Storm Front

I kept my hands in my pockets, pushed the door shut with a little nudge of my boot, and just as it closed, said, "So. Returning to the scene of the crime. I knew we’d catch you if I just waited."

The man’s reaction would have had me rolling in laughter on any other day. He jerked, slammed his head against the bottom of the bed, yelped, drew himself back from the bed, turned to look at me, and all but leapt back over the bed in surprise when he saw me. I revised my opinion of his looks – his mouth was too pinched, his eyes too small and too close together, giving him the intent, predatory look of a ferret.

I narrowed my eyes and stalked toward him one slow pace at a time. "Just couldn’t stay away, could you?"

"No!" he said, "Oh, God! You don’t understand. I’m a photographer. See? See?" He fumbled with the case at his side and produced a camera from it. "Taking pictures. For the papers. That’s what I’m doing here, just trying to get a good look around."

"Save it," I told him. "We both know you aren’t here to take pictures. You were looking for this." And I pulled the film canister out of my pocket, held it up, and showed it to him.

His babbling stopped, and he stood stock-still, staring at me. Then at the canister. He licked his lips and started trying to say something.

"Who are you?" I asked. I kept my voice gruff, demanding. I tried to think of what Murphy would sound like, if I was downtown with her right now, waiting for her to ask me questions.

"Uh, Wise. Donny Wise." He swallowed, staring at me. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"

I narrowed my eyes at him and sneered, "We’ll see about that. Do you have identification?"

"Sure, yeah."

"Let me see it." I speared him with a glance, and added, "Slowly."

He goggled at me and reached for his hip pocket with exaggerated slowness. With one hand, he drew out his wallet and flipped it open to his driver’s license. I stalked toward him, snatched it, and studied it. His license and picture agreed with the name he’d given me.

"Well, Mr. Wise," I began, "this is an ongoing investigation. So long as you give me your cooperation, I don’t think that we – "

I looked up to see him peering at my name badge, and my voice trailed off. He jerked his wallet back, and accused, "You’re not a cop!"

I tilted my head back at an arrogant angle. "Okay. Maybe not. But I work with the cops. And I’ve got your film."

He cursed again and started stuffing his camera back into his bag, clearly meaning to leave. "No. You got nothing. Nothing that connects any of this to me. I’m out of here."

I watched him start past me, toward the door. "Don’t be so hasty, Mr. Wise. I really think you and I have things to discuss. Like a dropped film canister underneath the deck of a house in Lake Providence, last Wednesday night."

He flicked a quick glance up at me. "I have nothing to say to you," he mumbled, "whoever the hell you are." He reached for the door and started to open it.

I gestured curtly to my staff in the corner, and hissed, in my best dramatic voice, "Vento servitas," jerking my hand at the doorway. My staff, driven by tightly controlled channels of air moving in response to my evocation, leapt across the room and slammed the door shut in front of Donny Wise’s nose. He went stiff as a board. He turned to face me, his eyes wide.

"My God. You’re one of them. Don’t kill me," he said. "Oh, God. You’ve got the pictures. I don’t know anything. Nothing. I’m no danger to you." He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was shaking. I saw him tilt his eyes at the glass sliding doors to the little patio, as though calculating his chances of making it there before I could stop him.

"Relax, Mr. Wise," I told him. "I’m not here to hurt you. I’m after the man who killed Linda. Help me. Tell me what you know. I’ll take care of the rest."

He let out a harsh little laugh, and eased a half step toward the glass windows. "And get myself killed? Like Linda, like those other people? No way."

"No, Mr. Wise. Tell me what you know. I’ll put a stop to the killings. I’ll bring Linda’s murderer to justice." I tried to keep my voice soothing, even, fighting against the frustration I felt. Hell, I’d wanted to rattle him, but I hadn’t meant to scare him so badly that he wanted to jump through a plate-glass sliding door. "I want these people stopped just as badly as you do."

"Why?" he demanded. I saw a little contempt in his eyes, now. "What was she to you? Were you sleeping with her, too?"

I shook my head. "No. No, she’s just one more dead person who shouldn’t be."

"You’re not a cop. Why risk your ass to do this? Why go up against these people? Haven’t you seen what they can do?"

I shrugged. "Who else is going to?" He didn’t answer me, so I held up the film canister. "What are these pictures, Mr. Wise? What is on this film that was worth killing Linda Randall for?"

Donny Wise rubbed his palms over his thighs. His ponytail twitched as he looked about the room. "I’ll make you a deal. Give me the film, and I’ll tell you what I know."

I shook my head. "I might need what’s on here."

"What’s there isn’t any good to you if you don’t know what you’re looking at," he pointed out. "I don’t know you from Adam. I don’t want any trouble. All I want is to get my ass out of this alive and in one piece."

I stared at him for a moment. If I traded him, I’d lose the film, and whatever was on it. If I didn’t, and if he was telling me the truth, the film wouldn’t do me any good. The trail had led me here, to him. If I didn’t dig up a lead to somewhere else, I was dead.

So I snapped my fingers, letting my staff rattle to the floor. Then I tossed him the film, underhand. He dropped it, and stooped to recover it, studying me warily.

"After I get out of here," he said, "we’re quits. I’ve never seen you before."

I nodded. "Fine. Let’s have it."

Donny swallowed and ran a hand back over his hair, giving his ponytail a nervous little tug at the end of the motion. "I knew Linda from around. I’d taken some pictures of her, for a portfolio. I do shoots for some of the girls around town. They want to make it into magazines, most of them."

"Adult magazines?" I asked.

"No," he snapped, nervous still, "Uncle Abner’s magazine for children. Of course adult mags. Nothing really classy, but you can make some good money even if you’re not Hugh Hefner’s type.

"So on Wednesday, Linda comes to me. She says she’s got a deal for me. I shoot some pictures for her and give her the film, and I get – and she’s real nice to me. All I have to do is show up where she says, shoot a roll through the windows, and go. Deliver to her the next day. So I did it. And now she’s dead."