Alex Barclay 4-Book Thriller Collection: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss, Harm’s Reach

‘Sure. Whatever.’ His sneer unsettled her. But he held her gaze. And he didn’t give her the eye-fuck … which most guys in a power play do. Even if they have no weapons, they’ll always have the eye-fuck.

But then, maybe Billy Waites has an arsenal.

Chapter 27 (#ulink_22e262cd-17eb-5861-8944-e38f21352d2f)

It was early enough that everything seemed wrong – the color of the sky, the silence, the sharpness of the trees and the leaves. Ren was hit with the sensation of walking through a bright airport after a long-haul flight; weighed-down, cold, disorientated.

The first time she woke in the middle of the night to study, she was seventeen years old and motivated by fear. The alarm went off and she wanted to stay in her bed and have the whole world disappear around her. But she got up and realized that, once the coffee kicked in, her brain had a strange alertness she could use. So for years, around exam times, she would get up, sick and dry-eyed at six a. m., and take her textbooks down to the sofa while her family slept. She needed to find the quickest way to process the information so that the answers would be right. She never imagined her interrupted sleep would take her, twenty years later, on to the snow-covered streets of a Colorado morning with the same plan.

Her skin felt tight. Vincent used to tell her how her face could transform depending on her mood, that when she was angry she looked like a different person – an ugliness came out. Ren hated when he said it, and could never see it herself, but she knew that every time he said it, she felt the same as she did this morning. She didn’t want to eat. Her breakfast would be coffee and case notes.

When she got into the office, there was a message at reception for her to call Margaret Shaw, Jean Transom’s neighbor. Ren sat at her desk and dialed the number.

‘Hello, Margaret? It’s Ren Bryce here. You left a message for me.’

‘Yes, I did. I didn’t want to call your cellphone. I thought that might be too personal.’

‘Oh, you can call that any time,’ said Ren. ‘How’s your dog?’

‘He’s getting there. I’m just not quite sure where “there” is …’

Ren laughed. She pulled a Post-It pad toward her and grabbed a pen. ‘Now, what can I do you for?’

‘I feel dirty,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m an old hippy. And here I am helping the Feds.’ She paused. ‘I took down someone’s car registration last night. For you. Can you imagine? It was the lady I told you about, the one who visited Jean.’

‘Really? That’s great, Margaret. Shoot.’

Margaret called it out. ‘Now, I only saw her leave. I was nervous enough about my carpets with the dog. The spying nearly killed me.’

‘Well, the FBI – your favorite – thanks you very much.’

‘I would say it was a pleasure, but it was really terrible,’ said Margaret. ‘I couldn’t do what you do.’

Colin Grabien sat at his borrowed desk, scrolling rapidly through a screen of numbers. On the wall beside him, the regular owner of the desk had created a beautiful world of kittens hanging out of buckets, tugging on balls of wool, hanging off tables, licking ice-creams.

Ren walked up to him. ‘Hey, P. asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk Magnet.’

Colin looked up at her. ‘What?’

‘I can’t use bad language in front of Robbie.’

Colin paused, then laughed. Cliff joined in. Robbie was not so sure.

‘How can people look at that shit all day?’ said Ren. ‘Sorry, Robbie.’

‘Same way I can sit opposite you in Safe Streets,’ said Colin.

Gary Dettling walked into the room. ‘Listen up. I just got a call from Denver PD. There was a robbery at Washington Mutual on Colfax one hour ago. Same freaks with the celebrity mug shots…’

‘Who was it this time?’ said Colin.

‘Paris Hilton,’ said Gary.

Yesss. ‘Were they violent?’ said Ren.

‘Along with their guns, they had some nice big sharp knives,’ said Gary.

‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘What happened?’

‘Two of the tellers are seriously ill from knife wounds, massive blood loss, etc., but at least it looks like they’re going to pull through.’

Ren let out a breath. ‘They know enough that they’re not going so far as to kill.’

‘I’m heading back to Denver,’ said Gary, ‘to hook up with Denver PD. Is everyone OK here?’

They nodded. Gary left the room.

‘I’m very OK,’ said Ren, pulling out her notebook. ‘Right – Colin, you said Robert Downey Jr.; Cliff, you had Larry King – hello? showing your age. Robbie, you had Lindsay Lohan. And I, gentlemen, had Paris Hilton. Five dollars from each of you, thank you very much.’

‘Paris Hilton was way too obvious,’ said Colin.

‘Exactly,’ said Ren. ‘Double bluff … or jeopardy … or whatever. Are you guys sticking with the same choices?’

‘I’m going to change mine,’ said Cliff.

‘Hallelujah,’ said Ren. ‘Larry King …’

‘To Dudley Moore,’ said Cliff.

‘Who?’ said Robbie.

‘Are you for real?’ said Ren.

‘I am,’ said Cliff.

‘You’re like the anti-better,’ said Ren. ‘It’s not even, like, you go for the underdog. It’s like you go for a completely different animal from a different galaxy where betting doesn’t exist.’

She sat down at her computer and ran the license plate that Margaret Shaw had given her. Caroline Quaintance, twenty-seven years old, a radiologist with an address in Silt. Ren grabbed her bag and her jacket and left. Outside, Ollie Haggart, the ADA, stood in the porch, smoking, kicking at a wedge of ice.

Shit. ‘Hi, Oliver.’

‘Oh, hi.’ He had an expectant look in his eyes.

Deflect. Ren glanced at the steps. ‘You can relax. I’m not planning on slipping today.’

‘So, no bodily fluids on your boots this morning.’

‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry – I haven’t had a chance to take a look at that for you. You can understand, with the investigation …’