Matt Hilton - Cut and run

He squeezed harder. 'He came to my apartment, Alisha. He spoke to you. What did he say?'

'N… othing.' Alisha tried to pull her wrists free, but Rickard wouldn't let her go. 'I haven't ever seen him before, Luke. I promise.'

Staring at her, Rickard thought back. There were a few details about the entire episode that he did not like. Below his private floor, he didn't have sole right to the elevator, so it wasn't unusual to find another person on board, but the manner in which the man had reacted when the doors opened and he found Rickard standing there was a little over the top. He hadn't expected Rickard to return home so soon. He'd been mid-conversation on his mobile phone: someone warning him that Rickard was back in town. Where are you, Rickard? Had the man been talking with his employer, or was he having a final conversation with someone much closer to home?

Then there was the fact that the man had gained access to his private floor without causing damage. Rickard had first thought that he had entered via the fire escape door, which made sense as he'd need a key to manage the elevator. The trouble was, although the fire escape gave easy access from the hall outside his apartment, to gain egress he would need to have punched in a code that only he and Alisha knew. There were ways round electronic locks, but Rickard had checked the dead man and found no devices.

Then there was the door to his apartment. As the man had entered on cue with those coming from the roof, the door had been thrown open and had crashed against the wall. But Rickard had an eye for details, and thinking back, he couldn't remember any sign that the latch had been broken loose. He hadn't thrown the locks, but a key was still needed from the outside. That or a lock-pick, but that had been conspicuous by its absence as well.

One more point was troubling him, but that was something to be considered later.

'I believe you, honey,' he said. He slowly released her wrists, transferred his fingers to her hands and patted them gently. Beneath her sunglasses she was blinking very fast. He caught flashes of her blue eyes like strobes going off.

'You do?'

'Of course, babe. I love you, don't I?'

'I love you too. It's just that… well…'

'What is it?'

'The way you killed those men…'

'I was lucky.' He smiled at her. 'No. That isn't true. There was something very precious to me that I just had to protect. You, babe. I didn't think about my own life. I just didn't want them hurting you. Given that kind of motivation, no one could have stood in my way.'

Up until now she'd been as pale as death, but colour pinpricked her cheeks. But she wasn't flattered. She had picked up on his lies. And by the way she withdrew her hands from under his fingers, she knew that he knew it too.

'Now, babe, I've been thinking. We can't go to the police over this. I don't trust them to find the people responsible for sending those men. Others might come. We have to get out of here first. Go somewhere safe.'

Alisha nodded at him, even though by the trembling of her jaw she was buying none of it.

'What I want you to do is go to the restroom back there. You need to freshen yourself up. Fix your hair and make-up. You're so pretty other people can't help looking at you, but I don't want them to see your tears.'

He made a play of searching his pockets. His hands came out empty. 'I must have left my phone in the car. Here,' he said, reaching for her purse, 'give me yours. I need to make a couple of calls, find us somewhere safe until we can figure this thing out.'

He took out her phone and passed the purse back to her. Alisha stared at the phone like it was a lifeline.

'Go on now.' Rickard nodded towards the back corner of the building. 'Go make yourself pretty again.'

Alisha got up, looking unsteady on her feet. Those expensive Prada shoes weren't the best in which to make a run for it, but they matched the rest of her designer ensemble. Training shoes would have attracted undue attention. Rickard had told her to wear them. Now he wasn't so sure it had been his best idea. They made her legs look as long as a boring week. Two or three men in the diner watched her progress towards the restrooms, including the old guy from earlier. She was so beautiful that she was distinctive. She'd be recalled, and so would the man who was with her.

'Can't let that stop me.'

She's baggage. That's all. He should have left her in the gutter where he'd found her, instead of wooing her and making her his wife. He'd allowed his desire to totally control a woman to overwhelm his best senses. In hindsight she'd always been a liability, and one that could ultimately have led to his downfall.

As soon as she was through the restroom door, he opened up her phone and checked her incoming calls. Withheld numbers. He checked her outgoings. Withheld numbers again, but one of them coincided with his arrival back at the parking lot at his apartment. He closed the phone and placed it in his pocket alongside his own phone. He flicked some dollars on the table to pay for the food they hadn't touched. Took out his ceramic knife and cupped it in his palm.

He stood up and walked towards the restrooms.

Just baggage, he thought again.

We didn't get access to the crime scene but it didn't really matter. I'd seen enough death in my time to know what it would be like. The blood and the stench; the frailty of flesh versus bullets and blades; the surety that, somewhere down the line, I could be found in similar circumstances.

I waited in our car with Rink and Harvey while Walter and Bryce spoke to the detectives on site. The Miami PD had turned out, but so had the FBI. There were CSI techs and people from the coroner's office. And there were a large number of reporters from the press and TV. The latter were our greatest inconvenience. Once we attracted an inquisitive look from a reporter who wandered off and came back carrying a BlackBerry. He was searching the screen then peering back our way.

'Better move,' I said to Harvey, who was our driver. Last thing any of us wanted was for the reporter to start yelling that there was a cop-killer in their midst. The police on scene might act first and ask questions later.

Harvey started up the Chrysler and pulled out past the cordon of yellow tape. I averted my face as we passed the reporter but in my peripheral vision I could see him doing a double take between me and whatever was on his screen. But then we were gone and the moment had passed.

Harvey took us to a nearby strip mall where there was a choice of eateries. We entered the nearest diner and ordered coffee. I got the largest, most potent mix I could find on the menu then asked for an extra shot of espresso. Over the last few days what little sleep I'd had was in snatches of a couple hours here and there and I was in need of the caffeine kick-start. We sat in a booth where we could watch the entrance – old habit – but where we were out of earshot of any of the other customers. I called Bryce and told him where we were.

'So what do you think all of this means?' Harvey was referring to the identities of the men found dead in the apartment.

'The cops are looking at it as a hit gone wrong, but I don't think that's the case,' I said.

'Me neither,' Rink said. 'I know Del Chisholm. He's been in the PI game for years, and he's always played things straight up. Can't see him heading a hit team. No way.'

'There's no denying that he went to that apartment expecting trouble,' Harvey pointed out. 'All three of them were armed.'

'Two of them only had Saturday Night Specials.' Rink was referring to the.38 revolvers the men were packing. 'Not the weapon of choice of most assassins.'

I gulped coffee. 'That's what's troubling me the most. If you'd been hired to take out a pro-shooter, you'd take something along that was sure to put him down.'