Labyrinth

“And why would you be tasked with finding me, Jackson?”

“My client wishes to speak with you.”

“Client.”

He nodded, glancing around the neighborhood.

“Skip tracer?”

“I’m not a private investigator, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Annja considered the latte again, giving it one final chance to woo her back. Forget it. “You’re an information broker. Hired to get what clients need.”

“That’s more accurate.”

“And who wanted you to find me?”

Jackson glanced at her. “The same people who would now like to have a word with you.”

“They can make an appointment if it’s that important. I’m on vacation, Jackson. If they want a meeting next week, then I’ll be happy to talk to them. Until then, I’m not doing anything unless I distinctly feel like it.”

Jackson took a deep breath through his nose. “Yeah, see, that’s going to be sort of a problem.”

“Not my problem,” Annja said. “I don’t need to see anyone.”

“The truth of the matter is, they don’t have all that much time to wait for you, Miss Creed. They’re in something of a hurry.”

“Look, Jackson—Mike, right?—I don’t go a long way on passive-aggressive behavior. And I don’t like being bullied, either.”

Jackson seemed momentarily taken aback, but then cracked a grin. “If you don’t agree to come with me, the people I work for are going to kill someone.”

“Who?”

“Reginald Fairclough.”

Annja shrugged. “Don’t know him.”

“But he apparently knows you. He’s made his cooperation with my clients conditional on meeting with you.”

“And where is he? In Manhattan?”

“Western Massachusetts.”

Annja looked closely at Jackson. “Did you just hear me say not a minute ago that I am on vacation?”

“I did hear that, yes.”

Annja stood. “I think this meeting is now at an end, Mr. Jackson. When I come back down, I don’t want to see you on my stoop or I’m going to get angry.” She leaned over him. “I’m not sure how much you know about me, but you don’t want to see me get angry.”

Jackson stared at her. Annja finally turned and walked inside, taking the stairs up to her loft. She dumped the remains of the latte in the sink and let the faucet run for a few seconds to wash it down the drain.

Western Massachusetts. She shook her head. Like that was going to happen anytime soon.

“Miss Creed.”

Annja turned. Jackson stood in her living room, with two other men behind him. If Jackson had a slight military bearing, Annja’s instincts told her these two were total danger.

“I thought I told you I don’t like being bullied.”

Jackson nodded over his shoulder. “I apologize, but my clients are quite insistent.”

One of the men stepped out from behind Jackson. “My name is Scott Greene. Have you ever heard of me?”

There was something familiar about that name. Annja racked her memory and then the face clicked. Greene was an environmentalist. But on the lunatic fringe.

Wonderful, she thought. What did he want with her?

“You’re a militant environmentalist,” Annja said. “You here to police my apartment and tell me how I’m destroying the planet?”

Greene sniffed. “I could spend hours yelling at you for using those crummy old-fashioned lightbulbs instead of CFLs.”

Annja nodded. “Yeah, I haven’t had much time lately to reduce my carbon footprint. Speaking of which, if you don’t leave my place immediately, I’m giving serious thought to reducing yours—to nothing.”

Greene didn’t move. “Hear me out.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Greene. This is me giving you one last chance to get the hell out of my place.”

Greene looked at the third, yet unnamed man and nodded. The guy took out a silenced pistol and leveled it on Jackson’s right temple. As Jackson’s mouth dropped open, Greene said to Annja, “Cooperate, or I can have my associate blow a nice hole in the side of the good Mr. Jackson there.”

Annja shrugged. “He works for you. I just met him. I don’t care if you kill him or not.”

Jackson’s eyes bulged but he didn’t move a muscle.

Greene smirked. “Ah, nice try, Annja. But we’ve done some research on you. And I know for a fact that seeing an innocent man killed—in your apartment, no less—would drive you insane.”

Annja’s heartbeat raced. She could draw the sword and be done with these three idiots before they could even react. She wondered how the cops would view it. Could she argue home invasion? That she’d felt threatened? They did have a silenced pistol, after all. And there were three of them.

But what if they didn’t believe her?

Annja leaned against the sink. “Jackson already told me something about a Reginald Fairclough. I don’t know the name.”

“He’s an antique book dealer. Quite a famous one,” Greene said. “His collection of works is without peer.”

“So, what’s he want with me?”

Greene shook his head. “Old Reggie has something I want—quite badly—and in order to retrieve it, I must first get you to his house. He wants to talk with you.”

“About what?”