Three Days in April Read Online Free PDF Page A

dripping down my cheeks like tears.
    The visuals on my wallscreen didn’t do this place justice. There are cracks in the concrete steps, cracks in the foundation, shutters on some of the windows and not on others. The paint has come off the siding in patches, and the power strips on the roof look like they’re starting to peel up. I’d fault Anders, but the rest of the block actually looks worse, and I’m guessing that if he put any effort to fixing this place up, he’d just make himself a target for a home invasion.
    I bump the door with my phone. Nothing happens. I try again. After the third time, it dawns on me that this door isn’t reading my phone because it has no electronics. It’s seriously just a big piece of wood on hinges. I give it a ­couple of whacks with the palm of my hand, wait five seconds, and give it a ­couple more. I’m about to try again when the door opens a crack, and I see a sliver of face and one eye peering out around a chain lock.
    â€œWe have a bell, you know. Are you with Dimitri?”
    â€œNo,” I say. “I am not with Dimitri. You’re not Anders. Is he in there?”
    The door closes, and I hear the rattle of the chain lock being unlatched. The door swings halfway open, and not-­Anders pokes his head out and looks around. He’s a weedy-­looking guy, skinny and pale, with a patchy little beard and blond dreads. He relaxes when he sees that I’m alone, steps back, and opens the door the rest of the way.
    â€œAnders is sleeping,” he says. “Apparently, he was up all night having sex with a prostitute. Wanna come in and wait for him to wake up?”
    â€œSure,” I say, and extend my hand. “I’m Terry. You know—­the prostitute.”
    He takes my hand, mock bows, and brushes my knuckles with his lips.
    â€œCharmed,” he says. “Please do come in.”
    I step past him, and he closes the door behind me. The interior is dim and cool, and much nicer than the street view would suggest. The foyer opens into a good-­sized living room, with a short hallway to the kitchen. They’ve got a decent, unpatched leatherette sofa, and a ­couple of gaming recliners facing what looks like a recent vintage wallscreen. I drop into one of the recliners, pop the footrest and lean back.
    â€œMake yourself comfortable,” he says. “I’m Gary, by the way. Are you really the prostitute?”
    I shrug.
    â€œApparently so.”
    He grins.
    â€œNeat. That must’ve looked like a Great Dane humping a Chihuahua. Can I get you anything?”
    â€œSome cold water? It’s hot as a monkey’s ass out there.”
    He gives me a quizzical look.
    â€œAre monkey’s asses really hot? Is that a thing?”
    â€œIt’s an expression.”
    â€œNo,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”
    I scowl. Despite its many shortcomings, the brow ridge is excellent for scowling.
    â€œIt is now,” I say. “Water?”
    â€œRight,” he says. “Coming up.”
    He backs out of the room, and shortly I hear running water, and the rattle of ice in a glass.
    â€œHouse,” I say. “Vids. Sports. Lacrosse.”
    â€œSorry,” it says, in Gary’s voice. “You are not authorized.”
    I scowl again, but it apparently doesn’t have the same effect on Gary’s avatar.
    â€œNot authorized?” I ask. “To turn on vids?”
    â€œYou’re not authorized for jack in this house, sister.”
    A sassy avatar. Great. Gary comes back with a glass in each hand.
    â€œSo,” I say. “You lock out your entertainment?”
    â€œI use the system for work.” He hands me my drink and flops onto the sofa. “I keep everything locked.”
    â€œKinda paranoid?”
    â€œNot really.” He takes a long drink, and I can actually see his pupils dilate. I’m pretty sure his is not water.