14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 63

BROWARD HAD AS much as said he recognized Tina Strichler. But I wanted to hear him actually say it.

“You know this woman?” I asked.

“Come in,” he said. “I don’t bite. Even Hauser don’t bite.”

He yanked on the dog’s collar, shoved the dog into a bedroom, and closed the door.

I put my hand on my gun, cautiously entered the house, and looked around. The interior of the place looked like American Pickers meets Hoarding: Buried Alive.

There wasn’t one inch of clean or uncluttered surface. There were live chickens in a slatted box under a table, canned food stacked against the walls to the ceiling, boxes of ammo on countertops, and guns hanging from racks on the walls.

I scanned the room for trophies of dead women. I was looking for photos or newspaper clippings taped to the wall or signs of the abused wife. I also looked for a collection of assorted knives that might have been used to commit murder and then been taken away by the killer.

But mainly, I was so stunned by the chaos that I lost sight of Broward—until I felt a cold gun muzzle against the back of my neck.

Wayne Broward said, “Why don’t you take off your gun and stay awhile.”

“Love to,” I said, fear and shame flooding my body to my fingertips and out through my eyes. I was a jerk. I’d walked right into this, and I might die in this very room.

“I’m taking my gun out very slowly,” I said, my back to him. “Just using my fingertips.”

As I was trained to do, I spun around fast, knocked the barrel of Broward’s rifle away from me, grabbed the rifle with both hands, and wrenched it out of Broward’s grip, throwing him off balance. I flung the rifle far from where I stood. As it clattered against a wall hung with hubcaps, I pulled my Glock and leveled it at Broward’s nose.

From the chill at the back of my neck to the Glock in my hand took about ten seconds, but it felt like the last ten seconds of my life. Hauser was barking his head off, and I wondered at my luck, that Broward had underestimated me and had put the dog behind a door.

“Bitch,” Broward spat at me. “I shoulda shot you. I coulda done anything to you. No one would ever know what happened to you.”

“Turn around. Put your hands on your head,” I said.

He did it.

“I coulda given you a real good ride first,” he said mournfully. “I haven’t had a blond in a while.”

“Shut the hell up,” I said.

I holstered my gun, wrenched Broward’s arms down, and cuffed him behind his back.

“You’re under arrest for assault on a police officer,” I said. And then I read him his rights.