House of Blues

Reed
recognized them, sure there'd be an investigation, but they could
probably ride it out—while remaining voting members of the board.
Very Louisiana.
    Anna's probably expendable as hell.
    Being a woman.
    So no big deal there.
    Gresham's the problem. Cappello's testimony alone
could do him in once his connection came out. If it does, he's a
goner.
    So the question is, how much do they need him?
Because the answer to that probably determines whether we live or
die.
 
    25
    I have to get us out of this.
    The realization was about a nine and a half on the
terror scale. But there was no one else.
    No one outside the house knew where she'd gone, and
everyone inside was either another victim or an enemy.
    And something was screwy.
    The setup just wasn't logical. The mob was nothing if
not professional. And there was nothing professional about locking up
two civilians, a child, and a police officer.
    But since somebody had—Gresham and Anna Garibaldi,
it would seem—the prognosis was pathetic.
    Skip had a headache and didn't want to think about
it. She felt like drowsing off again, but she knew that wasn't wise.
A compromise, then. She'd close her eyes for just a few minutes ....
    To her horror, she was awakened by a door slamming.
The woman who entered was old enough to be commanding, and she had
the longish face Reed had described. But she wasn't a Dragon. She was
an older woman in a blue silk robe, a very nice robe, but soft and
luxurious, the last thing a Dragon would wear for terrifying the
prisoners.
    She was wearing full makeup, and her hair was neat.
She looked as if she planned to go somewhere. And she trailed some
kind of citrusy scent, as if she were fresh from the shower. She
crossed the room and began opening drawers, not even glancing at
Skip. There was something frail about her.
    Skip caught Reed's eye. "The Dragon?" she
mouthed.
    Reed nodded.
    To speak or keep quiet?
    It was a vain hope, but maybe if Garibaldi didn't
know she knew her name . . . ?
    Reed said, "What's happening?" but the
Dragon didn't deign to answer. She continued to open drawers, not
bothering to close them, until she pulled out Skip's purse.
    As they watched, she rifled it.
    Skip said, "Can I help you with something?"
half in sarcasm, mainly just wanting to get Garibaldi's attention.
The Dragon's hands shook as she found Skip's wallet and removed money
first, then credit cards; then paused, and took out her driver's
license. Her face was intent, but Skip could see worry there. She had
a sense of ruin, as if the Dragon, scale by scale, were falling apart
before her eyes. When she had what she wanted, Garibaldi dropped the
purse on the floor and left, closing the door behind her, locking it
with a key.
    The purse, falling on soft carpet, failed to make
much of a thud, so that there was really no way to tell, but Skip had
the impression her gun had been removed. She herself usually had to
take it out to find anything, and Garibaldi had rifled freely, as if
there were plenty of room in there.
    So probably no gun, and maybe no badge, but there
were other things in the purse. Skip went through a mental inventory:
pens, cosmetics—lipstick, blusher, that was about it—a notebook,
a hairbrush, a tiny manicure kit in a leather case, keys, sunglasses,
maybe some tissues with lipstick on them, aspirin, handcuffs—no,
they'd probably taken the handcuffs. But there was an extra key, and
they probably hadn't found it. Skip kept it in a compartment of her
wallet. If she could get it, she could uncuff Reed.
    And there were cuticle scissors in the manicure kit.
    Maybe Reed could reach the purse.
    But she couldn't even see it—she had her back to
it, and anyway, Skip couldn't stand to watch if she asked her to try
for it. Even if it seemed harder—even if it seemed impossible—Skip
had to do it herself.
    She remembered what she had told Steve, about the
rarity of detective deaths. She felt far from heroic, but statistics
were on her side. Jim had just died, so what were the chances of
another Homicide detective getting killed so soon afterward?
    Good.
    Well, it'll certainly happen if you just lie here.
    And yet, what was the choice, given the
circumstances?
    Think of something.
    Because they had left her legs free, there was a way
to get up, she was pretty sure of it. But it was going to be hugely
uncomfortable.
    She swung her legs toward the floor. They didn't
reach. She tensed her muscles and gave a mighty heave. One foot of
the bed, at her