The Pretender's Gambit. Alex Archer

herself.

      Backing away, Annja pointed the pistol at the second man. “Roll over onto your stomach. Lock your fingers behind your head. I’m sure you’re familiar with the drill.”

      Without a word, the man did as he was ordered. The first man lay unconscious. Three uniformed police officers sprinted up the street toward Annja.

      Out on the street, the driver of the approaching car slowed, then saw that the odds had shifted. Ducking down, the man pulled toward an alley and drove away.

      The police officers pointed their weapons at Annja. One of them addressed her in a too-loud but calm voice. “Ma’am, put down the weapon.”

      Annja complied, then laid on her stomach the same way the man she’d captured was. Handcuffs closed around her wrists and she kept telling herself that Bart would get her cut loose as soon as he was able.

      Being handcuffed didn’t bother her so much, though. It was the thought of the elephant, lost out there, people chasing after it for some unknown reason, and she was getting behind in that pursuit.

Chapter 7

      “Are you sure you’re okay?”

      Shaking her head, Annja made an effort to stop rubbing her bruised wrists. Although the pain had subsided, they still throbbed from the constriction they’d suffered while she’d been brought down to the police station. The policeman who had put the handcuffs on had put them on tight and time had passed before Bart could get free of the paramedics and the investigators and arrive to release her. “I’m fine.”

      Bart squinted up at her as if taking her measure. “You don’t look so good.”

      “Me?” She frowned at Bart, who was sitting on the other side of his desk in the detectives’ bull pen. All around the station cops were fielding reports and filling out forms. Evidently Benyovszky’s murder and the shoot-out at the diner hadn’t been the only things going on tonight. The conversations and the constant noise distanced her from the memory of the old man lying dead in his apartment and the violence in the diner that had spilled out into the street. “You’re the one who got shot.”

      In the uncertain glare of the fluorescent lighting, Bart looked pale and haggard. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and breathed shallowly. His shirttails were out and his tie hung in a coat pocket. “The vest stopped the bullets.”

      “The vest doesn’t stop the impact. That’s still like getting hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.”

      Bart grinned at her ruefully. “How would you know something like that?”

      Actually, Annja had experienced that same injury on occasion, as well as getting shot. Things hadn’t been dull since the sword had come into her possession. She didn’t know if the increased danger was just her lifestyle or a byproduct of having the sword.

      “There was a special on the History Channel about body armor,” she replied. “You should go to the emergency room and get checked out. In addition to the bruising, the hydrostatic shock caused by the impacts could have cracked your ribs or torn muscles.”

      “I’ll be fine.” Bart opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of pain relievers and shook a couple tablets out into his hand. He swallowed them down dry and grimaced, at the taste or the pain, Annja wasn’t sure which. He put the bottle back in the desk drawer. “There’s a line at the hospital. There always is. If this is still hurting in a few hours, I’ll go in.” He took a breath gingerly and winced. “In the meantime, I’ve got a case I’m working on that just blew up big-time, and I still have no idea why people are shooting up the neighborhood over an elephant statue we can’t find.”

      Annja decided not to press the issue and risk reminding Bart that she was just a civilian pushing into police business. Friendship would only carry her so far, and she knew Bart wouldn’t bend regulations any further. She massaged her wrists again. “Do you have anything on the two men who were arrested at the diner?”

      “I do.” Bart stood with effort and picked up a file folder from the desktop. “Come with me.”

      * * *

      “HIS NAME’S FRANCISCO CALAPEZ.” Bart peered through the one-way glass into the interview room at the man sitting alone at a desk.

      Calapez sat in a straight-backed chair that was bolted to the floor. Other than the two chairs, one across from the other, and the table, the room offered nothing more in furnishings or accoutrements. Hands cuffed to the table in front of him, one of them sleeved in a temporary cast, Calapez looked uncomfortable and half-asleep.

      Holding her arms across her chest because it made the bruises on her wrists throb less painfully, Annja peered through the one-way glass. “What’s he saying?”

      Bart shook his head. “Nothing. He started yelling lawyer as soon as we sat down to talk to him. We only got a name because his prints rolled up in the system. We’re not even certain that’s his real name yet. We’re still awaiting verification on a true ID. According to the files I’ve seen, and there may be more hits coming in soon because this guy, whoever he turns out to be, has got a record in Europe that’s coming in to us in pieces.”

      Annja thought about that. “What kind of history does he have?”

      “Guy’s a strong-arm, probably a killer, but no one’s ever pinned that on him.”

      “He told me he didn’t kill Benyovszky.”

      “How did you have time for a discussion in the middle of everything that was going on?”

      “He brought it up. He asked me if I knew who killed Benyovszky. Calapez wants the elephant.”

      “Did he say why?”

      “No.”

      “If the guy’s going to shoot at you—and he did—” Bart pointed to his chest “—it’s a safe bet he’s going to lie to you, too.”

      “I don’t think he killed him.”

      Bart sighed, but carefully. “Neither do I. If Calapez had killed Benyovszky and taken the elephant—which this all seems to focus on, he would have disappeared. We took his shoes when we brought him in because we noticed dried blood on them.”

      Annja glanced down at Calapez’s sock-covered feet.

      “The lab has the shoes now, but there were traces of blood in the tread, and I’m betting that blood at one time pumped through Maurice Benyovszky.”

      “No bet.”

      “The lab will take a while getting the results back to us, though. So for right now, I can’t put Calapez in Benyovszky’s apartment. Which means all I have him on is a weapons charge and intent to murder at the diner.”

      “Isn’t that enough?”

      “I hope so. Depends on the judge and how much money Calapez can get his hands on. If this guy makes bail, he could be in the wind and we might never see him again.”

      “Even after him blasting away inside the diner?”

      “Yeah. Until we can prove he killed somebody, we can’t leverage enough to guarantee he’ll be held without bail. If we could prove he was a threat to national security, we could lock him down tight.”

      “But Calapez could walk away from this.”

      “He could.” Bart grimaced.

      On one hand, Annja couldn’t believe Calapez could be released, but on the other she knew that things often happened just as Bart described. When he was feeling particularly irritated at his job, he sometimes stated that the justice system protected criminals more than it protected citizens. Of course, that took a really bad day for him to bring that up.

      Annja thought about that for a moment. “Can you connect Calapez or the other man who was arrested