Eerie - Crouch Blake (книги бесплатно без .txt) 📗

“I’m sorry.”

“And you felt the need to keep this from me why?”

“Nothing I’m proud of.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I’ve used this concierge before.”

“As an informant?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Sophie looked at the countertop, then back at Grant. “And you thought I might, what? Judge you? Because that’s the kind of person you know me to be?”

“I don’t know what I thought. That was a long time ago, when I was in a really bad place. But still … I was embarrassed. Didn’t want you to find out. And besides, this isn’t exactly by the book.”

“No shit. Who lives here?”

“One of our Facebook girls used to. This was her last known.”

Sophie leaned forward, took in a long breath.

“So who lives here now?”

“Some U-Dub trust funder. Definitely not a person of interest.”

“Did you not hear me knocking on the door five minutes ago?”

“I was upstairs.”

Sophie nodded. “What’s the current tenant’s name?”

“Heidi Spiegel.”

“She here? I’d love to meet Ms. Spiegel.”

It was faint—practically undetectable—but Grant heard the rhythmic creak of Sophie’s bed springs starting up on the second floor.

“She’s gone,” Grant said. “I parked on the street. Came in when I saw her leave.”

“Just let yourself in, huh?”

“Door wasn’t locked.”

“Interesting choice.”

“Says the detective who broke in through the basement.”

“I was worried about you, Grant. I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”

“I’m fine.”

“Thrilled to hear it. What’s with all the candles?”

Grant walked over to a light switch beside the sink, gave it a few flips.

“No power,” he said.

“Strange that Ms. Spiegel would just leave all these candles burning.”

“Probably means she didn’t plan on being gone long. We should get out of here.”

“You been drinking?” Sophie asked. “You smell like booze.”

What could he do? Deny?

“I had a whiskey at the hotel before I rolled up here. You have an issue with that?”

Sophie smiled a smile that wasn’t. She stared Grant down across the island and shook her head.

“What?” Grant said.

“You are so full of shit it’s not even funny.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Has one thing you’ve said to me in the last three minutes even entered the same ballpark as the truth?”

“Yeah. Everything.”

“Look at you. What are you wearing? Jeans and a T-shirt?”

My real clothes are covered in the blood of Don McFee who’s at this moment passing through rigor mortis in a room directly above our heads because of something I still don’t understand. What if I laid that on you, partner? Then what?

Grant’s headache and nausea vanished. He felt suddenly perfect, like someone had thrown a switch or hit him with a beautiful morphine push. He straightened, reevaluating everything absent the distraction of agony.

“You’re not even wearing shoes, Grant.”

Fair point.

“Where’s your gun? Where’s your shield?”

“In my car.”

“You wanna tell me what’s really going on here?”

“I just did.”

“No, you just lied to me. For the second time today.”

“Sophie—”

Heavy footsteps thumped above them on the second floor.

Sophie cocked her head. “Thought you said we were alone.”

“Listen to me.”

She turned and started down the hallway as the footfalls reached the top of the stairs.

“Sophie, come back here.”

They began their descent.

Grant moved around the island and followed Sophie down the hall.

By the time he reached her at the foyer, Steve Vincent was five steps from the bottom of the staircase and progressing at a steady, unhurried pace toward the front door, the same incomprehensible vacancy in his eyes that Grant had seen in Jude’s. Steve wore pants and shoes, but his shirt, coat, and tie he carried in a bundle under his left arm.

Sophie said, “Sir, do you live here?”

Steve reached the foyer and walked past them to the front door.

“Excuse me, sir, I just asked you a question.”

The man turned the two deadbolts and slung back the chain.

“Sir! Seattle Po—”

Grant said, “Let him go.”

Steve opened the door, disappeared outside.

Sophie looked at Grant.

“Who was that?”

Where to begin?

Sophie looked up the staircase. She started toward it, but Grant stepped into her path.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said.

The intensity in her eyes belied a card he’d never seen her play—fear.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Grant?”

Where to even begin?

“Get out of my way,” she said.

“I can’t let you go up there.”

“Grant?” From upstairs, his sister called his name.

“Who’s that?” Sophie asked.

His eyes flashed to her belt.

Back to her face.

At least he could think again.

“Grant!”

“Who’s calling you, Grant?”

With his arms already at his sides, Grant eased his left hand forward and went for it—flicked open the brass snap on Sophie’s belt and snatched her handcuffs before she had a chance to react.

He locked a bracelet around her left wrist as her right hand shot into her jacket.

Glimpsed the black composite stock of her G22 as she tore it out of the holster.

He slapped the barrel, the Glock ripping out of Sophie’s grasp and arcing toward the living room.

It struck the hardwood and slid across the floor as Grant jerked the handcuffs toward the banister and locked the other bracelet around a baluster.

It came with a vengeance—Sophie swinging with her free right arm, her fist slamming into Grant’s jaw with enough force to turn his head and kill the lights.

Grant came to on his back at the foot of the stairs, sat up punch drunk to the sound of keys clinking together.

He scrambled to his feet and lunged at Sophie, snagging the key chain out of her grasp and ducking as her fingernails raked at his face.

Grant stumbled back as she pulled against the balustrade.

The front door to the brownstone stood wide open.

He crossed the foyer and closed it, locked back the deadbolts and rehung the chain.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Sophie screamed.

His jaw throbbed, hot to the touch. Bruised but not broken.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

One of the steps near the top of the staircase creaked. Grant looked up, saw the shape of his sister descending through the darkness.

She stopped halfway to the bottom and eased down onto a step.

“What’s going on, Grant?”

“We had a visitor while you were upstairs.”

“Who you’ve handcuffed to the banister?”

“Paige, meet Sophie. My partner.”

Paige rested her forehead against her knees and said, “Oh God.”

“Sophie, meet Paige. My sister.”

Sophie glared up the staircase, and then back at Grant.

He said, “Paige, we need to talk. Could you come join me in the kitchen please?” And then to Sophie. “Give me your purse.”

She wiped the mascara-stained tears from her cheeks and threw it at him.

“I hate this,” Grant said.

He unzipped her handbag and fished out her phone. Powered it off, slid it into the side pocket of his jeans.

He set the purse on the first step and looked at his partner, asked, “Who else knows that you came here?”

Paige walked past Sophie and Grant and started down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Fuck you.”

“Sophie, I will explain everything to you. I promise. But right now, I need to know if more people are coming. For all of our safety.”

She blinked through a sheet of tears that glistened in the candlelight and said at barely a whisper, “Just me.”

“How’s the hand? You didn’t break it hitting me, did you?”

“No.”

“The cuffs all right? Too tight?”

She shook her head.

Grant paused at the banister on his way down the hall and tested the bracelet around Sophie’s left wrist and the bracelet around the balustrade.