Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)
Page 68A murmur of voices came through the door, but no words could be understood. I stopped listening and knocked. A shadow passed over the spy hole and the door was yanked open. At the same time, a TV studio audience erupted into frenzied applause.
I took him in all at once, tall and husky, with imposing muscles—prison gym muscles. My first thought was that they were so big they would get in the way if he should ever attempt to throw a solid punch. He was wearing a white tank-top undershirt and jeans, both noticeably snug. He was tanned, but it wasn’t a healthy color. There seemed to be a tinge of green mixed with the gold. As advertised, his hair was blond and cut close to the scalp so that he resembled a Nazi officer in a World War II movie. Self-indulgence was written in his eyes.
“Well, hello,” he said.
“Mr. Nye?”
“Come in, come in.”
“Don’t you want to know who I am first?” I asked.
“Why?” Nye smirked as he examined the bruises on the side of my face. “Do you think I should be afraid?”
I didn’t say.
“I know who you are,” Nye said. “You’re McKenzie. I’ve been expecting you.”
Expecting me?
I entered the apartment. The room smelled of stale beer, old food, unwashed sheets, and dirty socks and underwear. I could see the kitchen from where I stood in the hallway. The sink contained dozens of encrusted spoons, forks, knives, pots, and pans, but no cups, saucers, or plates. Instead, next to the refrigerator was a wastebasket overflowing with paper plates and plastic cups, as well as TV dinner trays, pizza wrappers, and empty beer cans.
Nye led me deeper inside a living room that contained an ancient overstuffed chair and a TV set mounted on a stack of newspapers three feet in front of it. One of those daytime group-hug programs was being broadcast—I didn’t know which one. Nye moved to the set and reduced the volume to a dull roar while I glanced around. There was no other furniture, only small piles of rubble, mostly beer cans and empty chip bags. Compared to this mess, I figured my house looked like the Taj Mahal.
I gazed out a pair of sliding glass doors that led to a small balcony. A courtyard lay beyond. A young woman reclined on a lounge chair on her balcony directly across from Nye’s. The harsh sunlight made her bikini-clad body shimmer like gold.
“Nice view,” I said.
“Bitch doesn’t even close her drapes, you believe that?” he said.
That’s when I noticed the binoculars resting on the top of the TV.
Nye had a jailhouse smile, insincere and off center. I had no doubt that he would shove a shiv in my back for the change you could squeeze out of a parking meter. Or a turn with the woman he had been peeping.
“You said you were expecting me,” I told him.
“You’re workin’ for Merodie. Yeah, I figured you’d be around.”
“How do you know I’m working for Merodie?”
“I have my sources.”
“So, what do you want?” he asked.
“When did you last see Merodie?”
Nye stuck his thumbs in his belt and swayed side to side, but slowly. He nodded his head while I spoke, like a boxer taking instructions from his corner, all the while staring straight ahead at his opponent, giving me the mad-dog. Despite the air-conditioning, a light film of perspiration glazed his forehead.
“I haven’t seen her in over a year, and it ain’t been long enough, that’s for sure.”
“A year?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why? What did Merodie say?”
“What makes you think Merodie said anything?”
Nye was angry. He moved in close. You could have covered us both with a small umbrella.
My hand drifted to the opening of my jacket. The butt of the Beretta was only inches away, and in my mind’s eye I could see Nye on his knees begging my forgiveness, begging for his life. I was sorely tempted by the image, wanted to see it played out in real life, and would have pulled the nine, yes, I would have, if not for a second image that immediately replaced the first—the disappointed visage of Dr. Jillian DeMarais shaking her head and admonishing me: See what comes of playing with guns?
I let my empty hand hang loosely at my side and stepped back, putting space between us, giving myself plenty of room for hands and feet should the need arise.
Nye laughed it up. No doubt he thought that moving away from him meant I was frightened. My temper started to beat a high-tempo riff deep in my throat, but I swallowed it under control.
“You lived with Merodie for a long time,” I reminded him.
“Too long,” Nye said.
“You beat her up.”
He gave me a smile that knew both humor and cruelty. He chuckled when he said, “I wouldn’t want it to get around, but the truth is, she beat me up. She put me in the hospital.”
“You were in the hospital for a day. Merodie was in for over a week.”
“I wouldn’t know. I was in jail by the time she got out.”
“How did you like jail?”