at the door.
Lights still in hand, I looked in that direction, then at where Muffy didn’t even raise his head from his paws.
A friendly.
Then again, with the security door downstairs, what was I expecting? A hostile?
I put the lights on the kitchen table, pressed pause on my cell phone and went to see who it was, although I was already pretty sure it was Mrs Nebitz, probably to thank me again.
I smiled and opened the door, only to discover I was wrong.
Oh, boy, was I ever wrong . . .
Eleven
OK, this was getting old.
As I was ushered into Bruno’s Manhattan office, snatched and grabbed for the second time in as many days – this time from my own apartment – and transported downtown, I glowered at the men responsible, and then turned to stare at Bruno, who for all intents and purposes should be dressed like a street thug, but instead looked like he was ready for a business meeting with foreign heads of state.
‘Miss Metropolis. We must stop meeting like this.’
He crossed the room and held out his hand.
I really wished my Glock wasn’t hanging in its holster from the coat tree back at my apartment so I could shoot him.
Hell, I didn’t even have a coat.
Not that I’d needed one. I’d only felt the cold during those brief moments when I was between warm buildings and warm car.
Still, I felt . . . odd, somehow, without one.
Not to mention stupid standing there in my bare feet.
And he wanted to shake hands?
I didn’t think so.
‘Ah, you’re upset. Understandable,’ he said, crossing the room and rounding his desk. ‘And it also puts you in the right mindset to see why I’m also upset.’
‘You’re upset? You’re fully dressed . . .’
My sentence flapped in the proverbial wind as he held up a report of some sort. I stalked toward him and snatched it out of his hand.
Oops.
There in black and white was the record of my calling Sara Canton mere seconds after Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy’s text saying he had found her.
‘What’s this?’ I tried playing off. ‘I recognize the agency number. Who does the other belong to?’
Bruno slid the paper from my fingers and dropped the report to the desktop. ‘Let’s not play games, shall we, Miss Metropolis? I can guarantee I’m much better at them.’
‘You ever pick up a baseball bat?’
My reference linked back to another man who was convinced he had me beat . . . until the last thing he saw before passing out was a baseball bat swinging in his direction.
I leaned my hands against his desk, feeling far braver than I probably should have. Anger and adrenalin were dangerous on their own; lethal when mixed together.
‘Look, Mr . . . Bruno. I have no idea what you’re referring to. My agency makes at least a hundred calls a day. That number could belong to anyone.’
‘So it’s a coincidence then that it happened to belong to Sara Canton’s brother? And that it occurred not even a minute after my text bulletin offering a bonus for her location.’
‘Normally I don’t believe in coincidences,’ I said, crossing my arms over my chest. ‘But in this particular case, it’s true.’
I could have tried pointing out there were others in the office, in addition to staff that came in and out, that it could have been any one of a number of individuals, but where six months ago I might have over-explained, embellished a lie too thickly, now I was learning to keep it simple.
Besides, what did it matter? Both he and I knew I’d dialed that number.
He sat down, considering me long and hard.
I stood my ground, offering nothing more.
‘I’ve got a proposition for you . . .’
I squinted at him.
He remained silent.
‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.’
‘I said I have a proposition for you.’
I gestured for him to go ahead, hoping he wasn’t going to offer me a choice between being hung out the window by my feet, or being fitted for another pair of cement overshoes.
‘A ransom note came in a half hour
Lights still in hand, I looked in that direction, then at where Muffy didn’t even raise his head from his paws.
A friendly.
Then again, with the security door downstairs, what was I expecting? A hostile?
I put the lights on the kitchen table, pressed pause on my cell phone and went to see who it was, although I was already pretty sure it was Mrs Nebitz, probably to thank me again.
I smiled and opened the door, only to discover I was wrong.
Oh, boy, was I ever wrong . . .
Eleven
OK, this was getting old.
As I was ushered into Bruno’s Manhattan office, snatched and grabbed for the second time in as many days – this time from my own apartment – and transported downtown, I glowered at the men responsible, and then turned to stare at Bruno, who for all intents and purposes should be dressed like a street thug, but instead looked like he was ready for a business meeting with foreign heads of state.
‘Miss Metropolis. We must stop meeting like this.’
He crossed the room and held out his hand.
I really wished my Glock wasn’t hanging in its holster from the coat tree back at my apartment so I could shoot him.
Hell, I didn’t even have a coat.
Not that I’d needed one. I’d only felt the cold during those brief moments when I was between warm buildings and warm car.
Still, I felt . . . odd, somehow, without one.
Not to mention stupid standing there in my bare feet.
And he wanted to shake hands?
I didn’t think so.
‘Ah, you’re upset. Understandable,’ he said, crossing the room and rounding his desk. ‘And it also puts you in the right mindset to see why I’m also upset.’
‘You’re upset? You’re fully dressed . . .’
My sentence flapped in the proverbial wind as he held up a report of some sort. I stalked toward him and snatched it out of his hand.
Oops.
There in black and white was the record of my calling Sara Canton mere seconds after Mr Sweaty Comb-Over Guy’s text saying he had found her.
‘What’s this?’ I tried playing off. ‘I recognize the agency number. Who does the other belong to?’
Bruno slid the paper from my fingers and dropped the report to the desktop. ‘Let’s not play games, shall we, Miss Metropolis? I can guarantee I’m much better at them.’
‘You ever pick up a baseball bat?’
My reference linked back to another man who was convinced he had me beat . . . until the last thing he saw before passing out was a baseball bat swinging in his direction.
I leaned my hands against his desk, feeling far braver than I probably should have. Anger and adrenalin were dangerous on their own; lethal when mixed together.
‘Look, Mr . . . Bruno. I have no idea what you’re referring to. My agency makes at least a hundred calls a day. That number could belong to anyone.’
‘So it’s a coincidence then that it happened to belong to Sara Canton’s brother? And that it occurred not even a minute after my text bulletin offering a bonus for her location.’
‘Normally I don’t believe in coincidences,’ I said, crossing my arms over my chest. ‘But in this particular case, it’s true.’
I could have tried pointing out there were others in the office, in addition to staff that came in and out, that it could have been any one of a number of individuals, but where six months ago I might have over-explained, embellished a lie too thickly, now I was learning to keep it simple.
Besides, what did it matter? Both he and I knew I’d dialed that number.
He sat down, considering me long and hard.
I stood my ground, offering nothing more.
‘I’ve got a proposition for you . . .’
I squinted at him.
He remained silent.
‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.’
‘I said I have a proposition for you.’
I gestured for him to go ahead, hoping he wasn’t going to offer me a choice between being hung out the window by my feet, or being fitted for another pair of cement overshoes.
‘A ransom note came in a half hour
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