Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(52)

I ignored the question. “You know my name. What do I call you?”

“You can call me Mr. Ruby.”

The guy on my right chimed in. “You can call me Mr. Jade.”

“How’s your tongue, Mr. Jade?” I asked him.

He swore. I laughed. “Mr. Ruby. Mr. Jade. Sure, whatever. Where are we going?”

I could see we were headed south along the freeway, skirting the east side of the Bay. Still unable to let go of the thought that they hadn’t bothered to blindfold me or wear masks or do any of the things people did to avoid being identified later on. Kidnappers essentially fell into one of two categories. Those who intended to release their victim. And those who didn’t.

Mr. Ruby spoke. “Nikki, we’re going to ask you some questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“The easy kind.” He paused. “If you want to make them easy, of course.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then they get harder.”

I watched the landscape blur by. We were doing a safe, unspectacular seventy. In a boring black Buick driving in a middle lane. Not slow, not too fast. Impossible that we’d attract the attention of some idling Highway Patrol cruiser. “Maybe I like the hard way,” I suggested.

Mr. Ruby gave me a slow, semi-interested look. “No, Nikki, you don’t.”

“And you know that how?” I was making conversation. Seeing what they’d say. It didn’t really matter what we talked about.

“There are two types of people,” he answered. “The people who know they don’t like the hard way, and the people who think they do, but then realize they don’t.”

“How about Karen Li? She didn’t seem like she liked the hard way. But she still got it.”

Mr. Jade spoke, his words slightly slurred from his wounded tongue. “We’re going to talk about Karen Li, I promise you.”

I didn’t reply. I could hurt one of them. Everything after that was up for grabs. The car was moving far too fast for me to jump out. Best-case scenario, I stunned the two of them long enough to get behind the driver. I could maybe get an arm around his throat, hit the wheel, or pull the emergency brake, and hope we didn’t bang into anything too permanent. Worst-case scenario, one of them shot me. Or the car ran into a concrete divider or over a guardrail.

I decided to wait.

We took an Oakland exit and got onto the Webster Street Tube, a stretch of underwater tunnel connecting Oakland to Alameda Island. We emerged and drove down quiet paved streets, heading west. Alameda lay in between Oakland and San Francisco. It had been used by Pan Am and then later the navy; more recently, a handful of distilleries had sprung up on its western side, taking advantage of huge, deserted hangars that seemed as ideal for gin as they were for airplanes. The streets were empty. Row after row of drab, uniform government-built buildings. The military didn’t have much interest in memorable architecture. The emptiness was striking, like we were driving through some abandoned movie set or plague-hit city.

The car stopped in front of a building that looked like all the others. Fading blue paint over concrete, like a police barracks in a state that had sharply cut its budget a few years back. Mr. Ruby said, “We’re going to get out of the car and go inside, Nikki. I know you’re calculating odds. There are three of us. Don’t try anything.”

I didn’t reply. There was no point. Mr. Jade got out quickly, and Mr. Ruby started edging me over to the open door, pushing his bulk against me, forcing me sideways. I considered trying to get to the driver’s seat, but the driver was turned watchfully toward me. Outside, Mr. Jade again took my right arm and Mr. Ruby my left. The driver walked ahead of us to unlock a plain metal door. Inside a pitch-black hallway he hit a switch and fluorescent lights came on. He unlocked another door, hit another light switch as we walked in. More fluorescents.

We were in a room that looked identical to an elementary school classroom. Sky blue paint, tile floor, even a blackboard and a big metal desk up front. Facing the desk were several rows of desk-chair units, the chairs molded from cheap orange plastic and welded to little pine desks that came around from the right-hand side. Being a lefty, I used to hate them even more for this. I turned to Mr. Ruby. “You’re not going to make me take the SAT, are you?”

He didn’t smile. “Sit down.”

I looked around. Shrugged. Sat. Unlike in most classrooms, these desks were bolted to the floor. The chair was too small and my knees pressed uncomfortably against the underside. “If this is the hard way,” I said, “you convinced me. How do third graders handle this torture?”

Mr. Ruby sat on the big metal desk. Mr. Jade stood off to one side. The driver leaned against the door. The three of them watching me.

I shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. “Which one of you killed Karen Li?”

They exchanged a look. Turned back to me, smiling.

“Are you crazy?” asked Mr. Ruby. “We didn’t kill Karen Li.”

He sounded like he meant it. “Then who did?” I challenged.

Mr. Jade laughed harshly and stepped closer, looming over the desk. His lip had started to swell up and he dabbed at it with a red-stained handkerchief. “Save the bullshit, Nikki. We didn’t kill Karen Li. You did.”





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