Free The Blonde by Duane Swierczynski

you see strapped to twenty-something hipsters. He opened the flap, and yep, she wasn’t kidding. Handcuffs. He gently placed them on the carpet, trying to avoid the sound of metal jangling.
    They weren’t authentic police handcuffs. Unless some city departments had started purchasing restraints from a store called the Pleasure Chest. The name was featured on a purple stamp on the base of one of the cuffs. Hot-cha.
    Still, they seemed solid enough. Sex games were no fun unless there was that element of realism.
    Enough to cuff her to the bed while he called the police.
    Let them arrive, and she can tell them all about the Operator and Alary Kate and Bob Saget and whoever else is in the Full Nut-House in her mind. They could force her to surrender the antidote. … In fact, wait a fucking sec. It was probably right here, in her bag.
    As quietly as he could, Jack fished around in her bag, but he found only three items of interest, poisonwise. A bottle of CVS-brand contact lens rewetting drops. Clear liquid inside. Could she have used this to store the antidote? There was also a plastic tube with a Tylenol Extra Strength label on it. He twisted it open. It was full of round white tablets. He shook one out—they were stamped OP 706. No idea. So maybe they were it. Finally, there was a sheet of foil-wrapped Imodium tablets. Or at least they looked like Imodium. Could be anything.
    Was it one of these three? Did she even have it on her? Well, the police would be able to make her talk.
    Jack picked up the handcuffs and crept closer to Kelly. She was the kind of woman who slept with her arms over her head, which was perfect. He placed one of the cuffs around her wrist and gently snapped it into place.
    Her eyes opened. She breathed sharply. Then she screamed, “
No!
”
    Jack hooked the other cuff around the bedpost.
Snap it, snap it, c’?non, snap it.
… Kelly yanked her hand away. The cuff clanged against brass, then slid free. Then she smashed her forehead into Jack’s nose. His face went numb. His eyes closed defensively. It was like someone had pushed him under chlorinated water before he had a chance to hold his nose. Burning liquid, up his nose and down his throat.
    Then he felt a blow to his chest, and he fell backward to the carpet.
    Kelly was astride him in seconds. Her thighs squeezed his rib cage, which was amazingly painful.
    “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. Jack coughed; the burning in his nose intensified. “But you almost killed me. You have to understand that.”
    She squeezed his chest again, and Jack felt the cool metal over his wrist. Then a click.
    “I thought you
believed me
.”

1:50  a.m.
    Little Pete’s Restaurant, Seventeenth Street
     
    T he all-night diner was called Little Pete’s. It lived up to its name. It was a tiny rectangular wedge on the first floor of a seven-story garage complex. Just enough room for a row of six booths, a breakfast counter, a compact cashier’s station, and a stainless-steel kitchen in back. It was a greasy spoon as imagined byFisher-Price. But it was the only thing open this time of night in this part of town. And that’s where his handler had told him to go.
    Good news was, the night was almost over for him. Sure, it’d had its bumps, but four hours of work wasn’t too hideous. He could get some sleep and resume his personal mission the next evening.
    Kowalski had called his handler once he was safely away from the scene of his most recent crimes. One headless burned guy (not his fault!) in a burned-out shell of a house, one dead woman in a shallow creek, one strangled asshole in his own living room. He’d taken the asshole’s Audi—an awfully nice car for a young college professor. Maybe the guy—Robert Lankford, according to his ID—had had a sideline going. Stay up all night, hoping that armed robbers would wander by his backyard. Take a cut of the loot, buy some flashy wheels to impress the barely dressed undergrad criminal justice