Death Notes

one.
    Glen Faddis was fifteen minutes late when he drove up in his silver BMW Roadster. I jumped out of the Toyota and waved him over. He got into the passenger side and rubbed his hands together for warmth. His eyes were alert behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
    ‘Do you have to wear those?’ I asked.
    ‘What? My glasses? Yes. I usually wear contacts but I was rushed.’
    He looked more like a professor than the heavy hitter I’d hoped would scare Nesbitt into talking. I reached under my car seat and handed him a crowbar.
    ‘What’s this?’
    ‘Don’t say anything. Just make sure he sees that and try to look tough.’
    I opened my car door and jumped out. He popped out on the other side and said, ‘Wait!’
    ‘Sshhhh. Keep it down. Let’s go,’ I whispered, and set off down the block.
    Faddis came around the car and fell in beside me. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘You know Match’s drummer?’
    ‘Nesbitt?’
    ‘Right. We’re going to ask him why he killed Match.’
    ‘Did he?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘This is crazy.’ But he was smiling.
    I stopped him in front of the house and reached down for the crowbar.
    ‘Hold it up like this. Looks tougher that way.’ I showed him.
    He said, ‘I don’t want to hit anybody.’
    ‘Don’t say that. You will if you have to. Just follow me. And don’t talk. Ready?’
    I didn’t wait for his answer. I charged up to Nesbitt’s door and jammed my thumb on the buzzer. I gave it two short rings, then held it down. I would have pounded on the door but the neighbors might have heard and called us in.
    Finally, I heard some movement inside. A light went on. Half a second later, Hank Nesbitt, drowsy, hair tousled, barefoot in pink boxer shorts and no shirt, opened the door.
    He wasn’t much taller than I was, and thin, so I didn’t feel as outclassed by him as I had by Les Barton. I put my hand on his chest and pushed him inside and prayed Glen Faddis had seen enough forties gangster films to know he was supposed to follow.
    ‘It didn’t work,’ I said.
    He saw Faddis and the crowbar behind me and kept backing up into the living room, arms raised defensively.
    ‘Hey, Hey!’ he kept saying.
    I pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down.’
    He dropped into it, too terrified to speak.
    ‘Your plan didn’t work.’
    ‘What plan?’
    ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You told Les Barton to attack me.’
    ‘What?’
    At the Riff.Before you left us.’
    ‘That’s crazy. Why would I do that?’
    His voice was gaining strength and, with it, conviction.
    ‘To keep me from investigating Match’s murder.’
    I heard movement behind me.
    ‘Uh, Ronnie?’ Faddis sounded frightened. He was supposed to just stand there and look mean. Why couldn’t he follow instructions?
    ‘Ronnie ! ’
    I wheeled to face him, annoyed and showing it. Then I understood.
    Beside Faddis, wearing matching pink boxers but twice Nesbitt’s size, was a shaved-headed man with a diamond stud in one ear and a rose tattoo above his right nipple. He was enormous, and he was frowning. And he was holding the crowbar I’d given Faddis.
    ‘Who are you?’ I said with more force and authority than I felt.
    ‘Herbert,’ he answered. ‘I’m Hank’s lover. Hank, what’s going on?’
    We ended up sitting around the living room while Herbert served us all herbal tea and I asked Hank if he’d set me up for Les. Glen sat next to me, amused but interested.
    Hank seemed bewildered. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
    ‘I saw you two talking before I left.’
    ‘Oh, God. He didn’t take you to the after-hours place, did he?’
    ‘He drove me straight to an abandoned warehouse and tried to assault me.’
    ‘Oh, God. Please don’t get mad, okay?’
    It’d be pointless for me to say I already was. Herbert reached over and patted Hank’s hand.
    ‘Tell her,’ he said.
    Hank’s face flushed. ‘Les has a record, you see. He likes it rough with women. All’s I told him was that you were a private detective and he shouldn’t try to get rough with you. That’s why I was trying to get you away from him. I was... Listen, he’s been to jail twice for rape, okay? I just didn’t want anybody to get hurt.’
    He looked scared enough to be telling the truth. And Herbert, who was as calm as a Buddha, vouched for Hank’s story, telling us that Hank had mentioned his concern when Herbert came home from work.
    ‘I’m a paramedic,’ he explained. ‘I work strange hours.’
    Hank set his mug of tea on