Page 88 of Hanging and Burning

“Okay. Me and Oliya will hold on to the ladies until you say so or they decide to leave.”

“Tell them that I’ll be out there soon and that the man after them is very dangerous.”

“Will do.”

I hung up the phone and Leaf kissed my ear, then tongued it. My shoulder rose up from the tickle response.

She giggled and said, lustfully, “That’s what I like.”

“What’s that?”

“A man that could take it.”

“We have to get out of here, honey,” I said.

“You need help?”

“Not yet.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh.”

“I told Luwanda I’d come back an’ look after her a little. They’re gonna perform a minor procedure but she’d like to see me when the anesthetic wears off.”

“If the guy I’m thinkin’ about is after me, it’d be better for both of us if you were gone. You got your car down in the garage?”

“Of course.”

Leaf had restored a 1955 Buick Century that was a two-tone lavender-and-cream classic. It was a family heirloom, and she drove it everywhere—before moving to Alaska, that is.

“Let me check the security system and then, later tonight, maybe you could drive me outta here.”

“Okay. You gonna work now?”

“I’d rather be eating grapefruit.”

“Me too.”

“What’s the book you’re reading?” I asked in an attempt to derail desire.

“How you know I’m reading anything?”

“I just glanced over you in one’a the cameras. I only looked because of the trouble I’m in.”

“It’s called Breath, Eyes, Memory by this woman from Haiti.”

“Edwidge Danticat,” I said, bending the pronunciation to at least sound like French.

“That’s her. It’s good.”

Leaf stayed in the outer office while I went into the smaller chamber, designed for my needs. As a rule, I didn’t like people looking into my workspace, so the shades were usually down. That served me well, seeing that there might be an assassin looking from across the street. I wasn’t really worried about getting shot, however. The windows were made of the glass-clad polycarbonate, bulletproof variety. They could even resist certain kinds of explosions. I can’t really say if the decision to install such safety-minded protections in my workplace made sense. But I can say that my life has been under severe threat more than once, and that my daughter worked with me. So, again, paranoia was maybe a necessary aftereffect.

I leaned back in the swivel chair behind the desk and wondered.

I had to turn down Mel’s thinly veiled offer of slaughter because I had already considered killing Melton “Malto” Lamming. He deserved it. He was the worst kind of predator, in my opinion: a man who was satisfied only if he could take what he wanted without repercussion or even surrender.

And there was good reason to kill him. I didn’t know who worked for him. I had no idea if someone was watching my office, my apartment door. It could have been one man or ten. I knew where he went sometimes: the club on Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica. I knew the manager of the club—at least I knew her name and the sound of her voice.