Page 39 of Fire on the Moon

“And I’m supposed to stay in back?”

“It’s better if I don’t have to worry about you while I’m questioning him. Also better if he doesn’t see you.”

She thought about that for several moments, then nodded.

They moved slowly across the front yard and eased along the side of the house. Because they didn’t want to alert the man inside, they couldn’t use a flashlight. Zane went first, picking his way carefully along a dirt path. When he kicked something solid on the ground sending a flowerpot careening along the walkway, they both froze. But after several minutes when there was no reaction from inside, they started moving again. Zane reached the end of the wall and turned the corner, then began moving slowly toward the one window where he could see a light.

Motioning Francesca to stay still, he eased along toward the lighted window. Cautiously, he peeked around the edge of the frame through partially open Venetian blinds. He was looking into a room with a double bed, a bedside table with a lamp, and a chest of drawers across the room. On top was a flat screen TV. A dirty beige throw rug completed the decor. The room was empty, but Zane saw more light coming from under a closed door, and he figured the thug was in the bathroom.

He turned and motioned to Francesca. They met about halfway between the window and the corner.

Leaning toward her, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Keep watch, but stay at the edge of the window. Punch in my number now and activate when you see he’s in bed.”

He waited while she put the number on the screen. Giving her a thumbs up, he retraced his steps, turned the corner and headed to the front of the house, being careful not to kick the same flowerpot. He stopped in the shadows at the edge of the front yard, scanning the area. As far as he could tell, nobody was paying any attention to the two individuals casing the little yellow house.

He stayed where he was, waiting for her call. Finally he felt his phone vibrate and whispered, “Okay thanks.”

After clicking off, he walked to the front door, where he tried the knob. As expected, it was locked, and he used a credit card inserted between the frame and the door to gain entry.

As he slipped inside, Zane drew his gun. Standing in the living room, he waited while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. From the bedroom he heard the sound of shots, and froze. Then he realized that the thug was watching a cop show on TV. Good, that would mask his approach to the bedroom. When he was sure he could see where he was going, he followed the same route that Tuckerman had taken.

Glad that the house had some kind of vinyl tile floor rather than squeaky wood, he crossed the living room and walked quietly down the hall. The bedroom door was wide open. He stopped well back in the doorway, his gaze flicking between the man on the bed and the window. Francesca had eased away from the side of the frame. She raised her hand briefly, indicating that she’d seen him step into the room.

The mobster was propped up against the pillows, facing the TV, but he appeared to be dozing.

Zane clicked on the recording function of his phone before waking his quarry with a loud greeting. “Hello, Tuckerman,”

The man whipped to the side, reaching toward the drawer in the bedside table.

“Don’t go for a weapon,” Zane ordered, or I’ll put a bullet in your chest. And nobody will think it’s anything but your TV cops and robbers show.”

The man went very still, then flopped back against the pillow.

“What do you want?” he croaked.

“Answers.”

He saw the thug’s lips firm.

“Guys you work with broke into Angelo Lucci’s house and killed him. They ended up disabled, and whoever hired them hired you to go after his niece.”

Tuckerman blinked and sat up straighter. Unaccountably, he grinned. “You got that all screwed up,” he said.

“Set me straight. Who are you working for?”

The grin turned defiant. “Like I’m gonna tell you.”

“Why were you following Francesca? What were you paid to do?”

The man didn’t answer.

As the sound of shots started up on the TV again, Zane aimed the gun toward the end of the bed near one of the thug’s feet and fired into the mattress.

The man screamed. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?”

“There’s more where that came from,” Zane growled. Next time I won’t miss your foot.”

The thug licked his lips, apparently calculating how little he could say and not get shot.

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