I PUNCHED HIM HARD, square in the face.
“Jesus,” he said, holding his hand to his nose. Blood surged through his fingers and onto his shirt.
He glared at me, waking up now. “Y’all just can’t break into people’s houses—”
I hit him again. The first time was for Crimson, the second for emphasis. His head popped backward and hit the couch.
“What do you want?” He sniffed. A stripe of blood across his teeth.
I looked around the place, taking in every detail.
There was a time when the Mason Falls Register called me “a detective who missed nothing.” And then a more recent time when a case didn’t go so well and they used the word “sloppy.” I guess you can’t stay on top forever.
“Your full attention,” I said.
The boyfriend was still playing defense. He glanced at a frog gig leaning against the far wall. Maybe he was fixin’ to stick me with the two-pronged pole.
I picked up a lighter from off the table. Lit the corner of the brick of pot on fire.
“The people that belongs to,” he said, “they won’t care who the hell you are—”
“Shhh.” I bent forward and laid the head of my Glock against his jeans, right at the kneecap. “Do I have your undivided attention?”
“Yeah,” he said, and I tapped the gun on his knee.
“You touch her one more time.” I pointed at the bedroom. “One more tiny bruise on her, and I will take that bloody fist of yours and blow each finger off. One at a time. Like target practice. Y’understand?”
He nodded slowly, and I got up. Walked out.