Chapter 8 #2
Then I take out a tiny Mag-light to inspect the patio doors themselves. I’m hoping to see only the single lock most patio doors have, which we should be able to pick in seconds. And I do, but then I spot a magnetic motion sensor along the bottom of the door that complicates things.
Backing away from the door, I pull out my phone, being careful to shield the light of the screen with my hand. “Motion sensor,” I murmur in explanation. “I’ll have to hack into his security system to deactivate it.”
“A security system out here?” Indy whispers. “The closest neighbor is a quarter-mile away.”
“He doesn’t want anyone stealing his drugs,” Webb mutters back. “Talk about irony.”
Fortunately, accessing the basic security system takes me under a minute.
I hack the Wi-Fi password first, then find the program Margolin uses, and finally, turn off the sensor so it won’t make a sound when we open the door.
Once I’m done, I put my phone away and say, “All clear. Who wants to pick the lock?”
“I will,” Webb offers. He likes timing himself to see how quickly he can do it. In practically no time, he announces proudly, “Eleven seconds. That might be a new record.”
“It’s a patio door,” Indy whispers. “That hardly counts.”
“It counts,” Webb retorts. Then he pockets his lockpicks and turns to me. “Ready?”
“Ready.” I nod at the door. “Go ahead.”
The door slides open quietly, and we slip into the house, one after another. Webb’s the last to enter, so he closes the door behind us. Then we just stand in the kitchen for a few seconds to get our bearings.
The kitchen is silent, save for the faint tick of the refrigerator. In the living room out front, we can hear the low drone of the TV. As we noticed from outside, there’s a light on in there—not a bright one, but perhaps a single bulb lamp on an end table.
Before we go any further, the three of us turn to each other.
It’s a little jarring, looking at my friends with their disguises on.
Indy’s nose is bigger than it usually is.
He’s wearing thick glasses that make his eyes look myopically large.
Webb has on a red wig with a bushy mustache and beard to match.
And if I could see myself right now, I’d be looking at a large handlebar mustache and a black unibrow that shadows my eyes.
Disguises are something we’ve taken to using whenever we have to interrogate a suspect. That way, once we’ve finished interrogating Margolin, he won’t be able to identify us. And there won’t be any way of connecting our visit to Blade and Arrow.
Indy meets my gaze with a questioning one of his own. We can’t talk now, not with Margolin so close, so we have to communicate using gestures and silent exchanges instead.
I angle my head towards the living room. Then I pull out my gun and hold it at low ready. Not that I’m planning on shooting our suspect, but when he sees our weapons, he’ll know we mean business.
Webb and Indy pull their Sigs from their belt holsters and nod at me. Ready.
I take another deep breath and let it out slowly. In my mind, I quickly run through several tactics depending on what we find inside the living room. If he’s awake and watching TV, we’ll have to move quickly. But if he’s asleep… that would be ideal.
A burst of adrenaline hits me as I enter the short hallway that leads to the living room. It’s not from fear, but anticipation. I want to see this asshole. And I can’t wait to scare the shit out of him, just like he did to Melissa.
On silent feet, we creep into the living room.
The couch is on the wall to our right, facing the television.
In front of it, there’s a worn wooden coffee table, and to one side, a rickety end table with the predicted lamp sitting atop it.
And then, sprawled across the couch with one hand still clutching a beer, is our target. Jake Margolin. Fast asleep.
I nod at Webb and Indy, and by silent agreement, we surround Margolin on three sides—me forty-five degrees to his left, Webb the same angle to his right, and Indy behind the couch, in case Margolin decides to make a foolish bid for escape.
Once we’re in position, I glance at the coffee table.
On it, there’s a bulging plastic baggie of white powder with a small mirror and razor blade set to its side.
Three beer cans—empty, I’m guessing—are lined up on the table.
My gaze moves to Margolin, and a fresh spurt of anger heats my veins. This asshole. He hurt Melissa. And I’m going to punish him for it.
My muscles quiver with tamped-down rage as I move closer to him. He doesn’t move. His mouth is slightly ajar, and he’s snoring softly. A tiny residue of white powder rims his nostrils. His nose is covered in broken blood vessels, and his skin has a yellowish hint to it.
Raising my gun, I point it directly at his face. Then I kick the couch and say, “Wake up, you piece of shit. And don’t even think about moving. Or you’re dead.”
His eyes pop open, at first uncomprehending.
As he looks at me, he frowns in confusion.
