Page 63 of Wicked Attraction

Virgil nodded. “Is this his family home?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Cal said he wasn’t married and no children. The house is owned by Owen Cardiff, who doesn’t have a job. His criminal record is just a list of petty crimes. Four known associates, Richard Johnson, Mark Rizzo, and Butch Foles. The one who attacked Mo was Jack Mitchum.”

“Any connection to anyone we know?”

I shook my head and stamped out the cigarette, sliding the filter into my pocket. “Not that Cal was able to figure out. Not that it matters.”

Virgil turned to face me, his arms crossed, brows knitted into a frown.

“So we’re doing this?”

“Yeah, we are.” I stared back at Virgil, trying to figure out what the fuck he was thinking but refused to say. His blue eyes matched our fathers in color and impenetrability. “What, goddammit?”

Virgil sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to figure out if this is about Mo, Cal. or Ma.”

“Probably a little bit of all three. Problem?”

Virgil smiled. “Hell, no, I just wanted you to admit this was a little bit about Mo.”

“Asshole,” I growled. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll go to the back door,” Virgil offered with a smile. “I like to be a surprise.”

I nodded and stepped off the curb, looking left and then right even though no cars had come down the block since we arrived ten minutes ago.

“Two minutes,” I called out as Virgil jumped the six-foot fence with the ease of a panther.

Then I made my way to the door.

The music stopped after the second round of knocking, but I didn’t reach for my piece, not yet. The blinds flickered to my right, but I focused on the door. Heavy footfalls sounded, and I guessed that Cardiff’s associates were likely inside, which played right into my plans.

The door flew open, and a man with black hair stood there, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “What the fuck do you want?”

A tough guy. They were always the most fun to take down.

“You Cardiff?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“I am.” I folded my arms and stood there, waiting for an answer. I could play this fucking game all day. I wouldn’t, but I could.

“Well?”

“He ain’t Cardiff. I am.” The man who spoke was taller than his black-haired friend by at least five inches and about fifty pounds, mostly in his gut. “The fuck you want with me?”

I took a step inside, and both men reached for their guns. Fucking revolvers. Amateurs.

“The name’s Ashby, and I heard from a friend you have a message for me.”

Cardiff’s eyes went wide, and his friends nearly bugged out of his head. “Look, man, that was a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah? Then help me understand it.”

I kicked the door shut behind me and locked the doorknob. The deadbolt. The chain. Then, I smiled.

“Go on, I’m all ears.”

For every step I advanced forward, they backed up, giving up ground and letting me take charge.

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