Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [28]
An instant later, a hot stripe drew itself briefly across his stomach, just about where his appendix would have been if he still had it. The moment his hand went there, he could feel dampness seeping through his shirt. Jack Susko slipped down the bookcase to the floor again.
The assailant ran towards the back door. Somebody swore and then there were scuffling footsteps and a crash and then nothing. A few moments later the young guy from the street walked in, stepping cautiously through the shop.
Jack sat himself up and leaned against the bookshelf. ‘There’s a light switch just beside the door.’
‘Shit, are you all right?’ The guy ran over.
‘I hope so. Did you get hold of the cops?’
‘They’re on their way.’ He knelt down beside Jack. ‘The fucker just rammed past me!’ he said. Then he took a better look at Jack. ‘Oh, shit!’
Jack pressed down where the knife had slashed him. ‘Reckon you could grab the towel from behind the counter? Should be on a shelf there somewhere.’
‘Yeah, sure, sure.’
Jack put his head back. He turned and let it hang over his left shoulder. The shop lights flickered on, fluorescent tubes popping with harsh blue light, and he closed his eyes from the glare. When he opened them, he noticed a book sticking out a little from the shelf, just there beside him. He turned his head a little more and read the spine: After We Die, What Then? by George W. Meek.
Nothing like a good sign at the end of a bad day.
‘This is Detective Peterson,’ said one of the police officers. ‘He’ll need to ask you a few more questions.’
Detective Geoff Peterson was a tall man in a plain navy-blue suit. He had a wide face, pale complexion and small, dry blue eyes set close together. The remains of acne scars dappled his cheeks. His close-cropped sandy hair was receding in a neat V from his forehead, and his ears stuck out from his head. They were fleshy, like oysters, and large enough to pick up FM radio signals. His hands were in his pockets and he stared down at the end of his plain, light blue tie, brooding. Absently, he scratched the back of his head. Then he rubbed his face like a man who could do with some sleep.
As Jack watched him, the detective lifted his head and looked straight at him. His eyes caught Jack square, like headlights flicked onto high beam. His face was set firm. And then he winked. Surprised, Jack looked away. What the hell was that about? Peterson kept his eyes on him for a moment longer and Jack felt them crawling over his face, scrutinising him. It was not a nice feeling.
A uniformed police officer waited beside the detective with a notepad. Jack sat uncomfortably in a chair that had been brought out from behind the counter. The ambulance officers had cleaned him up, stuck a cold pack on his face, and dressed the knife wound. It was not deep, but a few stitches up at St Vincent’s Emergency ward were recommended. Jack had already answered questions and given a statement and was keen to get home, but now Detective Peterson was here and he wanted to go over a few things.
‘Is this going to take much longer?’ asked Jack, irritated. He had swallowed a couple of painkillers, but his head still felt like an egg in boiling water.
Peterson grinned, but the smile vanished before taking hold. ‘So you arrived about what time?’ he said, as though they were halfway through a conversation. He squinted at Jack like a schoolteacher who already knew the answer to the question.
‘I don’t know exactly.’ Jack took the cold pack off his nose. ‘Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, I suppose. Whatever time it was when the guy from the street called you. You should know when he rang.’
Peterson did not respond. He paced around a little. The uniformed police officer stood perfectly still and scribbled in his notebook.
‘And you say nothing was taken?’
‘I don’t know yet. He smashed my pen mug, though.’
Peterson took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his tie, running a finger down it smoothly, like a cut-throat razor over a strap. ‘I don’t suppose there’d be much cash lying around here, would