Chasing the Wicked by D.J. Maughan

Author:D.J. Maughan [Maughan, D.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter twenty-eight

Detective Szabo

He exits the front doors of the building, and I start the engine. He walks as if he has no care in the world. What kind of person can kill another and feel no remorse? No guilt. He disgusts me. Every day, I’ve looked a trafficker and killer in the eye without knowing it. I follow him as he walks to the parking garage and gets in his car. He takes the same route as the other night, except this time, he turns on his street and parks. He gets out and goes inside. I’ve got to get in there. There must be evidence inside. He’s too clever to leave anything at the office. Maybe he’ll leave again tonight, and I’ll get my chance.

I turn on the radio and lean back in my seat. Danubius Rádió is playing a song by a Hungarian rock band, Locomotiv GT. I remember not too long ago, all the music on the radio was Hungarian. Now, English is more common than our own language. I let the love song take me, and my mind wanders back to last night. I went to see Zsuzsa. I told her it was because I wondered if she had talked to the woman in Újpest. And yes, it was true. I was curious. But more than that, I wanted to see her. When she saw me sitting at a table alone, she actually smiled. She was pleased to see me. It’s the first time she’s ever smiled when seeing me. Since leaving the restaurant, that smile hasn’t left my mind. I imagine what it might be like to see it daily.

After exchanging pleasantries, I asked her about the mother in Újpest. The question seemed to catch her off guard, and she hesitated. I got the feeling she was debating what to say. She said she couldn’t get the woman to talk. But I could tell there was something more to it.

Movement in my rearview mirror pulls me from the memory. Before I can react, someone opens my car door and sits beside me. I reach for my gun, but I’m too late. A gun is pressed to my ear. From the corner of my eye, I see my attacker.

“What are you doing?”

“Stopping you from doing something you’ll regret.” Peter pulls his gun away.

“You didn’t have to hold a gun to my head.”

He waves it in his hand. “No bullets.” As if my comment reminds him, he empties bullets from his jacket pocket and loads the gun. “Still think I killed Kovacs?” he asks and smiles.

I ignore the question. “How did you get back in the country? You left. I know you did.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t easy. I had to sneak back in.” He finishes with his gun, checks the safety, then puts it back in his pocket. “Look, we need to talk. I know what you think, but you’re wrong.”

I stare at him. “About what?”

“About the mole. About Farkas.”

“I see going back to America hasn’t changed you.

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