Tom Piccirilli - The Cold Spot

There was no reason for her to continue the ruse now. The longer she hung around the more of a chance the cops would tumble to the fact she was part of the heist. She should’ve bailed already. Why hadn’t she pulled up stakes yet?

Two hours later, at 6:10, the woman who called herself Marisa Iverson walked in the front door clutching her purse and the day’s mail. She deactivated and reset the alarm. She put her purse down on the coffee table and tossed the bills in a pile. Then she headed to the bathroom on the first floor. She closed and locked the door. One of those people who followed form even when they were alone in their own houses.

Chase stepped out from the corner of the living room and went through the purse. Another.22. He figured he’d find more goodies in her car, but he’d let that go for the moment. He took her cell phone and checked the numbers. Maybe she’d slipped up and left him a connection to the crew. He pocketed the phone and the revolver. For a guy who hated guns, he was now packing three of them.

When Marisa stepped out of the bathroom he met her in the hall, said, “Hiya,” and clipped her on the chin.

Man she was good.

Even though he’d caught her unaware, she faded back and rolled with the punch. She was lissome as hell and sweet to watch, landing nimbly on the carpet, tucking in, and immediately getting to her feet. He’d hardly even tapped her. He knew it was his own fault. He’d never struck a woman before and had a natural resistance to this kind of situation.

She rubbed the back of her hand against her jaw. No fear in her at all. Completely cool, a total pro, living out on the wire. Maybe she’d been in the bent life since she was a kid, or maybe the crew had picked her up along the way and had taught her well. Chase really wanted to meet this crew.

Marisa Iverson stood and glared at him, her unforgiving mouth tugged into the barest grin. She was maybe thirty, on the pretty side but made down so you wouldn’t notice. He saw that she used eyeshadow, rouge, and lipstick to slightly alter the contours of her face. Blond hair drawn back in a tight ponytail, with two twists framing but obscuring her jawline. Big round glasses concealed a lot of details to her features. It was a damn good disguise.

The bone-colored business suit fit her well, but it still somehow looked all wrong on her. Chase just knew it wasn’t her real style, and he could see the other person beneath emerging now.

A hard-stepper, she always went at life head-on, and took it as rough as she could because she liked it that way.

“And who might you be?” she asked.

Eyes as dark and lifeless as shale. Alert and sharp as she ran through the current setup, figuring all the different angles, already plotting and scheming.

Chase said, “I might be the Minister of Culture and Communications, but I’m not.”

The grin widened. “So sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll bet.”

She had to be wondering if he was just your usual second-story man or a hitter hired by one of the crew to betray the rest. Or if she’d somehow stepped on the mob’s toes and now had a syndicate torpedo out here looking for restitution. A lot had to be going through her head, but she revealed nothing, just kept giving that knowing look.

“You don’t like to hit girls, do you?” she asked. “That was hardly even a love tap.” Saying it like an insult, trying to get under his skin right from the start and shake him up, force him into making a mistake. Soon she’d try to sex him, and then she’d go for one of the guns.

Chase waited. Marisa took off her glasses and tossed them on top of the television. She reached up to her hair and yanked free the scrunchie holding it in place. Shook it out and let it get wild around her shoulders. It had nothing to do with intimacy and everything with baiting the trap.

Clearly she didn’t think he was worth being subtle for, and that pissed him off a little.

“So what’s next?” she asked. “You plan on spanking me? I hope you are. I know of a much more comfortable place we can do that. I have lots of toys upstairs.”

“Let’s stay here. I’ve already seen the accessories you keep around your bed.”

It brought a humorless smile to her lips. “Well of course you have.”

This one, he thought, this one right here could empty six in my head while making love, and then she’d spit in my blood.

Stepping away very slowly, Marisa eased backward across the living room and forced Chase to follow along. It was a very crafty act and showed she had a lot of patience, moving them toward the table where her purse sat.

“You have any idea why I’m here?” he asked. It wasn’t the way to start off, but she’d thrown him already.

“Is that a serious question? I mean, do you actually expect an answer?”

He wanted to take it back and try again. He said, “Listen, I don’t care about you or your string or the diamond heist. I just want the driver.”

“Oh? Which driver?” She slithered away another inch, inviting him closer.

“He’s all I want. The rest of you can walk with the score.”

She cocked her head, jutted her bottom lip, and tried to make her eyes soften. As if whatever she said next, that would be her being completely, totally, utterly honest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Really. That’s the truth.”

Chase sighed.

It was such a forlorn sound, advertising his frustration and sorrow so clearly that it made her let loose with a small yip of laughter.

Marisa Iverson shrugged and held her hands up in front of her, telling him, You expected me to say something else?

It was only an impasse if you didn’t have what it took to force your way through. “Your crew was slick but no wheelman carries a gun, much less makes flash moves like firing out the window. Left-handed.”

“You smacked Jimmy Lefferts around some last night, didn’t you? He was even uglier when he came in to work today.”

“It was either you or him.”

“Well, I dare say it’s him.”

“No,” Chase said, “it’s you, Marisa.”

“You’re an intense one, honey. Tell me your story. Did some poor girl break your heart?”

“Yes,” he said, “you did.”

He tagged her hard. Backhanded her so fiercely that she was propelled across the room and over the arm of the couch. She flipped backward and hit the floor, blood already pulsing from her mouth. She turned over laughing and dabbed at her bottom lip with her fingers. She looked up at him.

“I was wrong,” she said, “you do like to hit girls. But only sometimes. You’re quick on the button.”

So he’d told her something about himself. That was inevitable. But she’d let him know something about herself, too.

She only cracked out of turn and broke character when he insulted the driver. There was something there.

She spit blood on the floor, got to her feet, turned, and sprinted for the china closet. Her first instinct wasn’t to try for the door but to get the Browning, cap him, keep everything quarantined, under control. She dug behind the crystal and grimaced when she found the weapon gone.

“Got that one too,” Chase said. “And I hate guns.”

It didn’t stop her. She started hurling the plates and glasses at him.

Chase covered up and rushed forward. She kicked out and connected with his shin, then twisted her knee into his groin. It hurt like hell but he fought through the pain. A black shimmer bordered his vision. He slapped her again and she flew into the wall, laughing. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him with her bloody mouth.

“You gonna rape me now, big daddy? Come on. ”

“The driver,” Chase said.

She got her hands on his neck, dug her nails in, and tore them across his throat. He grunted in pain and the gouges dripped blood down his chest. She’d felt the guns in his jacket while pressed against him, and now she had her hand in his pocket, fumbling for the Browning and trying to get her finger on the trigger.