Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers) Read Online Free PDF Page A

crashing waves – that had been real as well, not some photographer’s backdrop. Really in Hawaii.
     
    That had been a long time ago. He touched the thin glass over the photo with his fingertips. After a moment, he took it off the little brad behind, leaving a lighter spot on the wall in the shape of the frame.
     
    He carried the photo into the kitchen and tossed it into the trash can beside the sink.
     
    When he came back out, he was carrying a cardboard box he’d taken from one of the cupboards. He sat down with it at the Formica-topped table in the middle of the front room. With his forearm, he made himself some working space, scraping aside the food-encrusted dishes from his last several meals there. But he’d forgotten something; he pushed the chair back, went over to the door and dug his gun out of his overcoat pocket. Then he set back down and began methodically cleaning it, using the blackened rag and the tools from the cardboard box.
     
    It took him a while. He meant it to. The longer it took, the less time there would be to think about other things.
     
    When he finished, he put the rag and tools away. From the box, he took out a carton of ammo and reloaded the gun. Carefully, sliding the bullets in one by one.
     
    He set the gun down on the table. With his hands in his lap, he sat regarding it for a few moments. Then he reached toward it, but stopped just an inch away from picking it up. He watched the slight but noticeable tremor in his hand.
     
    After a couple of seconds, it got worse. He balled his hand into a fist, the knuckles whitening as he tried to keep it from shaking.
     
    He didn’t react when the muzzle of another gun – a bigger one, a .357 – came up behind his ear.
     
    “Hello, Kim.” That was all he said.
     
    I lowered the gun. “How’d you know it was me?”
     
    “I knew you were here soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t have to see you.”
     
    “Damn.” I’d thought I’d been putting one over on him. Taking it slow, hanging out in the apartment’s unlit bedroom, with the door just open a crack so I’d been able to watch him doing his gun-cleaning ritual. I’d thought it was only polite, not to interrupt him during that.
     
    “Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chair on the other side of the table.
     
    “Hold on a second.” I head back toward the bedroom with my gun. “I have to put this away.”
     
    I returned with my backpack, stuffing the .357 inside it. “You knew I was here?” I set the pack beside the chair as I sat down. “How?”
     
    “Easy.” He leaned back in his chair. “I smelled you.”
     
    “Um . . . that’s weird.” Made me a little uncomfortable. “You know . . . I don’t wear any perfume or stuff like that.”
     
    “It’s the soap.”
     
    That figured. My brother Donnie had talked me into buying some kind of shower gel that one of his favorite NASCAR drivers did TV commercials for. Why anybody would want to smell like a sweaty fire suit was beyond me – actually, though, the stuff smelled more like breath mints on steroids. I’m not sure what the connection between that and race cars is. But the shower in our crummy apartment already was barely big enough for even me to turn around in, so I’d decided that one bottle of liquid soap was sufficient. I guess I had been smelling of it the last time I’d talked to Curt.
     
    Which just went to show how sharp he still was. He remembered stuff like that, filing little details away inside his head. I’d spotted the tremor in his hand – actually, I’d noticed it before – but his mind was still sharp as ever.
     
    Or at least I hoped it still was.
     
    With his thumb, he wiped a grease spot from his other wrist. “How’d you get in?”
     
    “Your landlady,” I said. “She remembered me, too. From before.”
     
    “She’s got a good memory.” He nodded appreciatively. “Good as mine.”
     
    “So how you been?”
     
    “All right.” He gave a shrug.