Inspector Rames

Chapter 22

I reluctantly moved away from the lift. "What do you want, Clyde?"

"To see you, of course." Clyde gave me a charming smile; a glimpse of the man I'd been with. "I miss you."

"Bullshit."

His grin turned malicious. "Not so. But I also came to give you some news. Something's come up with your uncle. I thought you'd like to know."

I stilled. "What do you mean?"

"Well..." Clyde jerked his head towards my front door. "Why don't you let me in, and we'll talk? You wouldn't want anyone else to hear."

I glanced over my shoulder. The corridor was empty. "I think here's just fine."

He laughed. "You usually try to find strength in numbers when you see me! Now look at you. I'll say it again: let me inside."

"I'll say my line again. Here. Is. Just. Fine."

"Let's see, then." He dragged his words out. "A little birdie tells me Eric's been arrested."

A lump rose in my throat. "The same charge?"

"I don't know for sure. But wouldn't it be terrible if it was? Then your father's name would get dragged into things...and then your name might join it..."

Cold sweat spread across my palms. "It would be by your hands, of course. You'd write the article."

"And the rest of the journalists would follow. We're wolves, I'm afraid. That's what you called us once, isn't it?" His voice softened. "I want to help you. I want to keep your name out of this. But the thing is, I'll need something in return."

"Of course you will."

"I need you to get back with me. I need you on my arm again. We looked good together."

"You mean you miss having a cop as a girlfriend -- you miss getting the inside scoop." I shook my head. "Do what you like, Clyde, but I am never getting involved with you again."

"We'll see. I've terrified you, and we both know it." He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Get off me."

He looked into my eyes and squeezed.

I reached for my gun.

He let go and strolled away. A few seconds later, the lift doors creaked shut. It rumbled down to the ground floor.

I stumbled into my flat, hot all over. The first thing I did was throw the living room window open. I hung out of it for a while, staring at the shadows in the street and trying to remember how to breathe.

The second thing I did was go into the kitchen.

My punch bag was still hanging at the end of the room, and I saw nothing else as I walked towards it. My leather jacket slipped from my shoulders. I dumped it on the counter and struck out.

I swung again and again, descending into a mad flurry of blows. My heart rate rocketed. Sweat seeped down my back.

I hit the punch bag like I wanted to kill it. It was the only way out for my anger. But the bag remained sturdy; unbreakable.

Spinning around, I struck blindly. My fist collided with the coffee machine. Plastic cracked and caved in around my knuckles.

I yanked it so hard that the plug flew out, sharp pins flinging upwards and stinging my cheek. I threw it across the kitchen with a war cry. It crashed into the opposite wall, metal components falling apart and spilling across the floor. Something shattered, and a small surge of satisfaction rushed through my veins.