Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [123]
“You mean I’m a sick fuck.”
“Is that how you see yourself?”
He scoffed and shook his head. “What would any normal person think?”
“They’d think you care about your collection.”
“You know how much money these shots are worth?”
“You tell me.”
He whistled, as if the sum were too shocking to say. “A lot of sick fucks out there.”
“But this is your stuff. It’s special to you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The next time they call, maybe you should answer the phone.”
“What for?”
“So they don’t bust in here and torch it.”
He considered this, as I considered whipping the remaining rack of hot explosive lights into his smug, clean-shaven face.
“When you shot your boyfriend, Ana, was it a turn-on? Did you get aroused?”
“No.”
“Sure you did. Let’s face it, you’re a little girl. You brought down a buck. Don’t tell me it wasn’t a thrill.”
“It wasn’t a thrill.”
“Can I share something?” Brennan was sitting against the wall again, with the lug soles in my face. “Big hair is out.”
“You think this is big hair? I don’t have big hair, it’s just wavy.”
“I prefer a ponytail, with the ears showing, and tiny studs. What did your boyfriend like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know! That’s the problem, right there! And you say you two were in looove?” he crooned mockingly, flipping the knife between his legs.
“I cared about him.”
“Of course you did, you’re a good person, you have exuberance for life, I can tell that.”
“Can you?”
Talking about Andrew made me sweat; a couple of dozen cops and FBI people listening.
“Did you like it when he made love to you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Did you tell him that you liked it?”
A voice jumped out of my throat. “Shut up!” I screamed. “It’s none of your business!”
He startled, on his feet and going to the pistol in his belt.
“Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up, lowly bitch?”
“You know what I would like?” I said fiercely. “I would like my boyfriend to come in here and beat the crap out of you.”
Wrong, all wrong, you are totally off the track—
“That’s not about to happen, is it?” Brennan replied, and now he was pissed.
Wrong, to get him all worked up with a male challenge. What are you doing? That is exactly wrong—
The phone rang.
As if they knew! As if they were listening on 911 and heard it escalate and tried to cut it off.
“Answer it,” I whispered. “Your collection.”
He ticked the barrel of the gun back and forth at my face and went into the living room and picked up the phone.
“How are you?” the negotiator said on the tape.
“Leave me alone.”
“I’m just curious to know, how is everybody in the house?”
“Everybody’s fine.”
“How is Ana Grey?”
“Ana?” he smirked. “Ana is not in a position to talk right now.”
“Besides you and Ana, how is everybody else in the house?”
“I’ve got two!”
“You’ve got two ladies?”
“Yeah, that’s right!”
“Why don’t you let one of them go?”
“No way!” said Brennan. “No way ever. You’re going to have to come in and get me.”
It was night by then, and the grinding roar of helicopters vibrated the bones in my head. Outside, beyond the perimeter, the media waited with turned-off lights; they’d flood the place when there was action. SWAT could see Brennan now with night vision, and I was tormented at why they did not take the shot while he was in the living room, edging the metal chair closer to where my bag lay on the floor, trying to poke it open with my feet. Brennan was back before I could see if there was glow on the blue faceplate, if it still held charge, or if I were talking to the dark.
“Did you tell them what you want?” I asked tiredly. From the booming headache that had begun even before the helicopters, I was certain that I had a concussion.
He did not answer. He was crouched between the painted-over windows, sunk into some inner negative space, features gone flaccid and eyes dull.
“I want everyone to go away.”
When a suspect wants something he will say it over and over. Brennan had wanted nothing, over and over. They