The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Arthur Conan Doyle
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in my gut as a three-dimensional display of his head pivoted for my benefit on the business-card-size disk. With his chiseled jaw and seductive, dark eyes, he was movie-star gorgeous, and I never trusted handsome men.
I turned from the hologram to the real thing, my gaze skimming over his bare ring finger. Even though he had to be at least thirty-five, he wasn’t married. Why bother when he probably had women falling at his feet? I’d met men like him before. I’d almost married one, in fact. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
I tipped up my chin and sneered. “Yeah, so you’re a real cop with a real 3-D badge. I’m impressed. I still have to get going.”
His exquisite mouth widened with a patient smile. “If I can’t come in and chat, then I’ll have to assume you’re hiding something.”
My jaw muscles tightened and I said in a low voice, “I’m not hiding anything, Detective. I’m a professional. I’m just doing my job. A job, incidentally, I wouldn’t have to do if you and your brothers-in-arms were more successful at yours.”
I glanced over his shoulder and saw a lumbering big blond man on the sidewalk across the street. He glanced from a piece of paper to the street sign. Oh, my God, it was Drummond. I touched the fake warrant tucked in my hip pocket. I couldn’t whip this out in front of a cop. Marco’s gaze followed my hand, which I then tucked into my pocket, pretending to strike a casual pose. From the corner of my eye, I saw Drummond get his bearings and head down toward the green lot. Somehow, I had to get rid of Detective Marco before Drummond got tired of waiting for me and left.
“Look,” I said, clearing my throat, “I apologize for what I just said. I’ve been a little sensitive ever since the Gibson Warrant controversy blew up in the press. Some police officers seem to be blaming me and my colleagues just because a judge decided to start giving out death warrants. But I assure you, my profession is just as dedicated to law and order as yours. Now that you mention it, Detective, I would like to chat.” I smiled like a Southern belle offering a mint julep. “Won’t you come in? I’ll be with you in a minute. Actually, maybe a few. I have to buy some, uh, sugar at the corner store.”
His strong, smooth forehead wrinkled with doubt. “Sugar?”
I pointed to the left. “It’s just two doors down.”
Clearly, he wasn’t buying it, but I knew he’d borrow the excuse if it gave him a chance to check out my place without a warrant. I didn’t care what he’d find. Well, except for Lola. But she could handle this guy with her hands tied behind her back.
As soon as Marco climbed the stairway to my living quarters, I shut the door and raced down the street, stopping at the corner of the blond-brick apartment building that bordered the west side of the green lot. Drummond was sitting on a bench reading a magazine.
I scoped out the rest of the lot, which was an abandoned area with a few trees and a jungle gym. Empty as usual. It was time to move. For a split second fear chilled me and the contrasting Chicago summer heat suffocated my skin. Beads of sweat slid down my back. I was aware of my muscles—strong biceps, small but rock-solid thighs, sinewy shoulders—especially at times like this when adrenaline pumped them to the max. I was also aware that retribution specialist was a role I played and Detective Marco’s arrival had thrown off my rhythm.
I took a deep, calming breath and walked down the gravel path to the middle of the tiny park. I stopped twenty feet away. “Drummond,” I called.
He looked up and put the magazine aside. “You da one who called?” he said in a typical Chicago dems-and-doze accent.
“Yeah, I called.”
“What’s dis all about? You got some kinda job for me?”
“It’s about Janet.”
He stood and rubbed his palms on his thigh-clad jeans. He towered a foot and a half above me and looked like an overstuffed bear—one that bench-pressed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He had a scruff of blond hair, a drinker’s nose and mean, bloodshot eyes. I’d been briefed on Drummond by the director of the abuse shelter and had hired a private investigator to fill in the gaps. I’d done my research and knew what to expect, but the prospect of fighting a guy who weighed three times as much as I did was always daunting, no matter how much I tried to psych myself up for the fight.
“You a cop?” he said, his eyes glazed with confusion.
“Don’t you wish.” I moved in closer.
“A lawyer? I ain’t givin’ her a divorce.”
I barked out a laugh. “When’s the last time you saw a lawyer dressed like this?” I tipped up my chin so he could get a good look at my tattoo.
His sausage fingers clamped into his fists. “You callin’ me stupid?”
“Yeah, but not for the reasons you think. You’re stupid because you think you can control your loved ones with violence. I don’t like men like you, Drummond.”
Confusion cleared from his eyes like fog in a wind. “Damn! You’re an avenger.”
“That’s right, Einstein. A Certified Retribution Specialist.”
He looked totally flummoxed. I’d seen this reaction from ROVORs before. He couldn’t believe there was a CRS contract out on him. Then his disbelief turned on a dime. He rushed forward like a Chicago Bears’ defensive lineman. I hadn’t expected this, but I was ready for him.
I ran forward and squatted at the last minute, pushing up when his shins hit my shoulder. Down he went with a thud. This was going to be too easy, I thought. Then he surprised me by shooting his hand out and clamping hold of my ankle as I leaped away, pulling my leg out from under me.
My face hit the grass, and I twisted hard like a writhing snake, but he crawled on top of me and gripped my neck before I could slither away. He moved his bulky frame faster than most thugs I’d encountered.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been downed so fast, I thought as he tightened his grip. I’d been distracted by the cop. Hell, I could use another distraction about now.
I clawed at his arms, drawing blood, but it only made him angrier. He tightened the grip on my throat as he cursed and spat at me. Soon I couldn’t breathe, and my lungs silently screamed for air. I kicked up at his fat, muscled back but couldn’t reach his head. Blood pounded in my head. My God, I thought, I’m going to die here.
“Hey, Mommy, look at that man.” It was the voice of an angel—or a kid. Either way, it was divine intervention.
Drummond looked over his shoulder and, at the sight of the kid and his mother, he loosened his grip. I saw my chance and took it, somehow managing to wrangle out from under his three-hundred-plus pounds.
As soon as I was on my feet I gave him a furious uppercut to the jaw. The jolt of it ricocheted through my body. He groaned, wide-eyed, but he remained upright on his knees. Damn, I hadn’t meant to fight this guy—especially one built like a tank. He looked at me with astonishment.
“That’s right, asshole, you’re messing with the wrong girl.” To make sure he didn’t come after me again, I gave him a roundhouse kick to the side of the head and he toppled over like a bowling pin. He raised his head, too stupid to give up.
I took one last whack at him—a full frontal kick to the groin. As my kung fu master had taught me, I employed fei mai qiao. My leg flew like a feather, but the chi behind it walloped his crotch like a hammer. My ankle burned from the impact.
Finally, Drummond groaned in defeat and rolled into a fetal position. Only slightly winded, I knelt beside him and grabbed him by his lapels, pulling his face close to mine.
“You’re gonna die, asshole.” I pulled out my counterfeit Gibson Warrant—what I should have done from the very start—and waved it in front of his face. “See this? This is a court order from Judge Gibson himself with your name on it, Drummond. If you try to talk to Janet one more time, I have permission to shoot you