Read an Excerpt
I rapped loudly on the door frame with my knuckles and called out, "Gunnar's here!"
No answer. I stepped inside. Immediately my feet decided to stay put.
Each wall had a window with gray pull-down shades, and someone with a severe case of agoraphobia had them all pulled down to keep out prying eyes. But Rune was anything but an agoraphobic.
Only one light was left on. It was coming from one of those hula girl motion lamps with a swivel setting so that the bare-breasted wahine actually gyrated in her grass skirt. She wasn't gyrating at the moment, however. It was as if she sensed there'd be no point.
The walls had the kind of smooth patina that comes from numerous tenants and many layers of paint. If you didn't count a tiny bathroom and a tinier clothes closet with their doors left wide open, the place was just one big room. There was a small kitchenette in one corner off to my right, marked off by a small half wall with a countertop. Diagonally across the room from that was a mirror-backed putaway Murphy bed. The intervening space had a tan carpet and furniture of so-so quality but not much of it. A mismatched armchair was parked next to a sofa upholstered with clashing jacquard fabric. A small end table with the hula girl lamp was near the chair. Next to the base of the lamp was a pricey Contax camera that Rune had more than likely borrowed. I knew that Rune owned a Colt .32 automatic with mother-of-pearl grips, but it was nowhere in sight, even though an open box of ammunition was sitting right next to the camera. Beside the sofa was a small chairside radio stuffed with magazines that spilled out of its built-in book rack.
Peeking just past the radio was a pair of brown-and-white shoes. They were still on the feet that wore them when I'd seen them earlier in the evening. My stomach got tight and I suddenly felt crawly all over. His feet didn't move, so mine finally did.
I circled around the sofa.
He was on his back.
His dreamy brown eyes stared off at nothing in particular. His hair was tousled and his lips were parted and fixed in a grin, as if he was about to ask an important question. His arms were at his sides, the left hand out a bit, the right hand partially pinned under him. He wasn't wearing his cream-colored sports jacket, and the red in his Hawaiian shirt was now a deeper hue around his chest.
He was as motionless as his hula girl lamp. I kneeled down and touched his neck anyway. He was still warm, but there was no thump, no pound, no throb. His swivel setting had definitely been switched off. Aloha Rune.
