Chapter 33

“Toss me the phone,” Max demanded. A greasy strand of his hair hung over his face, and his jutting brow shaded narrowed eyes.

“Max,” I said as loud as I could. I had to clue in the dispatcher. “Could you put your gun down, please?” My voice quavered. Under my sweatshirt I was covered in a cold sweat. The music must have masked the sound of him picking the lock on the service door.

“Throw me the phone, Robbie.” The words came out slow and threatening.

I held onto it. What would he do if I kept it? He clicked something on the gun, his eyes burning into mine. I tossed him the phone. My hand wobbled so much the phone hit the door he’d shut behind him and clattered onto the floor. With barely a glance down, he slammed his heel onto my lifeline. The crunch sickened me. But I’d already called, and dispatch had to have heard what I’d said: both Max’s name and the fact he held a gun.

“Who were you talking to?” He glared at me. A tic beat next to his right eye.

“The police. They’re going to be here in a minute.” I needed to stay alive until help arrived. “Why are you pointing that gun at me?”

“You’ve been snooping around all week. And you were asking about that shlagga pick over to Don’s hardware. I knew it wouldn’t be long before you figured out it was a pick. And hooked it up with me.”

“What’s a shlagga?” My heart was a jackhammer and my eyes felt fuzzy. I resisted the urge to wipe my clammy hands on my jeans.

“Women.” He snorted, curling his lip. “Don’t you know anything? It’s the lock company. Schlage. Like the worthless locks on your own doors.”

I glanced at the door. “If you leave right now, you can get away before the cops arrive.”

He moved toward me, the gun never sagging from a straight line to my heart. Several tables stood between us. He pushed one out of his way so hard it tipped over and crashed into the kitchen counter. I backed up and scooted around another table. I had to keep obstacles between us. My fear was an icy thrumming presence that threatened to paralyze me if I didn’t keep moving.

“So you found the pick,” he said. “I wondered where I’d dropped it.”

“I didn’t think it was a lock pick.” I thought for a split second. He hadn’t shot me yet. What was his plan? “Want me to show you where I found it?” I took a couple of steps toward the cookware shelves. Maybe I could show him and then whack him on the head with a cast iron skillet. Yeah, and pigs can fly.

“We’re going to go for a little ride, me and you. But sure, show me.” A humorless laugh slid out of him.

I was not going for a ride with this man. He stood almost a foot taller than me and weighed a good hundred pounds heavier. Plus he had military training. And a weapon.

“So did you kill Erica here?” I sidled across the store, trying to keep at least one table between us. I took a deep breath.

In three long strides he was at my side. “I didn’t mean to kill her, you know. She was relentless.” He grabbed my left arm. “Forget showing me where you found the pick.” His breath reeked of alcohol. He forced me to take a couple of steps back toward the side door until we were in the kitchen area. “And no. I didn’t kill her here.”

“I thought Vince killed Erica,” I said. “Or you were in it together.”

“You kidding? That wuss Pytzynska doesn’t even kill spiders.”

So much for that theory. When I slid my hand into my pocket, it hit the lock pick. Maybe, just maybe. In the pocket, I slowly separated the halves of the pick, keeping my hand as flat as I could and my eyes on Max. I curled my middle finger into the V, so the two prongs stuck out between my fingers with the hinge in my palm. The music coming from the speakers changed to “Jingle Bells,” an even worse contrast to my current situation.

“Reminds me of Iraq.” He glanced around at the stainless steel counters, the griddle, the deep sink. “They made me work KP after I didn’t follow their idiotic rules to the letter.” His mouth turned down. “I was the guy they’d trained to open up all kinds of places the military wanted to snoop in. Instead, the only thing I was unlocking was the skin on potatoes.”

I swallowed. “If you didn’t mean to kill Erica, why did you?”

He stared at me. “She—my own sister-in-law—came over to the house in the middle of the night after the party. I went out to talk to her and she tried to seduce me. Her sister is bearing my child, Erica’s nephew! I couldn’t stand it. She shouldn’t have been flirting with me. It’s wrong.” He shook his head, his mouth turned down.

“What happened?”

“I slapped her across the face. But I’ve always been too big for my own good. And she was only a little speck of a thing.” He glanced at the floor. “She fell down the front steps. Brick steps. Hit her head something bad.” The barrel of the gun now pointed at the floor, too.

My chance. I’d started to slide my hand out of my pocket when he looked up. I froze.

“I’ve wanted to be a father for as long as I can remember.” Anguish ripped his face for a brief moment, until it was replaced by a set jaw and flared nostrils. “I couldn’t let Erica’s death get in the way of that.” He tightened his grip on my arm, raised the gun to my chest again, and pulled me around the corner of the counter toward the door.

“You should have told the police she fell.” I tried to keep my own jaw set. This was no time to show weakness. “No crime in that, right?”

“They would have seen the mark on her face where I hit her. I’d have been locked up for a long time.” He pursed his lips. “Me, the locksmith.”

“Why’d you leave her here in my store?”

“I wasn’t thinking too clearly by then. Brought her back and dumped her. Dragged her in here and left her on the floor.”

“Did you hit her head with my sandwich press?” I had to wait for my chance.

“Why not? That’s a damn good weapon you had hanging on the wall. I broke the glass in the door after the fact, too, so they wouldn’t blame the whole mess on me. Because why would a locksmith break down a door when he could slide in unannounced?” He turned his head and gazed at me like he’d just come back to the present. “And now we’re going for our ride.” His smile was mirthless. “I know a nice swamp outside of town where they’ll never find your body. There’s no way I’m missing my baby’s birth. Or . . .” He looked around the room.

I clamped my teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter from fear.

“Or maybe you don’t want to leave your precious store,” he said in a soft voice. It scared me more than the loud version. “Maybe you’d rather stay all cozy in there with your eggs and cabbages.” He pointed with his chin to the walk-in.

I heard the keening of a siren over the music. Finally.

“Listen.” I gestured with my chin to the service door. “You’d better get out of here quick. It’s the police. Run out through my apartment.” My heartbeat thrashed in my ears.

He glanced at the door. He swung the gun toward it and loosened his hold on my left arm.

Now. I reached up and grabbed his hair with my left hand. I swung my right fist up and jabbed the points of the pick into his eyes. I twisted and pressed, hanging on despite how terrible it felt.

I dropped the tool when Max screamed. The gun crashed to the floor and he brought both hands to his eyes. I kicked the gun as far away from him as I could, wincing, hoping it wouldn’t go off. Birdy raced for the front door. I scooped him up and ran out, down the steps, onto the sidewalk.

The best thing I’d ever seen in my entire twenty-seven years were the flashing lights of a South Lick green and white screeching to a stop in front of me, siren awail.