The Tin Man (37 page)

As she continued her deep breathing exercises, she struggled to strengthen her resolve. She could not afford to fail.
Her life and probably Buchanan’s, too, depended on her remaining as still as stone until the perfect moment presented itself to drive in that blade with every ounce of strength she had in her.

* * * *

Mary Hoskins jumped when the phone sounded, even though she’d been willing it to ring. Pouncing on it, she lifted the receiver to her ear.

“Research,” she said, feeling strangely short of breath.
“Mary speaking.”

“Hello again, Mary.”

It was Gina Metcalf. Mary waited for her to say her piece.

“Mr.
Osbourne has asked me to convey to you that no part of what you’ve just shared with me is true.” Gina’s tone was stern to the point of being threatening. “And, if you should deign to print such a ludicrous pack of lies…well, all I can say is that the consequences will be severe.”

Mary heard a click. Still clutching the receiver, she hurriedly punched in the three-digit extension for Glenda
Northam, who answered on the third ring.

Mary heaved a defeated sigh before she said, “Well, Glenda…I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

* * * *

A short block down the road from the diner, Ivan found an open curbside space and deftly parallel parked the tank-like Mercedes. He then removed his pistol from the shoulder holster he had on under his suit and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. Finally, he removed the handcuffs.
Buchanan rotated his wrists, which had become stiff and chafed from the tight-fitting manacles, relieved to be free of them. 

“What did you say the woman’s name was again?” Ivan asked.

“I didn’t.”

Ivan glowered at him.

“Judy,” Buchanan said, rolling his eyes. “Her name’s Judy. Are you happy now?”

Ivan didn’t look happy.

They got out of the car and started walking down the street toward the restaurant. It was late afternoon and the sun was out, but the air was brisk and breezy. Buchanan stuffed his hands in his pockets for warmth. The neighborhood was even dodgier than he remembered. Homeless people slept on the sidewalk and a gang of dangerous-looking lads occupied the corner up ahead.

When they reached the diner, Ivan grabbed his elbow.
“Try any funny business and I will shoot you in the balls.”

“I won’t try anything if you don’t try anything
,” Buchanan assured him. “Remember, Sterling promised she wouldn’t be hurt.”

Buchanan
’s chest pulsed with guilt for getting the waitress mixed up in this mess. He had no idea when he gave her the disk that it might come down to this. He just knew he had to get rid of it and, at the time, a random person seemed the best choice.

As soon as they were inside,
he started looking around for Judy. He took in a smattering of customers eating in the booths, a couple of elderly gentlemen seated at the counter, a black busboy noisily clearing tables, and two waitresses—neither of them her. One, a college-aged lass with a moon face and ginger hair, was posted behind the counter with a pot of coffee. The other—mid-forties, matronly, stiff helmet of dark hair—looked up from where she was wiping down a table.

“Sit anywhere you like,” she called out to them
with a forced smile.

“We’re not here to eat,” Buchanan replied, raising his voice a little.
“We’re looking for Judy.”

“She’s off today,”
the waitress replied, still wiping.

Buchanan
moved closer so he wouldn’t have to keep shouting across the restaurant. Ivan stayed on his heels.

“Can you tell me where she lives?”

The woman rounded on him, set her hands on her hips, and boldly looked him up and down. “Who wants to know?”

He looked her in the eye in a way that was straightforward but no
n-threatening. “My name’s Buchanan. Alex Buchanan. I made a date with her last night I couldn’t keep. I’d like to explain why. And to apologize.”

The waitress, whose nametag read “Beverly,”
nodded as she gave him the once over. “She said you might be coming in.”

“Did she?” His palms were starting to get sweaty and it didn’t help that, behind him, Ivan was standing so close he could swear he felt breath on the back of his neck.

Beverly’s mouth twisted disapprovingly. She stood there for a long moment just looking at him. He got the feeling she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort. She must have decided he was, because she shrugged and started moving toward the back. He followed her, trailed closely by Ivan, into a short corridor. At the end was a swinging door he presumed led into the kitchen. Along the pink walls were two more doors, these marked with hand-painted signs: M and W. Between them hung an old-style black payphone that had seen better days. She marched straight to it and lifted the receiver. Turning to Buchanan, she stuck out her palm.

“The least you could do is pay for the call.”

He checked his pockets. They were empty.

“Sorry
.” He shrugged, feeling like a deadbeat.

Rocking her head
, she stuck the hand in the pocket of her apron, pulled out a coin, and dropped it into the slot with a clang.

“
Judy? Hi, it’s Bev from work,” she said, her voice now animated. “You know that guy you said might come in? The one who stood you up?” She shot Buchanan a dour look as she delivered that last bit. “Well, he’s standing right here.”

She listened for a few moments while
Judy said something, then held out the phone to Buchanan. “She said to put you on.”

He took the phone, taking a breath as he pressed it to his ear.
“Listen, Judy, about last night—”

“Forget it,” she said, cutting him off. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just glad you aren’t dead.”

“That makes two of us.”

“
Have you come for the McGuffin?”

“
Sorry?”

“You know, the thing in a mystery everybody’s looking for
,” she said. “I’m pretty sure Hitchcock coined the phrase.”

“
Oh, right.”

“Do you have something to write with?”

He put his hand over the receiver and offered Beverly a sheepish grin. “Have you got a pen, love? And perhaps a wee scrap of paper?”

Bev fixed him with a stern glare as she dug in her apron, pulling out what he needed. When he was ready to write, he got back on the phone.
As Judy gave him the address of her apartment, he scribbled it down, then handed the pen back to Beverly. With an anxious glance at Ivan, he said into the phone, “I should warn you, Judy. I’ve got someone with me.”

