Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Read Online Free

daughter.”
    â€œCrikey.” Moose licked each fingertip, as if sending a Morse code message to himself. Harry Wilkerson was the big boss, the owner and CEO of his family’s pharmaceutical company; the man had zero interpersonal skills, yet he’d made billions, mainly by eliminating fiscal waste—and his competition, too, but what the hell. So why did old Harry want a bone marrow aspiration when a simple paternity test would suffice? Before Moose had become one of Wilkerson’s operatives, he’d worked briefly in the Hammersmith lab as a phlebotomist, so he knew about hematology and all that rubbish. Then again, what the bloody hell did it matter? As long as Moose received his paycheck and daily transfusions, he shouldn’t complain.
    â€œAnything else, guv’nor?” he’d asked Underwood.
    â€œDon’t kill her,” the little man said. “And don’t drink her blood.”
    â€œNo problem.” Moose shrugged. Like he’d want to feed from Wilkerson’s offspring. That would be a poisoned well, wouldn’t it, mate? Underwood gave him a snapshot of the girl, but it had slipped out of Moose’s pocket. He remembered she was blond and pretty. Just his type.
    Now he studied the brass nameplates beside the massive black door. The plates were lined up in two rows and each one had a corresponding buzzer. He couldn’t find one with the bird’s name, so he pushed the lot, hoping one or more of the wankers would buzz him in.
    They didn’t.
    Moose jimmied the door with a penknife and swaggered into the lobby. It smelled sweet, with rusty undertones. He pulled disposable booties over his shoes and hurried up the stairs. Each floor had the same dark wooden walls and crystal sconces. He took the steps two at a time. His satchel banged against his right leg, and he pressed his wide palm against it to silence the rattling. The bird would have to live on the top floor, but the rich went for rooftop gardens and sweeping views, didn’t they?
    Number 4-D stood at the end of a long paneled hall. The black door had a peephole. He moved toward it, pausing beside the sconces to unscrew the hot lightbulbs.
    Burned fingertips weren’t part of his job description. Many things weren’t. He didn’t like to burgle; his talents lay elsewhere: kidnappings, tracking, extortion, and assassinations. Danger gave him an adrenaline rush that made him feel alive. Moose thought of himself as a BBBS: a brilliant body bag specialist. Not to brag. It was the truth. Even with a bloody obsessive-compulsive disorder, he was top notch—better than the Zuba brothers.
    Outside 4-D, he opened his satchel and pulled on a surgical cap, tucking his wavy red hair inside. Next, he pulled on latex gloves and a paper scrub suit. Wilkerson had a “leave no DNA behind” policy. If you didn’t leave it, you weren’t there. Moose whistled under his breath as he uncapped a black pen and inked over the peephole. Then he leaned close to the door and meowed. This was his most brilliant talent: He could mimic any voice, but he excelled at cats and crying babies. Rich birds were pushovers for mewling kittens.
    Before he had time to put the marker away, the girl opened the door and let out a squeak. Clearly she’d expected to find a cat, not a large man in surgical attire. But oh, she was lovely, a wee, wispy thing with golden hair. She didn’t resemble Wilkerson, not in the least. So maybe she wasn’t his daughter, after all.
    She glared at Moose, tugging on the edges of her pink flannel jim-jams. “I heard a kitty,” she said.
    He meowed. She started to slam the door, but he lunged into the flat. His satchel banged to the floor as he clamped his hand over her mouth. With his other hand, he steered her down the narrow hall. Her muffled screams annoyed him.
    â€œShut your cake hole. I won’t hurt you,” he said.
    She screamed louder and flailed