The Last Mile (Amos Decker, #2)(89)

He notched his belt a hole tighter. At this rate he would have to cut another hole in the belt or get a new one. He was losing weight rapidly. Not in a good way. His inability to solve any significant part of this case was pretty much eating him from the inside out.

He finished the water, tossed the bottle and the apple core, undressed, and got into bed. But though his eyes closed, his mind did not turn off. If anything it hit another gear and raced even faster.

Every conceivable explanation was run through his brain and came out the other end with an imagined “rejected” stamped on it. Some conclusions seemed promising right up until the moment they ran into a fact that could not be explained away and were discarded into his mental rubbish pile.

Again and again he seemed to be close, but something always came around to screw it up. It was like having one move left on a Rubik’s Cube and being unable to seal the deal. The truth was, he was no closer to working this out than he had been on the very first day.

And he had this oddly creeping feeling that he was running out of time, though he could think of no plausible reason why that would be the case.

He opened and closed his eyes, and his brain, perhaps taking a cue that it was overworked and not anywhere near success, also shut down.

Decker slept.

And he awoke for only one reason.

A knife blade was pressed against his throat.





CHAPTER

50



DECKER DIDN’T MOVE.

The room was very dark, the moonlight that would normally be coming in through the window obscured by the cloud cover. He could hear the rain drumming on the roof.

But his focus was on the knife blade. It was pressed against his left jugular, a superhighway of circulation. If it was severed, he would bleed out in under a minute.

He could hear the other person’s breathing, slow, measured—no panic or lack of control there. That gave him some comfort. The breath was also foul: coffee, cigarettes, and garlic. The confluence of smells swept into his nostrils, nearly making him gag.

By casting his gaze downward he could just make out the very large hand holding the knife.

The voice said, “You’re fucking everything up.” It was calm, low, and still managed to be intimidating.

Decker thought about this candid opening. He wondered if the follow-up would be to slash his neck open. “Not my intent,” he said.

“Don’t play stupid with me. I know you’re a cop. I know you got brains. But you leave it be. Go home. And leave it be.”

“What about Melvin?”

Decker felt the knife blade press harder against his skin. So hard in fact that it cut into him. Something slid down his neck. A drop of blood. But only a drop. The jug was still intact.

“What about him?” asked the voice.

“He’s got nothing.”

The knife pressed still harder and Decker could feel another little prick of the blade. And another drop slid down his neck and was absorbed into his T-shirt.

“He’s got his freedom. That’s enough.”

“After twenty years?”

“He should be grateful.”

“I’m not saying he’s not,” replied Decker calmly, even as he felt the blade push deeper against his skin. His jugular was exposed, right at the surface from the pressure. The guy knew exactly what he was doing, and had probably done it before. Which did not make Decker feel any better.

“I’m just saying that he’s feeling vulnerable.”

“Tell him not to worry. I’ve got his back.”

“Because of his mother?”

The blade withdrew just a hair. “What the hell do you know about anything?” the man growled.

“I don’t know much. In fact, there’s a lot I don’t know. But I know Lucinda loved her son. And you loved her. And she made you promise, didn’t she?”

The blade pressed more firmly against his artery. “You’re making this difficult on yourself.”

“I’m just trying to help Melvin.”

“I told you I’ve got his back.”

“Against the cartel?”

The man snorted.

Decker said, “So not the cartel?”

The man fell silent.

“Why did you pick Montgomery to get Melvin out of prison? What’s the connection?”

“Not going there.”

“You don’t have Davenport, do you?” asked Decker.

The man didn’t answer right away. “Who?”

“She was with us. Someone took her.”

Decker felt the blade slowly move away from his neck. “When?” The voice was not intimidating now, just wary.

“A few days ago. She must have known them. They took her from her room and made it look like a fight. But it was all staged. She knew the person. And that narrows things down.”

“Why would they take her?”

“I don’t know. I thought for leverage against us. Maybe to ask for Melvin in exchange, but they’ve made no attempt to contact us.”

“Maybe they want information.”

“Maybe they do. And maybe they got it from her. But I think what they really wanted was Melvin.”

“Why?”

“The stuff in the safe deposit box. They think he has it.”