“
Oh, yeah? Who?”

“My editor,” he said, thinking fast. “And we’re on deadline, so we’re in a bit of a
hurry to get back to the paper.”

“I won’t keep you,” she
promised. “But I’ll need half an hour to tidy up and put on my face.”

B
efore he could say another word, there was a dial tone humming in his ear.

* * * *

Eyes squeezed shut, Thea tightened her grip on the knife’s handle as Mr. Kidd stood over her making noises that, under different circumstances, would have turned her stomach. Heavy breathing, guttural gasps and moans, and the soft, rapid slapping of skin on skin. Using the sounds as a tracking device, she did her best to home in on the exact location of the slapping sound. Should she wait for him to get there? Would he be more vulnerable in the throes of orgasm? Would he close his eyes? Were they closed already? The temptation to peek pounded hard on the wall of willpower she’d erected, but she refused to let it in.

She waited,
her insides wound tight, until she was sure he was on the verge. Gingerly, breathlessly, she slipped the knife out of its hiding place, keeping her movements as minimal as possible. He moved in closer and pressed his erection against her nipple. Fighting her revulsion, she took care in positioning the blade, rehearsing the action in her mind. Thrust, jab, plunge, twist. There could be no hesitation. She had to go for it, had to make it count. And then what? Was she prepared to kill him? Was she capable of cold-blooded murder?

She continued her deep-breathing exercises, now allowing her mind to fill up with images
—of her grandfather, her own torture, and of Quinn Davidson and Malcolm Connelly—being gunned down like dogs. And for what? Nothing more than to make a couple of greedy billionaires that much richer.

Several minutes passed. Kidd was slapping harder now while emitting
a throaty chant: “Oh, God. Oh, Tatyana. Oh, yes.”

This was it. It had to be now. Right now!

Slipping the knife out from under the blanket, she drove the blade toward her target with all her might. It struck meat. Mr. Kidd gasped, cursed, and howled. She thrust harder, calling on strength she didn’t know she had. The blade sank deeper. Mr. Kidd bellowed like an animal as warm liquid splattered across her chest. 

She jumped up and opened her eyes just in time to see his fist coming at her face. She ducked. The blow grazed her cheek, knocking her off balance. She stumbled, falling back into the chair.

Kidd was on his knees, screaming and spewing expletives in a frenzied amalgamation of English and Bulgarian. Her glance fell onto the hilt of the knife protruding from his crotch. Had she hit her mark? She couldn’t be sure, but she’d definitely hit something. He was coddling the wound, moaning, muttering, and swearing. Under his hands, was a spreading splotch of red.

She leapt to her feet, frantically scanning the space for anything she could use to knock him out. Her gaze fell upon the chair where he’d been sitting.
His coat hung over the back. Under it, she saw his shoulder holster. The gun was still in it. She felt a sudden burst of hope. Maybe, just maybe, if she could get to it, she still had a chance.

Just as she lunged,
he grabbed her ankle. She kicked at him wildly, trying to shake him off. He held on tight, yanking hard on her leg, doing his damndest to pull her down. She held on, knowing if he got her down on the floor with him, she was done for. She searched her mind for something, anything, she could use from her Kung Fu training. Images of various stances, punches, and kicks came rushing back. But could she perform any of them with one of her legs pinned?

I
t was worth a try.

She shifted her weight to her captured leg, pivoted her hips, and brought her knee up forcefully, going for his chin. She scored a direct hit, knocking his teeth together
with a chilling sound. As his head jerked back, he let go. Hopping back, she swung her leg, landing a roundhouse kick to the side of his face. She followed it with a quick punch to the nose. His hands flew to his face to stem the blood pouring from his nostrils.

Thea
bolted toward the chair, diving for the gun. Just as her hand touched the grip, he tackled her from behind. As she went down, her forehead slammed against the edge of the chair. She heard a sickening crack, saw a flash of yellow light, felt blood, hot and thick, pouring down her brow. She landed hard on her chest, grunting as the air shot out of her lungs. He was on top of her, cursing like a demon.

She twisted, thrashed, and kicked, but couldn’t throw him off.
His fingers snaked through her hair, took hold, and jerked hard, snapping back her head. The pain made her cry out. He moved his mouth to her ear. She winced under the assault of humid breath.

“You have been a ver
y bad girl, Pussy,” he whispered deviously. “And now you are mine to do with as I please.”

There was an open parking space right out front and, as Ivan maneuvered into it, Buchanan looked around. The neighborhood was old, but rather charming with its manicured lawns and mature trees. As he took it all in, he couldn’t help wondering how Judy could afford to live in an area as nice as this one on only a waitress’s wages and tips. The building itself—with its gray-stone façade, bump of bay windows, and black iron railing—reminded him to an unnerving degree of the place where he grew up on Raeburn Street.

“Remember,” Ivan told him as they climbed out of the Mercedes, “no funny business.”

“I’ll be as good as gold,” Buchanan assured him with a false grin as they jogged up the front steps. “As long as you are.”

At the top was a recessed oak door with a security lock
, above it, a transom with the building’s address painted in gold. An intercom with a dozen buttons was mounted on the wall beside the door. Under each button was a black plastic label punched with the occupant’s last name and unit. Because Buchanan didn’t know Judy’s surname, he scanned for the letter she’d given him: E. Finding it, he pressed the corresponding call button.

Within seconds, a woman’s voice came out of the speaker.
“Alex?”