Eric turned into a side street and Luke dropped back, let Eric walk ahead. He had gotten too close. A gaggle of young women, early twenties, loud, laughing, stylish and they knew it – walked between him and Eric and he used them as camouflage crossing the street. The women peeled away, heading down Armitage toward an Italian restaurant.
Eric walked up a stone flight of stairs into a condo building.
Luke followed.
Eric vanished into the entryway. Luke hurried to the bottom of the stairs and counted to ten. He walked up slowly. He couldn’t see into the building’s entryway; the glass was leaded and shaded.
An array of buttons announced the residents’ last names. Crosby was listed.
He could buzz in twenty minutes, pretend to be the pizza guy. But if he timed it wrong, if the pizza guy arrived while he was heading up the stairs or trying to find the right condo… he considered. He might not have enough time to make it. Then Eric would be on guard. Better to wait, not get caught in a time trap.
The pizza guy came up the side street twenty minutes later. Indian, looking harried, snuffling like he was losing a battle against a cold.
The pizza guy hurried up the steps and Luke took a chance.
‘You got a pie for Crosby?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
Luke flashed a twenty and a ten. ‘It’s mine.’
The pizza guy looked again at the slip. ‘You don’t look like a Grace.’
‘I’m a Greg. They keyed my name in wrong and they’ve never fixed it. How much?’
‘I’m supposed to deliver it to the door.’
‘Well, then you can follow me on up. I called it in on my way home, got scared you’d beat me here.’ You’re talking too much, Luke thought. He stuck the money out.
The pizza guy took it, started digging for change.
‘You can keep it,’ Luke said. ‘And tell them it’s Greg, not Grace.’
‘Sure, sir, thanks.’ Luke made a show of opening the box, inspecting the pie. A waft of fragrant steam stroked his face and he breathed in the scent of mushrooms, olives and garlic.
The slip read CROSBY GRACE APT 404.
He glanced over his shoulder, made sure the delivery guy was hurrying back to his car and was out of earshot. He pressed Crosby on the callboard.
Long silence and then Aubrey’s voice, burned into his brain, the voice that had begged Eric Lindoe to spare his life. ‘Yes?’
He glanced at the slip. ‘Romano’s Pizza, ma’am.’
‘Come on up.’ She sounded tired. The door buzzed and he pushed his weight against it.
The foyer was tiny and tiled and the only sound was the huff of his own breathing.
He ignored the small elevator and headed up the stairs, considering his plan of attack. His hair was a different color; he wore sunglasses. Through a peephole, expecting to see a pizza deliveryman, would she recognize him? He thought of holding the pizza box at such an angle that it masked part of his face, but that would look suspicious. And if Eric came to the door, he’d recognize Luke, no doubt. They’d spent far too much time together.
He kept up the stairs, reaching the fourth – and top – floor. The hallway bent in regular ninety-degree angles. The walls boasted new paint but the carpet appeared worn. From behind the door of the apartment closest to the stairway he heard a low thump, then a woman’s voice saying turn it off, boys, dinner’s ready. He found 404. He crept up to the door and listened. He heard the soft murmur of the television, turned to local news – no sound of conversation. It was one of two apartments tucked into the corner of the hallway. The irregular grouping of doors suggested some apartments were larger than others.
It gave him an idea.
The closest apartment to 404 was 405 and he tiptoed toward the door. He pressed his ear against the wood and listened hard. No sound of television, music, or movement. He knocked, lightly, hopeful that neither Eric nor Aubrey would hear.
No answer.
He risked a louder knock.
No answer.
He stationed himself leaning against the wall. Back toward 404, slouching a bit, pizza held aloft. ‘Piz-za!’ He announced with a louder knock. ‘Piz-za, hello!’
No answer but he heard the door to 404 – ten feet behind him – creak open.
‘Hey, that’s ours.’ Eric. He sounded tired.
‘Piz-za,’ Luke repeated, keeping his back to Eric, slouching against the doorframe. He cussed softly in garbled words, hoping he sounded vaguely Russian or Serbian. He wanted Eric to think he was a confused immigrant, new to making deliveries.
He heard the whisper of feet on carpet. ‘You’re at the wrong door, dude, that’s our pizza,’ Eric said.
Luke turned and let the surprise dawn onto Eric’s face.
Then he powered his fist into Eric’s gut. Hard. Eric bent, stumbled onto the dropped pizza box and Luke hit him again, square in the jaw. Pain bit into his fist.
Eric staggered back and aimed his own fist at Luke’s face. Hit Luke’s jaw. Luke fell against the wall, heard shattering glass. He reached into the broken fire extinguisher holder. He pulled out the extinguisher and slammed it into Eric’s face, heard the crunch. Eric fell back, blood gushing from nose and mouth. Moaning.
Luke seized him by the throat and bum-rushed him into Aubrey’s apartment. He kicked the door closed.
The condo was small and neat. Most of it had a minimalist, sleek feel – clean woods and chrome, a geometric rug on the floor, blotchy modern art on the walls. A framed photo on the mantle of a couple, not Aubrey and Eric. Across the living room was a small kitchen and Aubrey stepped into the doorway, a glass of red wine in her hand.
She dropped the glass; it shattered at her feet with a plum spray. ‘You scream or run and I swear to God I’ll bash his head in.’ Luke still had the fire extinguisher, and he hoisted it to club Eric.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ she said. ‘Please.’ Fright whitened her cheeks. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Who else is here?’ Luke asked.
‘No one,’ Aubrey answered. She looked tired but lovely, the grime of her ordeal gone. She wore jeans and a black sweater and her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
‘Where’s Grace Crosby?’
‘With her husband, he’s a lawyer. At a conference in Detroit. Gone through the weekend. We decided to hide here.’
Hide. ‘Where’s Eric’s gun?’
She glanced at Eric. Her voice had a warm rasp to it. ‘Chicago River. I made him get rid of it.’
‘Please,’ Eric said. ‘Please just leave us alone.’
‘You have to be kidding me. Leave you alone?’ Luke forced Eric against the wall, frisked him under the suit jacket. No gun.
Eric tried to jerk away. Luke swung the extinguisher and it caromed hard off Eric’s head, into the wall, and back against his skull. Eric fell into a crunch, clutching his head.
Luke glanced up. Aubrey was gone. He bolted through the dining room and saw the bedroom door starting to slam. He kicked it open; the wood splintered above the knob. But she didn’t fold, pushing the door back toward him. He squeezed through, grabbed the back of her sweater as she lunged for the phone.
He clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her scream locked in her jaws.
‘Eric kidnapped me,’ he hissed in her ear as he hauled her, kicking, back down the hall. She was wiry-strong, determined, and she knocked him against the wall twice before he got the leverage to muscle her down the hallway.
Eric still was in the apartment. He could have run and he hadn’t. Not without Aubrey, Luke saw. Eric stood on unsteady feet and raised a bloody hand. ‘Don’t hurt her.’
‘I don’t want to hurt anyone. Aubrey!’ Luke yelled; she’d nearly wrenched loose from his grasp. ‘Stop it – you know he kidnapped me to rescue you. I was your ransom.’
Now she grew still.
‘You know what else he did?’
Eric wiped his face with the sleeve of his suit. ‘Aubrey, he’s a liar. I told you what kind of guy he is. You know how much I risked to save you…’
‘He grabbed me at the Austin airport. He threatened to shoot a family if I yelled for help. Forced me to drive to Houston and he shot a helpless man dead in the street. Shot him in cold blood’ – Aubrey moaned into the cup of his hand, started struggling against him – ‘and then he got a phone call telling him where you were. And you know he left me in your place.’