happened in a blink of an eye.
The light flicked on, illuminating the room, and Jameson flew around the corner, shooting at the unmoving form beneath the covers. He’d used a silencer to deaden the sound. Then, in a flash he pointed the gun at Reeve’s chest.
Reeve stood perfectly still, meeting Jameson’s cold black eyes. “How long have you been on Donatelli’s payroll?”
“Long enough,” he said. “You, of all people, know what it’s like trying to survive on a cop’s salary.”
“Yeah, especially when you have a coke habit.”
Jameson sneered. “Don’t get cute.”
Smiling, Reeve said, “I wonder what Donatelli’s gonna say when he finds out you didn’t get the girl.”
The man’s face fell. “What are you talking about?” His eyes darted toward the bed. Bullet holes dotted the blanket, pillow and the mound beneath. Suddenly it must have hit him that there wasn’t any blood seeping through the blanket. With the gun still trained on Reeve, he moved to the foot of the bed and gave the covers a jerk. Instead of finding a bloody dead woman, there were a couple of bullet ridden quilts rolled into log shapes.
“Where is she?” he shouted.
Reeve’s eyes left Jameson’s miserable looking face to look past him in the hall. “She’s right behind you,” he said.
Jameson laughed. “Nice try. You must think I’m some kind
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