Last to Die

floorboards contracting.
    She started up the metal staircase, and each step sent off a faint clang that made the darkness hum and announced:
Here we come
. Near the top of the steps she crouched, palms sweating, and slowly lifted her head to peer over the second-floor landing.
    Something hurtled toward her from the shadows.
    She flinched as it whistled past her cheek. Heard glass shatter on the wall behind her as she saw a crab-like figure retreat into the gloom.
    “I see him, I see him!” she yelled to Frost as she scrambled up onto the landing. “Police!” she called out, her gaze fixed on the dark shape hulking in the corner. He was folded into himself, his black face obscured in shadow. “Show me your hands,” she ordered.
    “I got here first,” a voice growled. “Go away.” The figure raised an arm, and Jane saw another bottle in his hand.
    “Drop it
now
!” she commanded.
    “They said I could stay here! They gave me permission!”
    “Put down the bottle. We just want to talk!”
    “About what?”
    “This place. This building.”
    “It’s mine. They gave it to me.”
    “Who did?”
    “The men in the black car. Said they didn’t need it anymore, and I could stay here.”
    “Okay.” Jane lowered her weapon. “Why don’t we start over? First, what’s your name, sir?”
    “Denzel.”
    “Last name?”
    “Washington.”
    “Denzel Washington. Really.” She sighed. “I guess that’s as good a name as any. So Denzel, how about we both put away our weapons and relax.” She slid the gun into her holster and held up both hands. “Fair?”
    “What about him?” Denzel said, pointing to Frost.
    “Soon as you put down the bottle, sir,” Frost said.
    After a moment, Denzel set the bottle down between his feet with an emphatic thud. “Only take me an instant to throw it,” he said. “So you better behave.”
    “How long have you been living here?” said Jane.
    Denzel struck a match and leaned over to light a candle. By the glowing flame, she saw a trash-strewn floor, the splintered remains of a broken chair. He planted himself beside the candle, a disheveled African American man in ragtag clothes. “Few months,” he said.
    “How many?”
    “Seven, eight. I guess.”
    “Anyone else ever come by to check out the place?”
    “Just the rats.”
    “You live all alone here?”
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “Denzel,” Jane said, and felt ridiculous just saying that name. “We’re trying to find out who really owns this building.”
    “I told you. Me.”
    “Not Jarvis and McCrane?”
    “Who’s that?”
    “What about Nicholas Clock? You ever heard that name? Ever met the man?”
    Denzel suddenly turned and barked at Frost: “What are you doing over there? You trying to steal my stuff?”
    “There’s nothing here to steal, man,” said Frost. “I’m just looking around. See a lot of iron shavings here on the floor. This must have been some old toolmaking factory …”
    “Look, Denzel, we’re not here to hassle you,” said Jane. “We just want to know about the business that was here two, three years ago.”
    “Wasn’t nothing here.”
    “You knew the building back then?”
    “This is my neighborhood. I got eyes.”
    “You know a man named Nicholas Clock? Six foot two, blond hair, well built? About forty-five and good looking.”
    “Why you asking
me
about good-looking guys?”
    “I’m just asking if you’ve seen Nicholas Clock around. This address was listed as his place of business.”
    Denzel snorted. “Must have been
real
successful.” His head swiveled toward Frost and he snapped: “You really don’t pay attention, do you? I told you to stop looking around my place.”
    “What the fuck,” Frost said, staring out the broken window. “Someone’s in our car!”
    “What?” Jane crossed to the window and looked down at her Subaru. Saw the passenger door was ajar. She reached for her weapon and snapped, “Let’s go!”
    “No, you won’t,” Denzel said as a gun barrel suddenly pressed against the back of Jane’s head. “You are going to drop your weapons. Both of you.” His voice, no longer a careless drawl, was now cold and crisp.
    Jane let her Glock fall to the floor.
    “You, too, Detective Frost,” the man ordered.
    He knows our names
.
    The second gun thudded to the floor. Denzel grabbed Jane’s jacket and shoved her down to her knees. The gun was still pressed to her skull, shoved so hard against her scalp that it felt like a drill bit