Page 58 of The Perfect Accomplice

“They deserve better owners,” he said quietly. “You’d be surprised at how many people just don’t care. You know, you can tell how people will treat each other by how they treat animals. And some people are just bad.”

His eyes hardened at the thought, and Jessie knew she’d lost him. They were out of time.

“Now,” she muttered to Ryan under her breath.

Almost as soon as the word was out of her mouth, he fired, hitting Charlie in the left shoulder. Crying out in pain, the man dropped to ground. Margot immediately ripped herself free of him, but as she did, she lost her balance and stumbled backward.

Jessie watched as her body began to topple over the window ledge, seemingly in slow motion. Without thinking, she dashed forward and threw herself at the window. As she landed, with her stomach hitting the floor, her hands grasped hold of Margot’s left ankle just before it disappeared from sight.

Even though she couldn’t weigh more than 120 pounds, Margot’s fast-dropping body pulled Jessie upward toward the window and she felt herself starting to slide over the ledge as well. She tried to brace herself against the wall but knew it was a losing proposition. Her own upper body was just starting to careen over the edge when she felt two firm hands wrap around her waist and stop her momentum dead.

“Still got her?” Ryan asked, his lips close to her ear.

“Uh-huh,” she grunted, “but pull us up quick.”

He did exactly that, tugging her back in and then grabbing Howell’s right ankle so that together, they could carefully ease the woman back inside. She was screeching incoherently, and Jessie couldn't tell if she was just terrified, in pain, or both.

Ryan stepped away, and Jessie looked to see where he was going. Apparently Charlie Warner had used the chaos to try to escape and was crawling toward the bedroom door, his left arm dangling and bleeding. Ryan caught up to him in moments and cuffed him. In an act of undeserved kindness, he cuffed him in front so that his destroyed shoulder wouldn’t be stretched backward, causing him more pain. She returned her attention to Margot Howell.

“You’re safe now,” she said in a hushed, reassuring tone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

The words seemed to register, and the woman stopped screaming.

“Are you okay?” Jessie asked. “Are you injured?”

Howell took a second to check herself out. After a few moments she seemed to decide that at least physically, she was all right. Then she stared up at Jessie. But instead of looking grateful, her brow furrowed, and her eyes got stormy. When she answered, her voice was filled with acid.

“What the hell took you incompetent people so long!”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Former LAPD sergeant Hank Costabile finished his shot of whiskey. It was his sixth but, as far as he was concerned, by no means his last.

He'd been in this San Fernando Valley bar for an hour now, and in addition to the shots, he was nursing his second beer. He felt like he was owed it.

After all, a man deserved to drown his sorrows from time to time. It hadn’t been a great couple of days. He’d spent them canvassing his old comrades from the department, seeing who could help him mete out a little justice to Jessie Hunt.

But everywhere he went, he found cowards. Sure, there were folks who resented the way the woman went after good cops who made mistakes, like he had. And there were people in power who would love nothing more than to see her brought low or disappear entirely. But no one was willing to step up and offer the resources or access required to get close to her.

Yes, if he wanted to just drive up to her when she was out on the street investigating a case and shoot her dead, he could do it. But the cops that Chief Decker had tailing him all the time would catch up to him. And if they didn’t take him down then and there, he’d ultimately end up back in the very prison he’d just gotten out of. And that wasn’t the outcome he was looking for.

He wanted to take her out without having the deed tied to him. That required the money to make it happen and the people to give him cover. And right now, he had neither. All he had were a bunch of dithering weaklings who talked a good game but got cold feet when it mattered. So for now at least, he was on his own.

The guy sitting three barstools down from him started singing. It was an off-key rendition of the theme song to The Dukes of Hazzard TV show, which he’d apparently chosen from the jukebox in the corner. Hank didn’t mind the song. And in this bar, which was populated largely by cops who saw the world the way he did, it felt appropriate. But the singing guy, who was both sloppy drunk and not a cop, was getting on his nerves.

“Hey,” he called out, “keep it down.”

The singing guy had five empty beer mugs in front of him and was wearing a mechanic’s work shirt with an iron-on patch on the chest that read “Lenny.” He looked over at Hank in annoyance. His eyes were watery, and his longish greasy black hair was disheveled.

“How about you mind your business, friend,” he slurred. “I’m not bothering anyone.”

“You’re bothering me,” Hank said, turning to face the guy directly. “If you want to sing, do it in key or take it outside. But don’t make the rest of us suffer.”

The mechanic sighed in exasperation, slid off his chair, and stood up. Hank hadn’t realized how big Lenny was. Easily six foot three and 250 pounds, he looked like he might have played linebacker somewhere before he let himself go. His stomach rode over his belt, straining against his shirt. At one point he might have been intimidating to folks. But not to Hank.

“I think you should go back to your beer, friend,” the man sneered. “Maybe it’ll put you in a better mood."

“Lenny,” Hank said, sliding off his own barstool, “You have two choices. You’ll either enjoy your beer in silence or you’ll eat your mug. It’s up to you.”

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