LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 9

      In the dark Detective August Rafferty tested the twine wrapped around the bedposts and debated his next move. She’d tied him fairly tightly, but he believed, if he tried hard enough, he could work himself free. After all, she was an amateur at this; he’d known that from the first moment she’d waggled that gun at him, staring at him through hollow, hazel eyes, her face white, drawn and horror-filled, as if she’d seen the devil himself.

      He’d known who she was. Olivia Margaux Dugan. Employed by Zuma Software. Missing since she’d found the bodies after her lunch break.

      He’d been instructed by his boss, Lieutenant D’Annibal of the Laurelton Police Department, to cruise by her address and check if she was home. While cruising, he’d seen her lam out on foot, carrying a backpack, scurrying down the street and into a café. He’d reported to D’Annibal that he was following her, then had driven past the bistro for a quick reconnoiter, and was circling back when he saw her suddenly exit the bistro, dart across the street, and enter the coffee shop. He’d cranked the Jeep around, but of course, there’d been no place to park. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he’d driven slowly down the street, momentarily double-parking with an eye on his rearview, then had driven farther, jockeyed around, turned back and, lo and behold, a spot had opened up right in front of the place.

      Lucky.

      He called D’Annibal again right before his cell quit on him and said he was going to tail her and that he would phone again when he could. Then he cruised right into Bean There, Done That and ordered up a coffee. His quarry was in line ahead of him, jittery, but trying hard to conceal it. She got her drink and sat down and after he got his, he strolled out toward his car, head turned about forty-five degrees, keeping her in his peripheral vision.

      And then suddenly she was right there. He pretended to be getting into his vehicle and she suddenly slid into the passenger seat, with a gun, and ordered him to drive.

      Wow. So he let her take him “hostage.” Seemed like a good way to keep tabs on her.

      Now, he was wondering about the wisdom of those actions. He hadn’t been able to contact D’Annibal again, and the department had since put Liv’s picture on television. An expected move by the police, he supposed, because no one, not even D’Annibal, knew he’d connected so tightly with her.

      He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. If he catalogued his exploits since being a detective, this move might be number one in the lame-brained column. Sure, he was open, brash, full of piss and vinegar, as his older sister, July, was wont to say, and burdened with oodles of arrogance that had gotten him into more than a few scrapes as a kid and had helped him develop a serious hero complex as an adult—and had been the ruin of several romantic relationships—but he was generally sane. Generally able to make good choices.

      He shook his head at himself. Maybe it was because he’d just gotten off a long-term, joint drug-and-gang task force with the Portland PD and had been happy to move out of his fake address—the house where he’d been living under his alias, Alan Reagan—and hopefully back to his own home. He’d been at the fake house for nearly a year while he’d infiltrated a really nasty, homegrown drug czar’s clutch. Geraldo “Jerry” Cordova was a pain-in-the-ass small-time dealer who’d connected with a couple of Portland gangs and thought he was Scarface now. Auggie had helped root him out, along with some seriously bad dudes, and as soon as that had come down he’d beat feet as Alan Reagan, planning to pick up his possessions at the house, such as they were, and get out. Then D’Annibal had called as he was checking on his duplex on the outskirts of Laurelton. (He was in the process of evicting the tenants on the other side as he was the owner of the building and they were young, loud and had a tendency to leave the tail end of one monstrous truck or another over his driveway. Pissed him off, no end.)

      D’Annibal had explained about the lovely Ms. Dugan and, as Auggie headed over to her apartment for some further reconnaissance, she suddenly appeared, backpack over her shoulder, heading quickly away from the premises.

      He’d immediately done a quick assessment of his own state of readiness. He was good to go. He hadn’t yet bothered with peeling his wallet from beneath the driver’s seat where he’d strapped it with duct tape along with his Glock, a precaution he employed whenever he was playing the part of Al Reagan, or whomever, as he couldn’t afford for anyone to find out his true identity.

      So, he’d followed her. He knew from D’Annibal that she was Olivia Margaux Dugan, an employee at Zuma Software where a gunman had come in around one P.M. and shot all the employees on the first floor. Except Ms. Dugan, who hadn’t been there, but who had apparently returned to the crime scene and phoned 911. D’Annibal told Auggie to go to her apartment and find out if she’d been there.

      He’d been a little ticked off, eager to get back to his messy duplex with all his own things. The last thing he’d wanted was to have to maintain his false identity at this damned, near empty house. It was Alan Reagan’s place, in case anybody came looking, a house really owned by the Laurelton PD that had been used for various reasons, the last being a safe house for a wealthy criminal’s abused wife and children. That asshole was firmly behind bars now, and so Auggie had used the place as his new home when he started surveilling, and then finally working for, Cordova, just in case the gang boss came looking, which he never did.

      When Liv had suddenly jumped in Auggie’s Jeep and told him to drive, he’d unconsciously headed to the house. He’d decided to go with the whole hostage thing and though he was both irked and amused at being tied up, he was intrigued with his attractive and self-proclaimed nutso female captor. He didn’t quite know what to make of her.

      Not that she wasn’t screwed up; he could certainly see that. But then, who wasn’t?

      Only now he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

      He turned his head to listen. She was sleeping on that crappy couch. How, he couldn’t imagine. He felt jazzed and antsy. Earlier, when she’d left him tied to the oven, he’d been aware that he could probably drop his fetters; he’d almost done it, thinking he could call D’Annibal and give him an update. But he wasn’t certain he would be able to put the twine back in place without her knowing, so he’d passed on the opportunity, at least for the meantime.

      He thought about his cell phone. He’d lied to her about the charger. It was here, in his glove box. He’d meant to charge the battery as soon as he got home; he wasn’t much on car chargers, had heard they weren’t good for the phone. But he carried an extra charger in the glove box, so if he worked himself free he could certainly get the thing working. Could call D’ Annibal. But did he want to give up his act yet? He wasn’t sure.

      Hmmm. Had to think about that. If she found the charger, she could plug in the phone herself and if someone called him from the department, the jig could be up anyway.

      He wondered if he could get her to fall for the bathroom trick again. Not that he couldn’t use every opportunity to relieve himself, but there was no emergency imminent yet.

      Again . . . hmmm . . .

      She needed to go to the police. He believed in her innocence. She was paranoid, too, but maybe there was something worth checking out. If he stayed with her, could he get her to trust him a little? He felt a tweak of interest in her and was annoyed with himself. Down boy . . .

      Having decided that waiting was a better option,

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