Read Online Bound by Flame by Anna Windsor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Windsor
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“We’re leaning on the guy’s mother? That’s pretty low.”
“You haven’t met Delilah.” Nick turned off the Jeep. “Leave your sword in the car.”
He pocketed the keys and got out as she glared at him, but she unbelted the sword and placed it on the floorboard. As she opened her door and let in a spit of white flakes, Nick kept a sharp eye on her. She’d kept her word about not running out the back of the brownstone, but the whole bodyguard issue pissed her off. Sooner or later, she’d do something stupid. He was sure of it.
As soon as Cynda was clear of the Jeep, Nick flanked her, keeping his body between her and the street. Trouble could hit from any side, but he figured the tenement’s grounds were a safer bet than the road.
He and Cynda didn’t speak as he guided her toward one of the thirteen multiangled brick high-rises that made up the main section of the Jacob Riis Houses. The building he needed had about twelve floors, dingy brown brick but washed and clean, and with a rehabilitated children’s park directly in front. The reds and yellows of the park rides and toys stood in contrast to the older, tired building behind it.
“Sixth floor,” he told Cynda as they walked inside.
The elevators, of course, were out of order, so they took the six flights of stairs. Even with all the polishing, painting, and fixing up, graffiti made a comeback here in a hurry. So did the stink of bleach and piss.
Nick glanced at Cynda. She didn’t so much as wrinkle her pretty nose. Most people would have been gagging, unless they wore a badge. As they left the stairwell, she seemed almost relaxed, laid-back, or disinterested. A casual observer would take her for an easy mark.
Big mistake.
Cynda noticed everything.
Nick watched as she scanned in front of her, beside her, behind her, like the most seasoned cop, aware of every little piece and part of the environment. No doubt she’d remember facial details of the few people they had passed on the grounds, in the entry, and the one or two who brushed by in the stairwells.
Impressive.
Once they reached the door to Delilah Moses’s apartment, Nick gestured for Cynda to stand to one side, and he did the same. Better safe than sorry with this pistol of a woman.
He knocked. “Delilah?” He waited a few seconds, knocked again. “It’s Nick Lowell.”
From inside the apartment came a distinctive, predictable grunt, followed by, “What’s the useless streak of piss done now, cop?”
“She’s Irish,” Cynda muttered. “Old school.”
Nick put his finger to his lips, then said, “Just need to find him. Give us a hand?”
The sound of locks and chains being removed echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway, along with some swearing, and, “May the devil take that boy sideways, all the trouble he brings to my door.”
Cynda’s brows came together. She relaxed her arms at her sides, keeping both hands free, loose and ready to fight off a potential threat.
Again, Nick was impressed. Cynda would have made a good cop.
The door opened with a squeak and a scrape.
Delilah looked a lot older than the last time Nick saw her, what, two or three months ago? Stark white hair now, trapped in a frizzy bun. She’d lost weight and added wrinkles, too.
Why the big change?
Her cloudy brown eyes cut toward Cynda.
“She’s with me.” Nick said. “Name’s Cynda.”
“Her shirt’s got holes in it,” Delilah grumbled as she admitted them to her small one-bedroom unit. “Pants, too.”
Nick automatically catalogued his surroundings. Like everything else at the Jacob Riis Houses, her unit had a newish coat of off-white paint, already dingy from city air. Her small living area boasted only a three-seater sofa, a chair, a television, and a couple of end tables. Off the living area on one side was a kitchen, and on the opposite side were the closed doors to the bedroom and bathroom, which Nick had searched several times before. His enhanced senses told him nobody
“You haven’t met Delilah.” Nick turned off the Jeep. “Leave your sword in the car.”
He pocketed the keys and got out as she glared at him, but she unbelted the sword and placed it on the floorboard. As she opened her door and let in a spit of white flakes, Nick kept a sharp eye on her. She’d kept her word about not running out the back of the brownstone, but the whole bodyguard issue pissed her off. Sooner or later, she’d do something stupid. He was sure of it.
As soon as Cynda was clear of the Jeep, Nick flanked her, keeping his body between her and the street. Trouble could hit from any side, but he figured the tenement’s grounds were a safer bet than the road.
He and Cynda didn’t speak as he guided her toward one of the thirteen multiangled brick high-rises that made up the main section of the Jacob Riis Houses. The building he needed had about twelve floors, dingy brown brick but washed and clean, and with a rehabilitated children’s park directly in front. The reds and yellows of the park rides and toys stood in contrast to the older, tired building behind it.
“Sixth floor,” he told Cynda as they walked inside.
The elevators, of course, were out of order, so they took the six flights of stairs. Even with all the polishing, painting, and fixing up, graffiti made a comeback here in a hurry. So did the stink of bleach and piss.
Nick glanced at Cynda. She didn’t so much as wrinkle her pretty nose. Most people would have been gagging, unless they wore a badge. As they left the stairwell, she seemed almost relaxed, laid-back, or disinterested. A casual observer would take her for an easy mark.
Big mistake.
Cynda noticed everything.
Nick watched as she scanned in front of her, beside her, behind her, like the most seasoned cop, aware of every little piece and part of the environment. No doubt she’d remember facial details of the few people they had passed on the grounds, in the entry, and the one or two who brushed by in the stairwells.
Impressive.
Once they reached the door to Delilah Moses’s apartment, Nick gestured for Cynda to stand to one side, and he did the same. Better safe than sorry with this pistol of a woman.
He knocked. “Delilah?” He waited a few seconds, knocked again. “It’s Nick Lowell.”
From inside the apartment came a distinctive, predictable grunt, followed by, “What’s the useless streak of piss done now, cop?”
“She’s Irish,” Cynda muttered. “Old school.”
Nick put his finger to his lips, then said, “Just need to find him. Give us a hand?”
The sound of locks and chains being removed echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway, along with some swearing, and, “May the devil take that boy sideways, all the trouble he brings to my door.”
Cynda’s brows came together. She relaxed her arms at her sides, keeping both hands free, loose and ready to fight off a potential threat.
Again, Nick was impressed. Cynda would have made a good cop.
The door opened with a squeak and a scrape.
Delilah looked a lot older than the last time Nick saw her, what, two or three months ago? Stark white hair now, trapped in a frizzy bun. She’d lost weight and added wrinkles, too.
Why the big change?
Her cloudy brown eyes cut toward Cynda.
“She’s with me.” Nick said. “Name’s Cynda.”
“Her shirt’s got holes in it,” Delilah grumbled as she admitted them to her small one-bedroom unit. “Pants, too.”
Nick automatically catalogued his surroundings. Like everything else at the Jacob Riis Houses, her unit had a newish coat of off-white paint, already dingy from city air. Her small living area boasted only a three-seater sofa, a chair, a television, and a couple of end tables. Off the living area on one side was a kitchen, and on the opposite side were the closed doors to the bedroom and bathroom, which Nick had searched several times before. His enhanced senses told him nobody
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