Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(45)

“If your grades go down, you’ll stop. I want to see straight A’s, just like last semester.”

“All right.”

He looked at her suspiciously, as though he sensed a missing part, something she was hiding.

Mrs. Lone called from downstairs, “I’m heading to bridge club. Back in a few hours.”

The front door closed. A flush crept into Mr. Lone’s face. He glanced at the bathroom, then back to Livia.

She clenched her jaw and stood, then walked to the bathroom, his footsteps close behind her.

While it went on, she tried as always to think of something else, to project herself somewhere else. This time, she focused on how one day, she might use jiu-jitsu the way Sean had.

Of course, Sean had warned Eric. Had given him a chance. She would never do that. She would break the arm right away.

To start with.





29—NOW

For the rest of the day, while she worked at tracking down other potential victims of her Sea-Tac rapist, Livia kept tabs on Masnick’s phone via the modified Gossamer. It showed up at Saltwater Park at Richmond Beach that very evening. She’d been right—Masnick might have been in love with Jardin, but that didn’t mean he was faithful to her. She confirmed there were no other Hammerhead phones in the vicinity. Good. No backup meant he didn’t suspect anything. No friends meant he wasn’t planning a gang rape. No, Masnick just wanted to get to know his new neighbor a little better. And maybe get lucky afterward.

She used an alligator-clip sheath to secure the Vaari, her favorite fixed-blade knife, in the side pocket of a pair of cargo pants, slid the Glock into a bellyband holster, pulled on an oversized fleece, and rode out in the Jeep.

There were clouds overhead when she got there, but it was clear in the west, the sky streaked with pink, and as she walked down to the beach, the last of the sun was slipping below the horizon. A dozen or so people strolled at the water’s edge, some of them with dogs, and the sounds of conversation and an occasional bark were mostly swallowed up by the vast openness of Puget Sound. She sat on a bench overlooking the scene, concealed the Glock beneath her thigh, and waited.

The pink in the sky was just past its peak and it was growing dark when Masnick came walking along the path to her left. He saw her and waved.

“Hey,” he said as he got closer. “I was hoping I might run into you. Mind if I take a load off?”

“Please,” she said, gesturing to the space next to her.

Masnick sat, then looked around. “Where’s your pooch?”

She looked at him. “The truth is, Mike, there is no pooch.”

He frowned. “No pooch? Why’d you tell me there was?”

“I guess that was a bit of what you might call subterfuge. To get you to meet me someplace private. I didn’t think you’d want anyone to overhear what we have to discuss.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Jenny Jardin. You know, Weed Tyler’s wife.”

He blanched. “What the f*ck is this?”

“Relax, Mike. I’m on your side. Assuming you’re on mine.”

“I’m not on anybody’s side. I want to know what the f*ck you want, Suzy or whatever the hell your name is.”

“It’s Livia. Livia Lone. Seattle PD.” She pulled her badge from inside the fleece.

He glared at the badge for a moment, then stood and leaned in, towering over her. “You really think you can shake me down with some bullshit about someone’s wife? You think anyone’s going to believe your lying ass? I ought to face-f*ck you sitting right here. Hell, call my bros, they’d love a taste, too. Put the hammer to you good.”

She smiled, eased out the Glock, and pointed it at him. “I guess you could, Mike, but if you tried, I’d shoot you right through your cheating little heart. But hey, it’s your blood. And I’m used to the paperwork. So knock yourself out.”

He glanced at the Glock, then back to her. “You know what? I’ve got better things to do than listen to some whackjob bitch cop talking out her ass.”

It wasn’t a bad bluff. But she knew he was going to fold. She just had to show him who was holding the winning hand.

She pulled out a cheap Dictaphone she’d used to record the conversation. “Why don’t you listen to this?” she said. “And then we’ll figure out what to do about it.”

She hit “Play.” And watched as his eyes filled with rage.





30—THEN

Livia trained with Eric and Malcolm two hours a day, seven days a week. She couldn’t get enough of jiu-jitsu. She borrowed books on the topic from Malcolm and studied them in her room, closing her eyes and mimicking the techniques depicted in the photographs inside, imagining herself using jiu-jitsu against Skull Face and Dirty Beard and Square Head, breaking their elbows and knees and necks. By the time spring semester was over, she was nearly as good as Sean—especially fighting from the guard, her favorite position, on her back with her legs around the attacker’s torso. And she still had her straight A’s.

The bullies left Sean and her alone now, though people sometimes teased them because they spent so much time together, saying they were “doing it,” and laughing and making gross gestures when they would leave school together to go to Sean’s house. As long as she had jiu-jitsu, Livia didn’t care.