By JA Konrath
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I nodded, and Herb waddled off. “Jacqueline? On the Leslie Banks version, the back of the box lists the screenwriter, but doesn’t mention it is based on a book. ” 58 Damn. B. Wyndham-Lewis. ” “It’s a case. I’ll tell you about it later. ” “It is a book. K. Chesterton, written in the early 1920s. ” “Chesterton? ” “Chesterton was a wonderful author. He did quite a few lockedroom mysteries. ” “I’ll call you tonight. ” I put away the phone and went to the blood-stained bookshelf. The Chesterton book was easy to find.
I gave her credit for toughness. She held out. I had to topple a dresser and put my foot through her TV before she broke down. “Stop it! ” 37 “Nice try. ” “Not Mel. She found a new guy. ” I chucked a vase at the wall. The baby in her arms was wiggling, hysterical. “I don’t have his last name! ” Georgia went for her purse on the bed, but I shoved the Glock in her face. ” The purse was the size of a cigarette pack, with rhinestone studs and spaghetti straps. A hooker purse. I didn’t figure there could be much of a weapon in there, and was once again surprised.
As for Artie Collins…word on the street, his bosses weren’t happy about his arrest. Artie wasn’t going to last very long in prison. I did another line and laid back on my bed, letting the exhilaration wash over me. It took away the pain. All the pain. Outside my window, the city sounds invaded. Honking horns. Screeching tires. A man coughing. A woman shouting. The el train rushing past, clackety-clacking down the tracks louder than a thunder clap. To most people, it was background noise. But to me, it was music.