Page 99 of Long Way Down

“Yeah, but Prince could mean Charles, or it could mean Machiavelli, so…”

Kat didn’t bother responding, just shooed him down the hall.

~*~

Though she was tired, and wonderfully sore, Melissa found that she couldn’t go back to sleep once Pongo left. She curled back up beneath the covers, breathed the scent of his shampoo off her pillow and…was awake. Irreversibly so.

She sat up, and sighed, and scanned her room. Was considering the state of her rug and the wisdom of waking her downstairs neighbor with the vacuum at one in the morning when she was saved from that poor decision by the ringing of her phone.

Her belly tightened immediately, adrenaline flooding her veins as she anticipated Dispatch, and another rape, another case; Contreras in the unmarked out front with coffee and granola bars. But an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen, and she answered it with curiosity plain in her voice. “Hello?”

Harsh, panicked breathing on the other end of the line.

Melissa, leaning with one hand braced on the mattress beside her, sat bolt upright, every nerve standing to attention. “Hello?” she repeated, more firmly. “Who is this?”

The next exhale carried a trace of a whimper, distinctively feminine. Then a whisper: “Detective Dixon?”

Melissa tossed the covers off and stood, adrenaline spiking too hard for her to remain sitting. “Dana? Dana, is that you? Are you okay?”

Another whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–”

“It’s alright.” Melissa hurried to her closet. “Tell me where you are and what’s happening.”

“I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry it’s late. I don’t–”

“Dana. Take a deep breath, okay?Are you alright? What’s happening?”

A gulp. “He’s here. My stalker. He’s out on the balcony.”

~*~

It was clear from the door at either end, and the cased opening in the center that supported the ceiling above, that the office into which Kat escorted Pongo had once been two rooms converted into one. The windows, boarded on the outside, were lined on the inside with heavy blackout curtains that could be twitched aside for a peek down at the street below, should the need arise. One half of the room had been devoted to a sitting area, with chicly-weathered Chesterfields, tufted chairs, and a wide, leather ottoman that held several drink trays and a humidor. A wet bar had been built along one wall, an impressive variety of bottles and glassware stored in the shelves above. Pongo spotted a wine fridge under the counter.

The other half was the office proper, with a heavy, polished wood desk with cliché green glass lamps perched at the front two corners. Behind it, a tall-backed leather office chair, a pair of potted palms, burgundy drapes in addition to the blackouts, overlong so the ends folded up on the rug. The whole place had an air of the cliché about it, come to think. It was all handsome, tasteful, and obviously expensive…but seemed carefully crafted as if for a movie set…

Down to the man in the chair, elbows braced on the desk, hands steepled beneath his chin as he watched them approach with the pale-eyed intensity of a hungry wolf.

This, then, was the man called Prince.

Mid-fifties, maybe, broad-shouldered, but lean; his waist tapered in like that of a man still kept very active, and his suit was fitted in a modern cut, tight and form-hugging, so that his biceps stretched the sleeves flatteringly. He wore his iron hair slicked back like a Hollywood mobster, and his face was angled, and weathered, craggy rather than blunt, which further emphasized his wolfishness. Heavy silver rings winked on each finger, and the corner of a pale pink pocket square peeked from his black jacket pocket.

The worst was his gaze, though. Unblinking, assessing. The sort of gaze that left Pongo twitching on the inside, and wanting to profess his innocence.

Whatever his methods, whatever his temperament, the Prince had the look of a dangerous man down pat.

Kat walked with him up to the front of the desk, and then, to Pongo’s surprise, dipped his head and said, “Sir, this is Pongo, from the Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club,” his voice full of respect, rather than his usual, laconic distaste.

Prince executed a long, visual sweep of Pongo, head to toe, lashes flickering as his gaze lit on his scuff-toed boots. When he spoke, his voice was rough-edged and low, like he wasn’t one to speak any louder than absolutely necessary. “You’re not flying your colors.”

“Colors put a target on your back if you’re not traveling in numbers. Colors mean you own a place – and nobody owns this city.” He left off the “sir” – that was reserved for his dad, his priest, Mav, and maybe Ghost, if necessary.

Prince inclined his head the slightest fraction, something shifting in his blue eyes. “Smart,” he drawled. “So’s your president, using you as a liaison in town. You look innocent as a baby.”

Pongo bared all his teeth in a parody of his usual shit-eating grin. “Aw, thanks. Andyoulook like you’re cosplaying Tony Soprano.”

Kat had moved around to stand just behind his boss, and his eyes bugged at this.

A single muscle twitched in one lean cheek. “Hm. I always thought I was better looking than him. Not Italian, either.”

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