“What!” Decker’s heart was hammering against his chest.
“She’s dead! Can’t you hear! She’s dead! She’s dead! She’s dead!”
The woman’s knees buckled. Decker caught her as she passed out.
21
He was operating on overdrive, pure speed and adrenaline tearing out of upstate, hitting the city by eleven, and getting off the parkway at 132nd. He found parking a block away, then ran over to the building. Punching the button. This time, it was Donatti’s voice from the intercom, annoyance in the bastard’s voice. Breathing hard, Decker announced his name and was buzzed in. The reception area was empty-no guard, no secretary-and that made sense because it was lunchtime. Decker marched through the metal detector, setting it off with his keys. He didn’t bother to retrace his steps because Donatti had opened the inner door. The kid was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt over jeans. Decker stomped past him, into the studio.
Donatti’s irritation turned to anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Dozens of pornographic photos were spread out over a large conference table-snapshots of teenage girls with pursed lips and bedroom eyes doing things to gray-haired, potbellied men. Obscene pictures made even more outrageous because Donatti was a hell of a photographer. Rage boiled over in Decker’s gut, turning his face into something feral. Donatti caught the look, his eyes equally furious.
“Who the fuck are you to judge me?! Get the fuck out-”
Decker caught him by the throat and threw him against the wall. Using his body weight, he leaned his knee hard against Donatti’s groin, tightening his fingers around the son of a bitch’s throat, trying to pin his hands with his shoulders. The harder Donatti struggled, the more pressure Decker applied to the windpipe. He pressed his kneecap harder against the kid’s crotch.
“What did you do to her?” Decker growled out.
Red-faced and flushed, Chris managed to shake his head.
“Talk to me, dammit!” He gripped harder and spoke louder. “What did you do to her?”
“Who?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Shayndie! She’s dead! What did you do-”
“Noth-”
“STOP LYING, YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?”
“I can’t talk…”
His eyes rolled back in his head. Decker loosened his fingers, giving him enough air to breathe and speak. “Answer my question, or I’ll kill you.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I just saw her six hours ago,” he choked out in a whisper. “She was fine. Let me go!”
Decker gave a final squeeze, then abruptly pushed him away. Donatti fell down to his knees, holding his throat, gasping for breath. Decker paced with hard clomps against the wooden floor.
“You said she was safe with you! You said she’d be okay! You told me you’d take care of it, and I trusted you, Donatti. Either you were lying or you fucked up. And by fucked up, I mean fucked up big time!”
Still red from oxygen buildup, Donatti could only stare at him. He panted like an overworked bulldog, then abruptly broke out in a ripe, rich sweat, drenching his face, shirt, and pants. His mouth began to spew froth, and for a brief moment, Decker thought he was going to have a seizure. Instead, Donatti got wide-eyed, stood up, and kicked the underside of a conference table so hard that the pictures flew up, wafted in the air, then rained down. Another kick and the table fell over.
From that moment on, every item in the room became a projectile-articles from his prop box, his tripod, stands, chairs, lamps, the coffeemaker, the mugs, his booze, his glasses, whatever Chris could lay his hands on-except his cello. Objects whizzed by at Mach speed-the kid had an arm-and although nothing was deliberately directed toward Decker, it didn’t matter. So many things were flying rapidly and with such force. Solid objects hurtled across the room, crashing and smashing, splattering shards and blades of ceramic and glass. Decker couldn’t step or move anywhere. He balled himself up in a corner.
“Donatti, stop!” he ordered.
But Donatti didn’t stop. A decanter was pitched in Decker’s direction, missing his head by inches. A quick sidestep had saved his skull from massive injury.
“Donatti-”
CRASH!
“Chris…” Decker inched his way over to him, using his arms and jacket for protection. “Stop it, dammit! Chris!”
He touched Donatti’s shoulder. He should have known better. Even so, he would have successfully evaded the blow.
Except he had forgotten that Chris was left-handed.
Decker took the clip full-faced, staggering three steps backward before he hit the wall and collapsed. His vision was starry; his head felt as if broken into a million pieces. When he could see again, he realized-with some minor satisfaction-that his jaw was whole. His nose might be another story. It was bleeding profusely, as was his lip. He could see and hear, at least well enough to realize that Donatti had moved on-from throwing to ranting.
“… know what this is going to do to my reputation? Do you know what this is going to do to my bitches? If I don’t find this motherfucker and fast, you might as well put a fucking bullet through my fucking head because I’m as good as fucking dead!”
Donatti was frothing at the mouth. He was shaking so hard his teeth were clattering. His face was dripping like a window in a rainstorm, sweat just pouring off his forehead. He was stomping back and forth, the heels of his boots stamping dents into the floor. Muttering, swearing, sweating, spewing. Then he punched the wall, knocking a hole in the drywall.
Still winded from the slam in the face, Decker continued to sit, hunched up on the floor. He wiped his nose on his shirt. “Help me up.”
Donatti whipped around and glowered in the direction of the voice, his eyes searching the room. When they found Decker, they regarded him as if he were a stranger.
“I said, help me up, dammit!” Decker ordered.
Donatti stopped pacing, still staring at Decker’s face. But he extended a hand and hoisted Decker back on his feet. Then he took two giant steps backward, shaking with rage and neurotransmitters. “Are you going to coldcock me if I turn my back?”
“Don’t tempt me!” Decker growled. He smoothed out his clothing and gingerly touched his face. “You need a drink. I’m going to get you some booze. Keep your friggin’ hands in your pockets!”
Donatti’s voice was still hoarse from being choked. He cleared his throat. “Get your face some ice while you’re at it.”
Pulling out a single bottle of scotch that had managed to survive the onslaught, Decker gave it to the kid. Then he took out an ice tray and liberated the frozen cubes. He wrapped them up in a paper towel and placed it against his rapidly swelling face.
Donatti offered the bottle to Decker, who grabbed it and took a healthy swig. Then he returned it. Chris took another drink.
Passing the bottle back and forth for another fifteen minutes, neither talking, but both of them snorting and swearing. The room was a disaster area-hot and stale and reeking of male stink. Decker felt his stomach lurch, but refused to show weakness by sitting down.
Minutes passed-five of them, then ten. Finally, Donatti took out his keys and opened the door to his private, bug-free office. As soon as they were both inside-the door locked and the switches on-they both collapsed into chairs. Donatti draped his upper body down on the table, cradling his head in his arms. His eyes were closed. He was still breathing hard, still sweating, although not nearly as copiously.