Chapters (95)
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Eighty-Six
- Eighty-Seven
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by David Swinson
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
I shove his ankles toward each other and duct-tape them together. After that I stand and walk to the place where he was resting his head before I came in. I find the remote and turn the TV off. I search the contents of his suitcase but don’t find anything useful. I open his wallet; twenty bucks inside. No credit cards. He has an expired license. The name on it is Robert Graham Givens. Givens? Holy fuck, this guy’s Givens? I also find fake identification showing Graham Biddy as his alias. Son of a bitch. It’s the same guy. He doesn’t look anything like I thought Givens would. Ray made him out to be much more. Like a cold-blooded murderer. I find that hard to believe, looking at him now sitting in that chair, scared to death. I’ll keep this to myself for the moment. Fucking Robert Givens.
I open the nightstand drawer, find a baggie that contains at least an ounce of nice yellowish rock, a razor blade, a glass rose pipe, and a lighter. I look back toward him. His head now bowed, shaking it slowly from side to side.
“This has gotta be at least an ounce. Shit, what is that in DC now—seven, eight hundred bucks?”
No reply.
I grab everything and take it to the chair where I was sitting. I set everything but the blade on a round table beside the armchair. I turn on a small lamp that sits on the round table. It shows off the goods better. I go to the bathroom, drop the blade in the toilet, and flush.
I return and look down at him.
“Well, Robby—no, Biddy. I like that name better. You must have worked hard for this here.” I lift the baggie. “How long will this last you?”
No answer.
“I’ll ask one more time. You’d better damn well answer.”
He finally looks up. “Couple days.”
“Well, I’ve seen worse. You’re probably wanting some about now. Am I right?”
I can tell he’s trying to figure out if he should answer that.
“Maybe later. You took a bunch of stereo equipment from my house. Remember that?”
That gets a good reaction.
“Got some of it back from Thrift World, though.”
I grab the sport bottle from my pack, take a good swig.
“It ain’t Gatorade, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I set it on the table near the baggie.
“I will go hard on you if I have to, Bid. I don’t want to, but I will. See, my life got really fucked up with the burglary. And the poor boy murdered in my kitchen.”
He knows the house I’m talking about now. Even though he tries hard not to react, I can still see it in his eyes. Fear.
“Please, sir. You have the wrong person here.”