“Get back, bitch.”
He slaps me so hard, I’m off my feet. My hand holding the gun flies to the side and goes off with a loud BLAST! Light flashes behind my eyes as my head hits the center column, and I’m on the floor.
“Stay down,” Hutch orders.
I’m vaguely aware of yelling and the shuffling of bodies. Lying on the floor, I see Greg’s feet kicking as Hutch holds him off the ground, punching him repeatedly in the face. Trip is collapsed against the wall, and his chin is on his chest. Blood covers the front of his white shirt.
Oh, God… Did I shoot Trip?
A dull thud sounds above my head, and I try to get my bearings. I try to lift my head to see what’s happening, to help, but I’m so dizzy.
I try to understand what’s going on as Hutch tucks the gun I fired into my coat pocket again before lifting me easily in his arms. “You still with me?”
Worried green eyes meet mine, and I’m doing my best to fight through the pain in my temple. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay now.”
Now that you’re here, I think.
“Yes, you will.” He pauses, and I look around the room to see Greg out cold against the wall beside Trip, who also appears to be mumbling something.
“We’re all finished here.” Hutch’s voice is level, and he carries me out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the rain.
Tucking my face into his neck, I grip his shoulder as he holds me in his arms, carrying me across the street to a waiting SUV.
30
Hutch
I’m completely soaked, riding in the back seat of the black SUV with Blake’s head tucked into my shoulder. She got a pretty bad hit, but her pupils aren’t dilated, and she hasn’t vomited. I don’t think it’s a concussion.
Pulling out my phone, I dial the number of the Brooklyn police department. “Hey, Louie? Hutch.”
“Hey, man. Long time no see.” Louie Jackson is a police detective who taught the six-week course I needed after retiring from the military to get my PI’s license. We’ve kept in touch ever since. “If you’re calling me at this hour, it can’t be good.”
“I’ve been working a case in Manhattan. What’s the status of that socialite who wound up on the pavement outside the Andover earlier this month?”
I hear the low drone of the office behind him and the tapping of computer keys. “Case closed. Suicide.”
“Better reopen it and head over to Prince Street in SoHo. I’ve got a couple of warm bodies laid out for you. One of them is the killer.”
“I’m sending a unit over now. What’s the number?”
As I fill him in on the details, we pull up to Blake’s building. She lifts her head and opens the door slowly. “The one with the bullet hole will verify his verbal confession. Let me know how it goes. I’m available tomorrow to make a statement.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
We disconnect, and I pay the driver before stepping out and sliding my arm around Blake’s waist. “How’s the head?”
“How does it look?” She pauses inside the door, and I tilt her chin gently, holding her face to the light.
Her hair is wet from the rain, and her pretty eyes are tired with little flecks of black in the corners. The start of a lump is on her temple, but she’s still the prettiest thing I’ve seen. “He barely laid a glove on you.”
A smile relaxes her forehead, and she steps into my chest. “You should see the other guy.”
Exhaling a chuckle, I wrap her in my arms. “Trust me, I did. You messed that guy up good.”
“More like you did. I’m exhausted.”
“Let’s get some ice on that thing and get you to bed.”
Lifting her chin, she shakes her head slowly. “Take me to bed or lose me forever.”
“Music to this fighter’s ears.”
Blake is curled at my side sleeping when I open my eyes the next morning and check the clock. It’s almost noon, but we didn’t get to bed until three. She showed me the text she got from her friend, and I bit my tongue on scolding her for going over to that asshole’s apartment alone.
She could’ve been killed, but she wasn’t. I guess it means I’m evolving that I let it slide.
Gently tilting her chin, it appears our makeshift ice bag did the trick on the lump at her temple. It’s a lot smaller today, and more importantly, her face is relaxed. She seems at peace.
I’ll be glad to take her home as soon as she’s ready. We’ve essentially wrapped up all our loose ends.
Dirk hasn’t alerted me that Trip made the transaction, but I’m willing to give him a few extra hours, considering he took a bullet last night.
The only item outstanding is finding Victor’s killer, not that I give a shit about getting justice for that piece of human garbage. I just don’t want his nephew causing any more problems for my girl.
Sliding out of the bed, I pull on my jeans and a tee before going into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Scar’s lying on the sofa in the living room holding up a paperback with Hana curled up in a ball beside him asleep.
He’s so big and long, she looks like a little white kitten at his side, and he idly twists one of her spiral curls in his fingers as he reads.
“Any luck last night?” I ask, filling the carafe with filtered water.
He lowers the book, shaking his head. “He gave me the slip at a club, and Dirk wasn’t tracking him.”
Scar and I parted ways shortly after midnight last night when I noticed Trip was on the move again and not headed back to his apartment building. Scar wanted to continue searching for Ivan X, and I let him go for it.
He has to handle that situation or it will never give him peace. I can’t say I blame him. Sex-tape blackmailers are the lowest criminal life form in my book, only slightly above pedophiles at the bottom of the scumbag rankings.
I don’t like the dark path this might lead him down, but I have to let him go there. He appears to be the only savior Hana might allow to help her.
“Where did the asshole go?” Scar’s deep voice rumbles Hana awake, and she starts to stretch.
“No surprise, he went straight to Peters’s place.” Although, I was surprised to find Blake there.
“Any idea why?”
Entering the living room, I give Hana a nod as she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. “Greg killed his girlfriend.”
“The one who jumped off the balcony?”
Lifting my chin, I correct him. “She was thrown.”
I’m all ready to tell him the rest when my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. Returning to get it, I’m not sure who this will be, my brother about the money or Louis about the arrests.
It’s the latter, and my brow furrows as I read the words.
“What is it?” Scar sits up on the sofa studying my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Greg Peters is dead.” I scrub my fingers over my forehead. “Louis said he had a heart attack.”
Scar’s all the way up, and I’m tapping the call button on my phone.
Louis answers on the first ring. “Hey, man, you got my text?”