by R. J. Jagger
“Let’s go.”
They ran too fast to talk.
At the hotel, Wilde grabbed Jackie by the arm, pulled her over to the reception desk and said, “What was he wearing?”
“Black pants. His shirt was blue. It had long-sleeves.”
To the guy behind the counter, “That guy came in here ten or fifteen minutes ago. What room is he in?”
The man hesitated.
“I’m not supposed to—”
Wilde slapped his hand on the counter.
“Just tell me!”
“407.”
“Thank you.”
They bypassed the elevator and took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. They walked down the hall to 407 and Wilde knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?”
Wilde pulled Jackie aside and whispered, “Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
He slapped her on the ass.
“Get out of here, now.”
“But—”
“Go I said.”
Wilde stepped back in front of the door and said, “I have a message from your girlfriend.”
The door opened.
A man stood there.
He had a bad-boy’s face and a taut chest. There was anger in his eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Wilde reached in his pocket and pulled out a red matchbook with a gold B, the one he found on the ground by the boxcar.
“She wanted me to give you this.”
The man snatched it and looked it over.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
Inside on the bed was an opened briefcase filled with money.
“You’re the pinup killer,” Wilde said. “I’m here to take you to the police.”
The man punched him in the face, cat-quick, landing a solid blow before Wilde could cover. The impact sent him onto his back. He landed on his tailbone and pain shot up his spine.
The door slammed.
Wilde already knew what was happening.
The man was grabbing the briefcase and heading for the fire escape.
Wilde got up, tried the knob and found it locked.
He kicked the door.
It didn’t budge.
He kicked it again.
It was solid.
The door to the adjacent room opened and a head looked out to see what the commotion was. Wilde ran over, pushed the person out of the way, ran through the room and pulled the window up.
He shot through the opening onto the fire escape.
The killer was out there heading directly for him.
The man froze with surprise.
Then he ran the other way.
There was no down, only up.
That’s the way he went.
Wilde followed.
The man was fast, faster than Wilde but he had nowhere to go. The fire escape dumped them onto the roof. It was flat and filled with obstructions.
The man set the briefcase down and rolled up his sleeves.
“So, you want to play? Let’s play.”
Wilde didn’t advance but he didn’t back up.
“It doesn’t have to be this way. Just let me take you in.”
“Sure, no problem.”
The man charged.
It took ten minutes to kill him up there on the roof, ten bloody minutes straight out of hell. After he threw his final punch, Wilde didn’t have enough strength left to get to his feet. He rolled onto his back and felt his chest pound.
The rain fell.
He kept his eyes closed.
The rain felt good.
It felt like it was washing everything bad away.
139
F allon sat on a curb in the rain.
Cars sped by.
They smashed puddles at her.
She kept going over it until she was positive she was making the right move. No matter what angle she looked at it from, the result was the same—she couldn’t trust Jundee.
Without trust there could be no love.
Without love there could be no oxygen.
They had history together but that wasn’t enough.
She got up, stuck a cigarette in her mouth and reached in her purse for matches. She pulled out the red book with the gold B. That was the pack she’d been saving as a souvenir, the ones she used Saturday night to set the briefcases on fire.
She tossed it into the gutter.
“Don’t need you anymore.”
She fumbled around until she found the other pack, struck a match and lit up.
The smoke felt good in her lungs.
She inhaled deeply then blew out.
New York.
That’s where she’d go.
New York.
Five minutes later she found a beat-to-death pickup truck with the keys in the ignition. Ironically, it had New Mexico plates. She slipped in, fired it up and said, “Whoever owns this, I’m sorry.”
Then she took off.
About the Author
Formerly a longstanding trial attorney before taking the big leap and devoting his fulltime attention to writing, RJ Jagger (that’s a penname, by the way) is the author of over twenty hard-edged mystery and suspense thrillers including the Nick Teffinger, Jack Wilde and Nicole Stone novels.
In addition to his own books, Jagger also ghostwrites for a popular bestselling author. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers and the Mystery Writers of America.
www.rjjagger.com
