06 Runaway Heart by Stephen J Cannell

Author:Stephen J Cannell [Cannell, Stephen J]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Jack heard the knock, set down the ice cream, and crossed to the door, snapping up the newspaper off the kitchen counter as he passed. Holding his gun in his left hand, he folded the paper over it, then opened the door with his right.

“Hi,” Norm Pettis said. “I’m with Helping Hands and we’re selling magazine subscriptions to benefit the Children’s Cancer Center. Is Mrs. Zimbaldi at home?” Pettis thought the guy in the apartment looked familiar—like the P.I. in the briefing photos they’d taken at Area 51, but he wasn’t absolutely sure.

“There’s no Zimbaldis live here. Just me and my brother, Lonnie, but he ain’t home.” Jack smiled, then glanced down at the magazine salesman’s feet. Crepe soles on black leather jump boots.

“Maybe you should write your number on this newspaper, I could have him call you. He’s always giving to charities.”

Jack pressed the paper at him until the man finally took it. Once he did he was looking at the revolver.

“This is a big mistake,” Pettis said.

“Why don’t you come on in? We’re having ice cream.” Jack yanked him through the door, then closed and bolted it. “You wired?”

Pettis didn’t respond, but Jack spotted the pin mike on his lapel, ripped it off, and stomped on it. Then he saw the earplug. “Get the receiver out.” Pettis dug it out with his thumb and index finger. It was a microchip about the size of an eraser with no wire. “Nice,” Jack observed, dropping it into his pocket.

Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs, whistling. He spun Pettis around and frisked him quickly, pulling a Glock 9 out of a waist holster, a SIG P-232 off his leg, and a stun gun with two batteries out of his coat. “You really came to party,” Jack quipped as he pulled the clips and both slides, then threw the guns across the room.

“You’re just making things worse for yourself.”

“You, too,” Jack said, and clocked him hard on the head, banging the side of the Smith & Wesson against the man’s transverse occipital bone—police academy combat tactics. Guaranteed to produce a snooze.

Pettis went down in a clutter of stolen magazines.

A key scraped in the lock.

Jack aimed his gun and waited.

When the door opened he was looking at a very intense, wirey man wearing Bermuda shorts, grimy tennies with no socks, and a threadbare red-checkered shirt, complete with pocket protector.

“Dr. Zimbaldi?”

“What are you doing in my wife’s apartment?”

“Trying to save your life. I’m with Herman Strockmire. We’ve gotta get you out of here.”

“You’re what?” Zimbaldi said.

Jack heard a car squeal to a halt in the parking lot below followed by four doors slamming. “Listen, Doctor, we need to leave right now. Your life is in danger. It’s about that stuff Herman gave you—the fifty-page encryption.”

“That’s silly.”

Jack didn’t have time to discuss it, so he turned and pulled the confused Dr. Zimbaldi out of the apartment and into the corridor.

“Where’s the service elevator?”

“There isn’t one.”

Just then the doorway to the staircase flew open and two men in jeans, combat boots, and windbreakers appeared.

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