Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(77)

She stared back, defiant. She was no junkie in search of a quick fix. She glowed with health. And with a face and body like that, she could bilk men out of all their money without having to resort to knock-out drugs. So what the f*ck? If she hadn’t picked him for money, she’d picked him for some other reason. Two things came to mind.

Neither of them were good.

He leaned on her again and gave Hypothesis Number One a spin.

“My father sent you, ney?” he asked in Ukrainian.

Her eyelids fluttered, but he saw no comprehension. He had a lifetime of practice reading fleeting expressions of stone-faced people. A family survival skill. He got nothing from her. Not a twinge, not a flash, not a flicker. He swatted her face, made his voice even harsher. “Talk, you stupid whore,” he snarled in the same language. “My father? My uncle? Tell me, or I’ll rip your tongue right out of your head!”

She spat at him, but that was payback for the slap.

He could be wrong, had been often, but he had to call it. She didn’t understand Ukrainian. She wasn’t sent by his family. So much for Hypothesis One. Sending a beautiful woman to f*ck his brains out was hardly Oleg Arbatov’s style, anyhow. The way the old man hated his firstborn, he’d be more likely to send six big guys with blackjacks.

He jerked ohundred anher fallen purse. Makeup, wallet, two blister packs of tiny pills, distinguished only by colored dots on the foil. A phone, some sleek design he didn’t recognize. He flipped through the wallet. A driver’s license made out to Naomi Hillier of Bellingham, Washington. Credit cars, department store cards in the same name. A wad of cash. He leafed through it. Eight thousand, hoo-hah. The wallet had none of the detritus of a normal life. No parking tickets, receipts, scribbled numbers, drycleaning pickup slips. No manila envelope full of pictures of the cheating husband and the slut sister going at it doggy style, either.

He brandished the spray bottle in her face. She bucked like a bronco. Maybe the stuff was lethal. But Jesus, why? Granted, he tended to piss people off just by existing, but if someone was that mad at him, one would think he’d have half a clue. Time for Hypothesis Two.

He lifted himself slowly off her. “Listen, Naomi,” he said. “You move one millimeter in any direction I don’t order you to move, and you get a faceful of whatever the f*ck is in this bottle. Got that?”

She nodded.

Pulling clothes on was tricky, one handed. He didn’t bother with his T-shirt, since it would require a split second of being blind, which was one split second too long. He pulled on his jeans, shrugged the jacket over his naked torso, shoved the shirt into his pocket. Slid his feet into his boots without bothering to lace them. “On your feet.”

She struggled awkwardly to her feet. “Where are we going?”

“The police,” he said.

She started to laugh. “Because I’m not playing nice? Aw! I’m sure they’ll feel sorry for you, after you tell them how you spent your night.”

He twisted her bound hands up behind her. “Shut up and move.”

“I’ll tell them I was raped. Why do you think I wanted it rough, you stupid f*ck? I got one of your condoms out of the trash and put some of your spunk into myself. I have you cold, *.”

Here it was. The money question. “I’m not taking you to the Sandy cops. I’m taking you to downtown Portland. To the Justice Center. We’re going to talk to Detective Petrie.”

It was subtle, but he caught the zing of tension. The eyelid flutter, her pupils contracting. All he needed to know. Son of a bitch. Hypothesis Two won, ding, ding, ding. This was about Bruno and his schizo girlfriend. Hit men jumping out of cars, dead bodies strewn on the streets of North Portland. Big trouble, and idiot that he was, he’d stuck his nose right into it. No, worse. He’d stuck his dick into it. Repeatedly.

He grabbed the girl by the throat and pushed her onto the bed, pulling his knife out of his pocket. He snapped it open, twirled it.

Her eyes fixed on the flashing blade, frozen wide.

“You have a beautiful face,” he said softly. “You want it to stay beautiful? Tell me what you want from Bruno Ranieri, bitch.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We both know that’s a f*cking lie,” he hissed. “Where shall I start?” He caressed her cheek with the point of the blade. “How about an eyelid? That’s a toughie for the reconstructive surgeon to fix.” He traced patterns on the skin under her eye. Smiled evilly, like a guy who actually enjoyed torturing women. He knew guys like that. He’d seen what their smiles looked like when they were working on their victims.

It didn’t feel good on his own face.

He put his knife down, like the limp dick his father had always mocked him for being. He couldn’t convince her that he was capable of cutting her. He had no credibility. In some circles, he’d been told, this failure would be to his credit. Right now, it was f*cking inconvenient.

He jabbed the spray bottle under her chin, but she didn’t react this time. “Let’s go,” he growled. “If I hear you inhale, I spray you.”

She stumbled beside him, stiff but unresisting. Into the cinder block stairwell. Out into the hotel parking lot, where dawn was threatening the horizon. She was shaking, hard, by the time he shoved her into the passenger seat of his Chevy and strapped her in.