it all.” He wiped his face with both hands. “But I can’t. I can’t save Cyrus, and God knows now I can’t save Liz, either. I wanted to.” He deflated, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I wanted to.”
Casey took a step toward him, but Eric got in-between them. “We got the story, Case. We got it now. He’ll tell the cops. With what we’ve learned it will help, right? They’ll get them.”
She hated his soothing voice. She hated that he was standing between her and a good beat down.
She hated that he was right.
She spun and opened the door, then looked back to see Eric bending over Wayne, his hand on his back.
“You’ll make sure he goes to the cops?”
“I’ll take him right now.”
“No,” a voice said. “I don’t think you will.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Randy Pinkerton stood several feet outside the door. Casey swung the door shut, but a booted foot stopped it. The door pushed open, knocking her backward, but she righted herself and waited for the man to come forward.
Les Danvers, the second man in that long-ago photo, stepped into the door. He was middle-aged now, mostly gray, and paunchy. His eyes were wide-set and bloodshot, and his nose had those tiny little spider veins all over it. He hadn’t aged well.
“How cute,” he said. “If it isn’t the little lady who was looking for us in Whitley. Just stay calm, sweetheart, and nobody gets hurt.”
Casey threw a front kick into the guy’s crotch, and he froze for a moment of pained surprise before slowly crumpling to the floor. Before he hit, Casey followed up with a side kick to the chin, and his upper body shot backward, blocking the door.
“Hey!” Randy Pinkerton leapt over Danvers, fists up. He looked better than Danvers, still in shape, his hair thinning but still with some color, and his eyes clear.
“Get back,” Casey ordered Eric.
“But—”
“Get the hell back!”
She heard the office chair spin and hoped that meant he had grabbed Wayne and gotten him out of the way, too. She glanced quickly to the side and saw the empty chair. She shoved it back as Pinkerton approached, shuffling forward in baby steps. There was nothing for her to use as a weapon. The only things close to hand were the TV remote, bed linens, and the chair, which would be more of a hindrance than anything. It would have to be hands and feet.
“Come on,” Pinkerton said, “let’s talk this out.”
“You killed an innocent woman.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
He smirked. “Technically, I didn’t kill anybody. He did.”
Marcus Flatt stepped over the still-moaning Les Danvers and stood behind Randy Pinkerton. His entrance brought a chill to the room, and Wayne let out a moan as anguished as Danvers’. Flatt’s expression was like his name, as flat as a night lake, and the look in his eyes just as dark. His arms hung loose at his sides, and he stood with his legs shoulder-width apart. A quick study of his clothes gave Casey no indication that he was carrying a gun, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure.
She held up her hands, as if in surrender. “We can be civilized here, can’t we? We all have things to trade.”
Pinkerton smiled. “I’m not surprised to hear you say that. Marcus often brings out the cooperation in people. Shall we talk, then?”
Casey took a step forward and held out her hand. “Truce. For now.”
Flatt’s eyes widened in the split second it took Pinkerton to take Casey’s hand. Casey yanked Pinkerton forward and spun him around, twisting his arm behind his back so he wouldn’t even think of moving. He gasped, and his head arched back over Casey’s shoulder, his pelvis thrust forward as he tried to escape the pain. It wasn’t working.
“Get out, Marcus,” Casey said.
Flatt smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Casey was reminded of the man called Bone, whom she had killed only weeks before. This deadly killer type was cropping up way too often, and she was growing weary of it.
“I think I’ll stick around,” Flatt said.
His voice sent shivers up Casey’s spine.
“Marc,” Pinkerton gasped.
“Quiet, now. I’m negotiating.”
Pinkerton wiggled, and Casey yanked his arm up higher. He let out a shriek.
Marcus shook his head. “What happened to negotiating?”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s why you’re really here.”
His smile grew. “I guess you know more than I thought.”
“And we know about the night you shot Cyrus Mann. And how you killed Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I don’t think you know all about any of