Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 92

The streets of North Oaks all had soft names that made the place sound like a nature preserve—Wildflower Way, Birch Lake Road, Red Forest Heights, Long Marsh Lane, Catbird Circle, Mallard Road—and I doubted I had been the only visitor who questioned the sobriety of the men who had mapped them. The few times I had driven the streets I had become hopelessly lost. Members of the city’s private police department were forced to give me directions—after first running my plates for wants and warrants and demanding that I explain exactly what I was doing in North Oaks in the first place since I wasn’t sporting the tiny black reflector on my rear bumper that indicated I belonged to the exclusive community. Fortunately, no one stopped me as I negotiated the troublesome streets looking for Troy Donovan’s address at nearly one in the morning, which made me wonder: They paid extra for this kind of security? Given the late hour, my appearance, and the condition of the Audi, the cops should have been on me like I was doling out free Krispy Kremes.

I took me awhile, but I finally located Donovan’s house, a sprawling two-story, white, with black trim and shutters. I parked on the street and walked to his front door. It was late, yet there were plenty of lights burning inside.

“One last promise to keep,” I said aloud before leaning on the bell.

Donovan examined me carefully through the spy hole before he opened the door, the safety chain in place.

“Mr. McKenzie? What is it? Do you know what time it is?”

“May I come in? There is something important I need to discuss with you, sir.”

“With me? I suppose.”

Donovan closed the door, removed the chain, and reopened it. I stepped across the threshold.

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“Yes, I am.”

I hit him under the jaw with a palm fist, driving him backward into the house. I followed him inside, closing the door behind me.

At some point in his life, Donovan must have actually been in a fight because he didn’t act surprised and indignant the way some people do when confronted with unexpected violence, demanding an explanation before attempting to defend themselves, asking “Why are you doing this?” while their opponent pummeled the hell out of them. Instead, after regaining his balance, Donovan actually threw a punch at me. It didn’t amount to much, but I admired the effort.

I blocked the punch with my left forearm, stepped in close, slid my right arm under his left arm and around his body, swept his leg out and up, and threw him over my hip and down solidly on the hardwood floor. The move took his breath away, immobilizing him long enough for me to grab his right leg.

I hauled him across the floor to a chair while he gasped and coughed. I propped his heel on the edge of a chair and braced it against my leg so he couldn’t pull it off. I removed my Beretta from my inside pocket, made sure he saw me chambering a round, and pressed the muzzle against his knee.

“Kiss it good-bye,” I said.

“No, no, please, no,” he screamed. “Stop. Oh, God. Why are you doing this?”

I ground the muzzle against his kneecap.

“No! McKenzie, please.”

“Do I have your attention?”

“What? My attention? McKenzie, don’t shoot me. Please. Why are you, why are you . . . ?”

I tried to keep all emotion out of my voice.

“You really want to stay away from Lindsey Barrett from now on,” I said. “Don’t see her, don’t talk to her, don’t write her, don’t even think about her. These are the new rules you live by. Break the rules and one of two things will happen. Either I’ll come back and put you into a wheelchair, or I’ll inform Mr. Muehlenhaus that you’ve been endangering his investment. Personally, I think the second prospect is more frightening than the first, but that’s just me.”

“McKenzie, please . . .”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Maybe you think you can say anything now and forget about it later.”

“No.”

I rapped Donovan’s kneecap hard with the barrel of the gun. I didn’t damage it permanently, but he’d be walking uncomfortably for a few days, and that would give him something to think about.

I released his leg. Donovan folded it neatly against his chest and caressed the knee.

“Why, why?” he whimpered.

“Just doing a favor for an old friend,” I told him and returned the Beretta to my pocket.

I went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

Two of North Oaks’s finest were standing fore and aft beside my Audi.

“Is this your vehicle, sir?” the one in front asked as I made my way across Donovan’s icy sidewalk. All things considered, I was surprised he wasn’t shooting first and asking questions later.

“Yes, it’s my vehicle,” I said. “Such as it is.”

“Sir, it is a violation of city ordinances to park your vehicle on the street.”

“I apologize. I’ll move it right away.”