CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Too Tired to Dance with a Second Partner
Latrice and Smitty started ransacking the place. They yanked display cases off the walls and knocked over lamps and chairs. Coming up empty-handed made them both as mean as hell, especially Latrice. They went in to and out of rooms, opened closet doors, and checked the basement and the attic. Their only concern was to find the rubies, Blair Vaughn, or both. Meanwhile, Blair held steady and waited, hoping to blend in with the Oriental plush under the sofa. His heart pounded so hard, he thought the whole world could hear it.
After noticing that the empty bottle of gin had toppled to the floor, Blair reached out with his foot and rolled it over to him. Snatching it up and gripping the bottle neck tight, he wasn’t above using it as a weapon if the need should arise.
Latrice had the shorter temper. Thomas had an assortment of mallets hanging in the study, so Latrice grabbed one and started trashing everything. So preoccupied with what Latrice was doing, it came as a surprise to Blair when he felt hands grasp one of his ankles and then start pulling.
“Son of a bitch!” Detective Smitty said, the big man muscling the sofa over with one of his shoulders.
The minute the sofa tumbled over, Smitty’s enormous face sucked up a full and uninhibited blow from the bottle in Blair’s hand. All Blair could think about was how thankful he was that the bottle had been empty so no gin had been wasted. Broken glass rained down around them both, a tiny chip managing to fly into one of Blair’s eyes. He got up on his knees and pawed at the wound, causing the fragment to gouge even more against his cornea and lid. There was blood on his fingers when he drew his hand away, and his eye was stinging like crazy. Both eyes started tearing, and his vision was very cloudy.
Even so, his situation wasn’t nearly as bad as southeast Michigan’s finest detective. Squinting, Blair found Smitty sprawled out at his feet, his big face cracked open and quite bloody. He never looked better.
“Ahhhhhh!” Latrice roared as he ran toward Blair with the mallet poised in both hands and raised high above his head. Those oval glasses he wore reflected the lamplight like a pair of oncoming headlights. That soft-spoken man of few words could yell pretty damn loud once he got started.
Blair tried to block the blow, but all he really succeeded in doing was to bend a couple of his fingers back, and that sent him roaring as well. The force of impact was enough to drive Blair down to Latrice’s feet. Latrice swung the mallet again and Blair rolled away just before it struck the floor. The mallet broke through the floorboards and got stuck for a moment, but Latrice was a resourceful cuss. He yanked it up and out of the floor, sending splinters flying.
Latrice had gotten the mallet again, but the effort made him lose his balance and stumble back where Ingrid’s body was still lying on the floor. Now that was a dumb thing to do, especially since he’d left the carving knife so carelessly sticking out of her belly. An eighteen-inch waist left a generous portion of a straight, nineteen-inch blade waving high in the sky. When Latrice fell on her, the carver sliced deep into his own back and he let out a yell even louder than the first one. Blair wasn’t much for fighting fair, so when the opportunity arose to jump on Latrice while he was still caught unawares, he took it.
Blair slammed his left foot down on Latrice’s arm to anchor it while he used his other foot to stomp on Latrice’s hand until he dropped the mallet. Managing to push the mallet several feet away from Latrice, Blair grappled with the illusion that he was finally safe and sound. No such luck. Latrice started kicking him in the leg, obviously trying to break his kneecap, but thankfully only managed to knock Blair off his feet.
What a mistake that was, because Blair fell right on top of Latrice and drove that carver even deeper into his back. That baby must’ve been all the way to the hilt by now. Latrice started squealing right in Blair’s ear and couldn’t seem to shove Blair’s dead weight off fast enough. He hurled Blair against the staircase and when Blair turned around to see what he was doing, Latrice was trying to stand up.
“Uh-uh,” Blair said, so Latrice stopped moving. “If you stand up, the knife will stay inside Ingrid and you’ll open up your own wound. You’ll bleed to death for sure. The knife entered dead center and just below your shoulder blades. You’ll need help plugging up that hole.” Blair shook his head. “Don’t expect any help from me.”
“Son of a bitch!” Latrice said, pulling the knife out of his back and then forcing himself up on his feet. When he lunged at Blair, they both fell onto the steps. Latrice was a lot stronger and more determined than Blair had given him credit for. Still, Blair was right about the hole in Latrice’s back; the minute he’d forced the blade out, blood started gushing.
