Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (top 10 novels .TXT) 📕

Desmond suspected that the blonde wasn’t Klepper’s girlfriend. Not any more than the sloe-eyed beauty Desmond spent time with now and then was his girlfriend. Cash was passing hands, but that wasn’t really any of his business, and he was in no position to judge. He had more pressing concerns. “Have you talked to the cops yet?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Klepper’s confidence had been restored by whatever he’d inhaled. “How could I go to the cops?” His shoulders slumped. No drug could keep him buoyant for long. “Anyway, what does it matter if Gary’s dead?”

“Do you want the police to catch his killer?”

“You said they’re already on it.” Klepper’s high-pitched voice was getting whinier.

“Yeah, and it’s going to look a lot better for you if you go to them now and tell them Max is trying to extort cash from you.”

“I can’t! It’s nine o’clock,” Klepper pointed out. “I’m supposed to be at the park in an hour. It’s going to take almost that long to get there.”

“I’ll go to the park,” Desmond answered. “You talk to the cops.”

“Okay.” Klepper picked up a black duffle bag, started to hand it to Desmond, then jerked it back. “Hold on. I’m not sending the money with you now that Gary’s dead.”

“Just give me the bag. You got any newspaper around?”

“What’s your plan?” Klepper croaked.

“That depends on who comes to pick up the money.”

Chapter 28

It was freezing out by the water on Roosevelt Island, so cold that Desmond could feel his face hardening in a grimace. Max’s instructions had been clear: drop the bag near the lamppost on the left and leave. Desmond had no plan to follow that through, and after he put the bag in place, he did a quick walkabout, checking to see if anyone was hiding in the lighthouse. The gray stone structure towered over the park, and its vaguely medieval appearance—the narrow, rectangular windows would’ve been perfect for archers to defend—was ominous in the dark. It was the only possible hiding spot, Desmond thought, but no one was in it. The small park was so flat and empty he had to pull well back from the spot where he left the bag. He knew he’d be able to see anyone coming, but the only people who came was a man with a small boy. That would be a hell of a disguise, Desmond thought, but they went nowhere near the bags.

Within five minutes, a woman came into the park. She had a gorgeous chocolate lab that reminded Desmond of a dog he’d had as a boy, after his dad died and it was just him and his mom. The woman and the man greeted each other. They were obviously neighbors. She glanced over at Desmond and let her dog off his leash.

“Hershey!” the boy squealed. “Run this way!”

The boy and the dog chased each other for quite a while. When Desmond looked at the woman again, he found her staring back with obvious disapproval. He knew, in that moment, that she thought he was a predator. It was something he’d encountered before, though, to be fair to this woman, she might have suspected he was showing an unhealthy interest in the boy. Usually, kids had nothing to do with it. Some women turned brittle and fearful when they caught sight of a tall, athletic Black man. It wasn’t a daytime phenomenon, unless you counted the occasional little old lady, hair permed corkscrew-tight, thin lips pressed into a line, who clutched her purse to her side like a football whenever she caught sight of him. No, it was only after sunset that women started casting those nervous glances. He knew they were trying to calculate what his intentions were based on his proximity, the speed of his step, what was in his hands. The really skittish ones sometimes reached into their bags, presumably grabbing pepper spray or Mace or whatever else they carried to defend themselves. Sometimes he crossed the street to give them peace of mind. Sometimes it made him sick inside. Why was it his job to allay their fears? But another part of him understood. It had been a long time since he’d had to kill a man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to if the need arose. When he’d joined the Army at eighteen, preparedness had been drilled into him at basic combat training. You never know when you’ll be called on to defend yourself or your fellow soldiers, his drill sergeant told them. Desmond knew that was true. You never knew when the moment would come until you found yourself in it.

Finally, everyone left—the woman shot him one last suspicious look on her way out—and Desmond was again alone in the park. It was close to eleven, and he wondered how much longer he’d have to wait. He’d told Klepper that all he’d do was drop off the bag, but since he was there, he couldn’t resist the impulse to see what happened next. More than that: he wanted to snap Max’s neck.

At midnight, he called Tom Klepper’s cell. Getting no answer, he tried the office line. Klepper was supposed to contact him after finishing with the police. It wasn’t impossible that he was still at the station, maybe going through mug shots. Gary and Dominique couldn’t identify Max, which meant that Klepper was their only hope. That left Desmond uneasy. He’d watched Klepper get into a cab in front of the Empire State Building, giving the driver the address of the nearest precinct, but what proved that the crooked Klepper didn’t change his mind after Desmond walked away?

He thought about Dominique, and how terrified she’d been for Gary’s wife. She’d sacrificed herself because of it. It meant more to her to save that woman’s life than it did to get out of the trap she was in. It hit him suddenly that Max might be playing some kind of game with the new widow,