Roses Are Dead by Loren D. Estleman Read Free Book Online Page B

cracked her forehead.
    â€œI’m sorry you recognize the name,” he said. “It’s not good to be known outside the business.”
    She said, “The Boblo boat last summer. Those terrorists.”
    â€œMy part in it hit the papers for one edition. One of them reported my name. Just once, though. Boniface cuts a wide swath in this area, the FBI too.”
    â€œIsn’t this out of your line? I mean, individual.”
    â€œI’m working for myself these days.”
    She was silent for a little. Then: “I don’t want you, Mr. Macklin. I’m no one to judge what anyone else does for a living. But it was tough getting out and I’m not going back.”
    â€œThat what you told Roy?”
    â€œI’m sorry. This was a mistake.” She started to get up again.
    He drew a long fold of paper from inside his jacket, glanced at it to make sure it was the right one, and reached it across the table. She hesitated, then took it and unfolded it. “What’s this?”
    â€œIn case you change your mind. It’s a power-of-attorney form giving me title to everything you own. It’s my standard fee.”
    â€œIsn’t it a bit stiff?”
    â€œIt’s worth it. If he kills you, you won’t need it, and if he doesn’t, I’m not necessary. I had Howard Klegg draw it up. That’s his secretary’s signature in the witness blank. All you have to do is sign it. This too.” He handed her another document. “It’s a formal confession that you’ve hired me to commit murder. Spreads the risk a little more evenly.”
    â€œYou don’t take any chances.”
    â€œI got out of the habit. There’s a post office box number on the confession if you decide to go with me. Sign and mail both papers and I’ll get back to you.”
    She started to give them back. He didn’t take them.
    â€œHang on to them at least until you hear from Blossom again,” he said. “You can always burn them. Next time the phone rings maybe you’ll remember this moment.”
    â€œI won’t change my mind.” But she put the papers in her purse. She rose and looked down at him. “I’m curious.”
    â€œYou get one question.”
    â€œWhen the census-taker knocks on your door and asks what you do for a living, what do you tell him?”
    â€œHuman relations consultant,” he said. “I’ll look for your letter.”
    The white-haired bartender leaning on the beer taps didn’t stir as she went past.
    Shadows were stretching when Macklin left the bar twenty minutes behind the woman, as was his habit. He had parked his car around the corner on a meterless residential side street. It was the only vehicle in sight at that time of day. With the end of the recession in the automotive industry, the GM assembly plant was running at white heat and everyone seemed to be working.
    Before opening the door he routinely inspected the interior through the windows and ran the hood and doors for unfamiliar wires, finally checking the engine and getting down in push-up position to peer under the car. He was climbing to his feet when the man came at him.
    He had been crouching behind a hedge in the front yard of the house across the street, and but for the scrape of one sole on the pavement he made no noise coming across, touching ground only once in a whirling bounce, all arms and legs and flying black hair, a tubular body dressed all in black and a flash of ivory face screwed into a grimace of concentration. A pointed foot at the end of a gracefully arched leg streaked toward Macklin’s head and he squeaked the Smith & Wesson out of the holster in the small of his back and fired twice into the flying form.
    The foot grazed his shoulder and the man on the end of it piled yelling into the side of Macklin’s car and dropped in a tangle to the pavement. Macklin put the gun to the man’s temple.
    The man was still