The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (18 page)

“No.”

“Damn you, do what I tell you!”

“You don’t drop guns on pavement,” I said. “They’re liable to go off accidentally when they hit.”

“…All right, then. Take it out and lay it down. Slow and careful.”

I put my hand in my coat pocket, bending my knees as if to lower myself into a squatting position. He followed suit, leaning against me slightly so that he had to be a little off balance. I lunged upward, swiveling my body, knocked the gun aside with my left arm, and slammed my right fist into his face.

The suddenness of the move, the last thing he expected from a woman, caught him completely unaware. He staggered backward, reflexively squeezing the automatic’s trigger, and the gun went off with a hollow roar. The slug missed me by several feet, thudding into the side of one of the Dumpsters. The recoil threw Givens further off balance, giving me a chance to wrap my fingers around the hot barrel and tear the weapon loose from his grasp. But I couldn’t hold on to it. I heard it fall clattering to the pavement.

He tried to head-butt me, but I sidestepped in time, caught hold of his coat in both hands, and brought my knee up into his groin. Direct hit. His shriek of pain told me so, gave me more satisfaction than it probably should have. He bent over double, clutching his wounded privates, and stumbled around banging into the Dumpsters and crates.

Even as dark as it was, I managed to find the gun without having to crawl on all fours looking for it. Large-caliber weapon, a .45. More firepower than a man like Givens knew how to use in close quarters or I’d probably have been dead or disabled instead of standing there unhurt.

Reaction set in then. One of those moments when your knees have a jellied feel and your mind goes into overdrive, images passing so quickly you can barely identify them. I took several deep breaths to steady myself and clear my head. I didn’t have anything more to fear from Givens; he’d slumped to one knee, still clutching himself.

After a few seconds he looked up at me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but they must have been as sick as his voice sounded. “You bitch,” he whimpered, “you broke my balls.”

“Call me a bitch again and I’ll do more than that.”

The gunshot had attracted attention. A couple of people came running up, and I yelled to them to call 911. One of them obeyed, while the other stayed to gawk at a safe distance.

I waited to be relieved of my moaning prisoner.

1:10 a.m.

S
o that’s that,” I said to Hy as we snuggled under a faux fur throw in front of the kiva-style fireplace in our living room. “All the damn perps in these two crazy cases are in custody.”

“Right. Van Hoffman finally confessed to fraud, embezzlement, and hiring the Searchers to harass you. The cops and feds didn’t even have to lean on him too much. He talked and talked. I think now they wish he’d
stop
talking.”

“So what was his plan?” I asked.

“Originally, to fake his kidnapping, collect the ransom, and run off to South America with his girlfriend. Of course, the whole scenario was doomed from the start. He was foolish enough to think that his wife would fall for a ransom demand that was nearly the exact amount of their savings—and that she cared enough about him to pay it. When she refused, he came up with another fake plan, again with the help of the Night Searchers—pretending two of them were his kidnappers throwing him into the Bay. He counted on those two as witnesses; what he didn’t expect was two genuine witnesses with a night scope and infrared camera. Or one who could swim well.”

“And then he told that ridiculous story about me trying to drown him.”

“That nobody believed, but sent you into panic mode.”

“Don’t remind me.” I sighed. “But what damn fools some men can be.”

Hy grinned. “Especially the ones looking to run away from home.”

“That’s what kids do.”

“Let’s face it: we’re not dealing with an adult personality here.”

“You can say that again. So are all the other details on the Night Searchers cases wrapped up?”

“More or less. The freelance enforcer who uses Bay Rum cologne—the reason you and the old guy on the waterfront smelled lime on him—admitted he’d been hired by a friend of Jay Givens, but has conveniently forgotten his name. The guy you chased from the Municipal Pier before the Griz’s car crapped out on you was a Night Searchers hanger-on who’s since vanished. As for the Kenyons, they’ll probably bicker over that vacant lot until one of them dies or gives in and builds something there.”

“Oh,” I said, “right. I forgot to tell you: they got into a brawl last night at a restaurant in Rome. Spaghetti draped over their ears, lasagna smeared on their faces, lots of good Chianti wasted.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Google News.”

“Of course.”

I reached for my wine—a wonderful Alexander Valley zin that we’d been saving for a special occasion. “One question,” I said. “What did the so-called ‘fanatics’ in the Global Policy Forum plan? Did they have an agenda?”

“Not that any of the people from Washington who’ve been swarming all over here can figure. They think, and I agree, that was just a smoke screen for Hoffman’s scenario for escaping his real life.”

“God, a lot of marriages are fucked up, but the ones in this case are real cautionary tales.”

Hy snuggled closer to me, took a sip of my wine. “What about our marriage?”

I smiled. “We have each other—although it’s a wonder, after all the tough times we’ve gone through. We have our health, our friends and relatives and cats. We have our homes. And we also have a business to run.”

“A business—singular?”

I looked into his eyes. They were hopeful, yearning.

“A business—singular.”

Now his eyes sparkled, and a grin spread over his face.

“We may squabble over things from time to time,” I said, “but we do work well together. What should we call our new company?”

“Ripinsky and McCone International?”

“Wrong order. McCone and Ripinsky.”

“Why?”

“Alphabetical.”

“But my name—”

“Is only prominent on the international front. Mine is well known in the Western states. And I’m not sure about the ‘International.’”

“But RI has offices in thirty-seven countries.”

“A lot of which are nothing more than mail drops.”

“But—”

“Stop squabbling, Ripinsky. We’ll work out the details later, to our mutual satisfaction.
Casablanca
’s on the late late show in five minutes, and I want popcorn to go with it.”

He sighed and stood up. “I’ll do the popping, you melt the butter.”

Thanks, as always, to Bill Pronzini—for his ideas, criticism, and hand-holding.

And to my editor, Dianne Choie, whose insight and eye for detail are invaluable.

LOOKING FOR YESTERDAY

CITY OF WHISPERS

COMING BACK

LOCKED IN

BURN OUT

THE EVER-RUNNING MAN

VANISHING POINT

THE DANGEROUS HOUR

DEAD MIDNIGHT

LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE

WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP

BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT

THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND

A WILD AND LONELY PLACE

TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN

WOLF IN THE SHADOWS

PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES

WHERE ECHOES LIVE

TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS

THE SHAPE OF DREAD

THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY

EYE OF THE STORM

THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF

DOUBLE (With Bill Pronzini)

LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE

GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY

THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE

ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION

EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES

CAPE PERDIDO

CYANIDE WELLS

POINT DECEPTION

To receive special offers, bonus content, and news about our latest ebooks and apps, sign up for our newsletters.

Sign Up

Or visit us at
hachettebookgroup.com/newsletters

For more about this book and author, visit Bookish.com.