Maybe he thinks I’m part of a drug-addled dream.
But I make it blatantly clear that I’m not by jabbing the barrel of the gun into his forehead.
“Don’t make a sound,” I snarl. “Don’t try to get up. Nod if you understand.”
Instead of nodding, he just stares blankly at me. For a moment, I think he’s so strung out, he can’t understand me. But then I catch a flicker of awareness in his gaze. He heard what I said. He’s just trying to buy himself some time.
“Shit,” Indy mutters. “He’s so out of it, he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Then he’s no good to us,” I reply. Then I cock the trigger, calling Margolin on his bluff. “So there’s no point in keeping him alive.”
Webb picks up on my tactic immediately. “He’s useless if he can’t talk,” he agrees. “Just kill him so we can get out of here.”
“No!” Margolin blurts. He starts to sit up, but the cool metal of my gun against his forehead reminds him to stay still. Falling back against the couch, he adds shakily, “Don’t kill me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Well, shit. That was easier than I thought it would be. I figured the guy would put up some kind of fight. Not fold the second his life was in danger.
But we’re here for information first, so my longing for vengeance will have to take a backseat. “Fine.” I lift my gun a few inches from his forehead. “Sit up slowly. Any sudden moves, and you know what’ll happen.”
As soon as Margolin sits up, Webb moves in to restrain him. Once Margolin’s arms are securely zip-tied behind him, Webb does the same to his feet. Now Margolin isn’t going anywhere unless he plans on hopping there.
Oh, and I still have my gun pointed at his head. So there’s that, too.
“What do you want?” Margolin asks. His eyes dart between the barrel of the gun and me. “Is it Gary? Did he skim some of the product again? Or Francis? I told him not to cut the product with fentanyl. I told him it could piss off the wrong person. I—”
“Shut. Up.” Pinning him with a murderous glare, I add, “I don’t give a shit about Gary or Francis. I’m here about you.”
Will I look into anyone he’s friends with name Gary or Francis and turn the information over to the police? Yes. But that’s for another time. Right now, my focus is on him.
“Why?” Margolin bleats. “I haven’t done anything. I haven’t sold anything in months.”
“Haven’t done anything?” Melissa’s bruises come vividly to mind.
The one on her forehead is turning a bluish-green.
Another on her arm is in the perfect shape of a hand.
And that’s not even taking into account the painful bruise hidden by her hair.
Or her broken wrist. Or the countless other bruises under her clothes.
Rage bubbles up again as I growl, “You beat up an innocent woman. You vandalized her house. You traumatized her. That’s what you did. And I want to know why.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never beat anyone up. Especially not a woman. I would never—”
“Yes, you did!” I snap. “And I have the proof. I know you were there. It was one week ago yesterday. In Northville. Around nine PM. Ring a bell?”
Margolin pales. “What? How?”
“I know. Don’t waste my time lying about it. I know you did it.”
He casts a frantic look around the room. “You can’t do this. I didn’t let you inside. I have my rights. You have to leave. I could sue—”
Indy snorts. “We’re not the police, asshole. And we’ll do whatever we want.”
“I know the woman you hurt,” I tell Margolin coldly. “And it would be an understatement to say I’m angry about it.”
“She stole my drugs,” he whines. “She lied about them. That was two grand worth of coke. She had it coming—”
“What?” I can’t stop myself. My fist flies out and connects with his face. I pull my punch at the last second, so I don’t knock him out, but I hit him hard enough to break his nose.
As blood streams down his chin, I hiss, “You are going to tell me why you went there. Was it the wrong address? Did you see her somewhere and think you could take advantage?”
“She’s a pretty woman,” Webb adds. “Maybe you saw her in town, started following her, got all pissed off because she didn’t pay attention to you…”
“That wasn’t it,” Margolin says. “She made the deal. Told me to come to her house to pick them up. But when I got there, she lied about it. Told me to go away. She threatened to call the cops on me. And now I’m getting shit for it?”
Indy meets my gaze from the other side of the couch. I can tell from his expression what he’s asking without hearing a word.
Could she have sold him drugs? Is it possible she lied about it?
I shake my head immediately. No. She wouldn’t. There’s no way.
“How did she get in touch with you?” I ask, thinking of the messaging platform I found on his computer. I know Melissa wouldn’t have done it, but...
“She made a post,” Margolin replies. “On SnapApp. She said she had two ounces of coke. Prime. Said she wanted to sell it quick to pay some bills.”