Latrice grabbed Blair by the face and started pounding his head against one of the steps. Retaliating by taking hold of Latrice’s face as well, Blair dug as deeply as a healthy set of fingernails would go. Although Blair was doing some damage, Latrice’s methods were far more effective. A few more blows to the head and Blair would’ve passed out for sure. But for no apparent reason, Latrice eased his grip for a moment, so Blair took that opportunity to give the lapidary an elbow in the nose. The blow broke Latrice’s glasses, cutting his left cheek. As Latrice backed off to assess the damage, Blair used his knee to nail Latrice in the groin before bolting for the front door.
Somehow Latrice managed to trip Blair by tying up his legs with a tackle any college football coach would’ve been proud of. As soon as Blair hit the floor, he rolled away and tried to stand up, but Latrice held on and slammed him back down again. While Blair was pinned down, Latrice reached over and picked up Thomas’s gemoscope, which had been lying on the floor, and tried to bash Blair’s head in with it.
Blair grabbed Latrice’s left arm and stopped the oncoming gemoscope when it was only about three inches from his nose. An adrenalin rush allowed Blair to handle Latrice a little easier. Latrice was a strong man, and he held onto that microscope as if his finding those gemstones depended on it. When he figured he couldn’t get past Blair’s defense, Latrice got cute and just let it drop on Blair’s face, bloodying his nose.
“I know you’ve got them, you piece of shit!” Latrice said. “Where are those frigging rocks?”
“I swallowed them,” Blair said. “I guess you’ll have to wait until I pass them.”
Putting his hand on Blair’s neck and then giving it a squeeze, Latrice retorted, “Or maybe I’ll just cut you open and pull them out before they get that far!”
All of a sudden Latrice gasped, drawing attention to his milky white face. Even though Latrice was still sitting on Blair’s chest, his whole body began to twitch like a stressed muscle. Blood was already rolling out of his mouth and dousing Blair’s neck and chin. Perhaps the poor bastard was going to drop without any help from yours truly. Gravity was about to do it all.
Latrice started convulsing as he fell beside Blair on the floor. The back of his shirt was drenched in blood. He tried to speak, but the only sound he made was a gurgle through the blood pooling in his mouth. His eyes were open and he was still twitching like hell, but it was a safe bet that he might never get up again.
Noticing Latrice’s felt hat resting on one of the pegs by the front door, Blair walked over and took it down. The dark gray derby had a rounded crown and a narrow brim. It was a gentlemen’s hat. Too bad Latrice was no gentleman. Blair took it over to where Latrice was lying supine on the floor and then dropped it over the lapidary’s face, covering bent frames, broken lenses, black eyes, and all.
Meanwhile, Detective Smith had started moaning, so cautiously Blair stepped closer to the large man. After tussling with Latrice for almost a quarter of an hour, he was too tired to dance with a second partner. Slipping Smith’s gun from a chest holster and then tossing it across the room, Blair then fumbled through Smith’s pockets to find something useful. A set of handcuffs was attached to his belt. Taking the handcuff key out of the detective’s pocket and then tossing it away as well, Blair exerted great effort to roll Smith o
nto his stomach. Then he handcuffed the big man’s right hand to his left foot from behind his back to be sure that he’d be adequately incapacitated when he awoke.
Ignoring Latrice’s plight, Blair knelt beside Ingrid. The lobe of her right ear had been clipped off, and her lips were bruised. Her neck was gaping, allowing her body to settle into a puddle of blood. Blair took her hand and held it, checking for a radial pulse and then for one in her neck. There was none.
Ingrid’s sultry, blonde locks looked as vivid as the sun against the dark, hardwood floor. Even in death she was a beautiful woman. Feisty, forthright, feminine…. That was Ingrid Detweiler. She was probably in heaven right now advising God on how He should redecorate His palace.
Blair leaned away from Ingrid and threw up on the floor. His stomach felt hot and his head was pounding loud enough to register on a Richter scale. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and then rubbed his temples before burying his face in his hands. Having been too preoccupied to realize how sick he was, he made up for the neglect by letting go with a second load of vomit, adding to the generous portion that had preceded it.