Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Again, I thought I saw Debbie nod her head.

“Please, please, don’t lie for him anymore,” I said. “It’s okay if you lie to me. It’s okay if you lie to yourself. No one is going to do anything about it. But if you tell the same lie to the police or the county attorney, you’re going to be in serious trouble. Do you understand?”

For the first time, Debbie looked me directly in the eye.

“Yes,” she said.

Richard Scott Nye was leaning against my Jeep Cherokee, his arms folded across his chest, when I left the bank. He was smirking.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Get your ass off my ride.”

I was angry and looking for any excuse at all to pop him one. Or two.

“Isn’t this one of those soccer-mom cars?” Nye asked.

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him into the neutral zone between my vehicle and a Ford Taurus. The smile stayed on his face.

“Touchy,” he said.

I unlocked the door.

“Wait, don’t go,” Nye said. “I want to ask you something.”

I turned toward him.

“What did Debbie say?” he asked.

“She said exactly what you told her to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should know that when you make up an alibi, people automatically figure you have something to hide. It’s better to have no alibi at all.”

“I didn’t do nothing. I ain’t got nothing to hide.”

I moved to the open door of the Cherokee. Nye stopped me. He spun me around and gave me the look—unblinking eyes burning with their coldness, a run-or-die expression on his face.

“Listen, bitch,” he hissed.

I pushed him away and stretched my arms, giving myself room to maneuver.

Nye kept smiling while he took a few steps backward. His eyes found something behind my left shoulder. I knew what it was before I turned to face it: the gentleman from the Regis Center for Art.

“Meet my little friend,” Nye said, trying hard to sound like Al Pacino in Scarface.

“What did I tell you, shithead?” the big Hispanic said. I could see it in his expression—he kicked my ass before and he was going to do it again. “Didn’t I tell you?”

I remained still and waited. He approached rapidly, without caution, without fear, his head and shoulders leading the way, his fists clenched but hanging loosely at his hips. I tried to look scared. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I didn’t so much as take a deep breath for fear that he might see it coming. As soon as he was in range, I raised my right leg and snapped a front kick to his groin, putting my heel where it would do the most damage. I kicked him as hard as I could. The force of the blow caused me to lose my balance and I had to reach for the Cherokee to keep from falling.

A lightning bolt of pain caused the bad guy to halt in his tracks. His legs locked. His hands moved to cover his groin. His mouth fell open, but instead of screaming he gargled like a seal. While he was immobilized, I stepped forward and raised my leg again. This time I brought my foot down hard against his kneecap. It snapped like dry kindling, and he collapsed against the dirty asphalt.

I glanced behind me. Nye hadn’t moved an inch. He stood there with his mouth open, watching as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

I grabbed a handful of my attacker’s dirty hair and pulled up. His eyes turned toward me and I hit him with a closed fist. I hit him in the face again and again, remembering with each punch how he had pummeled me. I hit him until my knuckles were rubbed raw and began to swell. His blood dripped from my hand.

“Look at me.” I didn’t mean to shout. I just couldn’t help it. “Look at me.”

His eyes turned toward my face.

“If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.” I hit him again just to make sure he was paying attention. “If you ever go near the lawyer again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? Nod your head if you understand.”

He nodded.

“Don’t make me tell you again.”

I released him and stepped toward Nye. Despite his prison muscles, he wanted nothing to do with me. He brought his hands up to fend off my blows and lowered his head. I hit him anyway, the heel of my fist catching him under the nose.

Blood spurted. Nye’s hands wiped frantically at it. Like the Hispanic he refused to whimper or cry out. Probably something you learn in stir, I decided. I pushed him hard and he splashed against the asphalt.

“Yeah, you’re tough,” I said. I slid behind the steering wheel of my vehicle and started it up. I backed out of the stall. Nye saw it coming just in time to roll out from under the rear wheels. When he looked up, I gave him a wink.

“Bitch,” he said, but not too loudly.