Page 64 of Savage Lover

He hasn’t backed up, so there’s only a couple inches of space between us. He has me pinned between him and the Camry. My head is throbbing, and my heart is still pounding from the shock of the surprise.

“Can you move?” I say. “My head is bleeding.”

“Let me look at it,” Schultz says.

“I don’t need your help.”

He pushes me down on the nearest bench, not listening. He grabs a handful of paper towels and presses them against my temple. He’s sitting right next to me, his tanned face only inches away from mine. I can smell the spearmint gum on his breath.

“Sorry I surprised you,” he says.

He’s smiling. He doesn’t look sorry at all.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I mutter. “If anybody sees you—”

“I’m not wearing my uniform.”

“So what? You don’t live here. People will notice you. And not to burst your bubble, but you reek of cop.”

“Come on,” he says. “In these clothes?”

Today he’s wearing some kind of Tommy Bahama shirt and cargo shorts. It’s slightly less obvious than his sports gear, but it still doesn’t strike quite the right note if he’s trying to look like a tourist. It’s that military haircut, the stiff set of his shoulders, and the watchful way he looks around the room. Tourists are a lot more clueless.

“So what do you have for me?” he says.

I rattle off what little information I gathered at Levi’s last party—mostly the names of people I saw buying drugs.

Schultz doesn’t seem very interested in any of that.

“What about his supplier?” he says.

“How am I supposed to figure that out? Levi doesn’t even like me, let alone trust me.”

There is one piece of information that might interest him.

“Sione beat the shit out of Nero Gallo,” I say. “You could arrest him for that.”

“Arrest him?” Schultz scoffs. “Give him a medal, more like.”

I sigh in irritation. “You don’t give a shit about any of the crimes I’ve actually witnessed. So I don’t know what to tell you,” I say.

“You could tell me what you were doing at Alliance Bank,” Schultz says coolly.

My throat tightens.

How does he know about that?

This motherfucker is following me.

I want to tell him off, but I try to play dumb instead.

“I was opening an account,” I say.

“Nice try,” Schultz sneers. “You don’t have the bank balance to interest Raymond Page.”

“You’d be surprised. Once I dug through the couch cushions, I had almost thirty-eight dollars.”

Schultz is not amused. He presses the wad of paper towels hard against the cut on my head, making me wince.

---