Greg Rucka - Walking dead

"Here we go," Bradley told me. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Twigg."

I followed him, and Mike followed me. Mike was shorter than Bradley, but with much the same look, maybe even the same age, though his hair was a light brown, not black. I also noted that Mike was wearing a pistol in a holster on his hip. He stuck with us into a marble-floored hallway that we followed into the front hall of the house. A wide staircase in the center of the room split the space neatly in half, with hallways running off on either side, and an archway leading to a sunken living room to our right, what would've been the left if we'd entered through the overlarge front doors. There was nobody in sight, and I wasn't hearing anything but a distant stereo, playing classical music, what was maybe Chopin.

Bradley took me down another hallway lined with framed black-and-white photographs, artsy pictures of children, some of them smiling, some on slides, some on swings, some simply staring into the camera. Wall sconces were placed regularly between them, throwing soft light up at the ceiling. At the end of the hall was a closed door, another sconce beside it. This one, I noted, was unlit.

Bradley knocked and opened the door enough to lean in, saying, "Mr. Twigg is here."

The voice that answered matched the one I'd heard on the telephone the previous evening.

"Send him in."

Bradley opened the door wide, closed it behind me as soon as I was through. He stayed outside.

The room was fairly large, half home-office, half library. A large wooden desk with a laptop and cell phone, one chair positioned facing it. A couch to the side, leather upholstery. Bookshelves filled with tomes of identical spines, the kinds of books bought by the yard and not by the content. Two more framed photographs, still black-and-white, but more erotically charged: one of a dramatically lit woman's bare back, with just enough neck to see the dog collar she wore; the other of a man's hips, angled so his erection was apparent, a drop of fluid falling from its tip.

The woman, Bella, wasn't what I'd expected. She might've been as young as mid-thirties, maybe as old as mid-fifties. Her hair was expensively styled in a way that made me recall Ia, Bakhar's wife, and similarly dyed, though hers was black, and Ia had favored blonde. She wore a navy blue blouse and long black skirt, and a string of pearls around her neck. Her shoes were black leather, low-heeled. Aside from the necklace, there was no other jewelry.

She moved to greet me, smiling, and offered me her hand.

"Matthew," she said. "Bella Downs, very nice to meet you in person."

"Thank you," I replied.

Bella Downs indicated the chair opposite the desk, then moved around behind it, taking a seat. Her hands stayed out of sight, and I thought of the unlit sconce outside. There was a switch, probably, something she could hit with a finger or a foot, that would turn that light on and bring Bradley and Mike running.

"No trouble finding us?" she asked.

"No, the instructions were very clear. Brad-Bradley?-has the money you told me to bring."

"It's Bradley."

"He searched me."

"Of course. We're an extremely exclusive business, Mr. Twigg. We can't allow just anyone to come through our doors, especially people we know next to nothing about."

"I understand. I just didn't think he'd search me. That's never happened before."

"We're required to be more careful here than in Eastern Europe." Bella smiled again, and I nodded, thinking that I hadn't told her that on the phone, that the car had to have been bugged, and that she must've heard our conversation on the way in. "So, what can we do for you?"

"I'm looking for a specific kind of girl," I said.

"I should hope so. What do you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. I'd like to see what you have."

Bella Downs shook her head, still smiling, but it was less friendly, more remonstrative. "That's not how it works here, Mr. Twigg. This is a specialty location, not the Mustang Ranch. You tell me what you'd like, and I will provide it for you."

"See, I don't think I'm going to know what I'd like until I see her," I said.

The smile thinned. "That's not an option."

"I just want to see them."

"Our girls are not for display."

Behind me, I heard the door open.

"Mr. Twigg is leaving," Bella Downs said, and now there was no sign of a smile on her face at all, not even its memory. "Please take him back to his car."

"Mr. Twigg." I could hear Bradley approaching, his voice now almost directly over my shoulder. "If you'll come with me."

I looked at Bella Downs, and she stared straight back at me, and I realized I'd blown it. Somehow, someway, I'd stepped wrong, had violated protocol. I had pushed too hard, or had said yes when I should've said no, or had stayed silent when I should've spoken. I didn't know. It didn't matter.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you," I said. "I'm new at this and-"

"Obviously," Bella Downs interrupted. "And now you're leaving. Goodbye, Mr. Twigg."

I felt a hand on my shoulder, no squeeze, not very much pressure, even. Just its presence to let me know that my time here was up, and that if I wasn't willing to leave on my own, Bradley would be happy to assist me. Violently.

"My apologies," I said again, and got to my feet.

Bradley escorted me to the door, where Mike was waiting. He hadn't drawn his pistol, but his hand was resting on its butt, the intention clear. With the right timing, I could probably take them both, but the fact was that I still hadn't recovered from Amsterdam, and I wasn't certain what it would give me, anyway.

I had more than I'd arrived with. I had the location. I could come back on my terms, in my time, and get what I was after.

Thirty Mike and Bradley drove me back to the Albertson's parking lot without a word, dropping me off exactly where they had picked me up. I watched the Town Car pull away into the night, then unlocked my rental and climbed inside. I retrieved the BlackBerry, tucked it away, then started the engine and pulled out.

On my way out of town, a New Paradise police car fell in behind me, holding maybe three lengths back. It held the distance for almost two miles, until we were securely into the desert's darkness, and then hit its lights. I pulled off to the shoulder, slowed, and stopped. The cruiser came in behind, maybe three or four meters back. I left the engine running, watching in the rearview, leaving my hands on the wheel.

The cop kept me waiting for almost two minutes, and I figured that was because he was running the plates. The interstate was quiet, very little traffic running in either direction. Then I saw another set of red-and-blues coming my way, flashing lights but no siren, another police car speeding out from New Paradise. This one pulled in close behind the first, and I could just make out an officer stepping out of the car in my mirrors.

Then the cop driving the car that had stopped me got out as well and, together, the two of them approached my vehicle. I got a flashlight beam in the face, a hand motioning me to lower my window.

"Problem?" I asked, already with a very good idea what that might be. As far as it went, I was running clean. I hadn't carried a weapon since I'd left Dubai, not counting Mesick's knife, and that was currently at the bottom of an Amsterdam canal. The papers for Matthew Twigg were watertight.

"License," the cop said.

I dug out my wallet and handed it over. When he took it, I caught a glimpse of the watch on his wrist. It was a Rolex, platinum, the same model that Bradley had worn. It occurred to me that I had yet to meet an honest cop wearing a platinum Rolex. I supposed there was always a first time.

I didn't think this was going to be it.