Page 83 of I'm Watching You

Sam laid his hand on hers. It was warm, soft. ‘Is there anything I can do to make this day better?’

Her hand felt steadier as she raised her glass to her lips. ‘Know any good defense lawyers?’

The Guardian watched a drunken Burt Saunders stagger out of the bar on Third Street. In less than twelve hours the bastard had made bail. No wonder people said the American justice system was in the toilet.

Anger roiled inside the Guardian as Saunders lumbered down the sidewalk toward a red Lincoln with a white convertible top. A pink parking ticket lay flat under the windshield wiper. Saunders tossed the ticket in the gutter and fumbled in his pockets for his keys.

He didn’t realize that Death stalked him.

Saunders dropped his keys on the street by his car door. He wobbled forward and patted the ground for the set. He lost his balance and hit his shoulder hard against the car door. He swore.

The Guardian moved closer until inches separated them. ‘Looks like you’re having a bit of trouble tonight.’

Saunders’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck off.’

No manners. Typical. ‘You look like you could use a score.’

Saunders found his keys and snatched them up. ‘Like I said, fuck off, bitch.’

Killing this fool was going to be a true pleasure, one destined to be savored. ‘I’ve got some coke if you’re interested. It would go a long way to taking the edge off.’

Licking his lips, Saunders glanced around to make sure no one watched. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The fish had taken the bait. ‘I can make all the pain go away.’

‘You look like a cop.’

‘Follow me and I’ll show you what I’ve got.’

‘I don’t need you.’ To punctuate his statement, he tried to put his key in the car door lock. His hands trembled so badly that he couldn’t manage the task.

‘Suit yourself.’ To be too eager would spook the prey. Saunders was a mean son of a bitch but he wasn’t stupid.

The Guardian started to walk back toward an alley.

Saunders hesitated and then staggered forward. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty.’

‘Thirty is all I’ve got.’

‘Make it forty.’

Saunders considered the counteroffer and then nodded. ‘Fine.’

Gotcha.‘In the van in the alley over there.’

The drunk nodded and followed. In the moonlight the shadows were long and narrow, shrouding the alley in the darkness. The scent of garbage and urine clung to humid air.

Saunders’s large feet shuffled as he moved away fromthe street. He pulled two crumpled twenties out of his pocket.

The Guardian thought about Saunders’s wife, Gail. The woman had been broken and afraid when she’d run from the hospital yesterday. She’d tried so hard not to cry when she’d fumbled with her keys in the hospital parking lot. So brave. So much like Debra. ‘In the van.’

Saunders climbed in, the hunger bright in his eyes.

From a jacket pocket, the Guardian pulled out a baggy filled halfway with white powder. Saunders tossed his money on the seat and snatched the bag.

As he turned to leave the van, the Guardian pressed a Taser to Saunders’s neck. The tall man’s body jerked and convulsed and he fell back against the seat.

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