Long: A Secret Baby Sports Romance(113)

Finally, around three in the morning, when hope was just a tiny speck of shit in the sky, a car pulled up outside his building. I perked up and watched closely as a guy got out. He looked to be about Sergey’s build, but it was hard to tell at night, especially considering I had only gotten a quick look at him originally before knocking him the fuck out. The guy disappeared inside the building, and I felt a bolt of adrenaline hit me as a light flicked on up in a third-floor window.

Perfect. All of my patience was paying off. I pushed up off the wall and headed over toward the building, heart beating hard in my chest as I rehearsed my plan in my head.

Up in front of the door, I looked at the intercom and hit the buzzer for the third floor.

I waited. Nothing happened.

I hit it again, this time holding it longer.

Nothing. I hit it again, and finally a haggard-sounding man responded.

“Who the fuck is it?” he said, clearly angry.

“Hi,” I said quickly. “So sorry to bother you. I’m your new neighbor downstairs and I locked myself out. I was hoping someone could buzz me in?”

“Fine. Just don’t buzz me again,” he grunted.

The door’s buzzer sounded, and I felt elated as I pushed into the building. I couldn’t believe it had worked, but I was willing to bet that Sergey would have buzzed in anyone just to get them to shut up. The guy didn’t seem too bright or patient.

The building was drab and seedy. Whoever had done the construction to turn the house into three apartments hadn’t done a great job. The stairs felt rickety as I walked up toward the third-floor landing.

I stood in front of his door and took a deep breath. Now was the real shit. Now I’d find out the truth.

I banged. “Police,” I yelled. “Open the fuck up.”

There was silence on the other side. Then, “Fuck off,” Sergey said.

Asshole. I banged again, more insistently.

“Shut the fuck up,” he yelled.

“Last chance,” I called back.

“You fuck off or I call the real cops.”

I grinned to myself and stepped back. I kicked my foot forward, aiming for just above the lock. The door buckled but didn’t break.

“Whoa!” Sergey yelled.

I kicked out again. The door buckled again and was hanging on by splinters.

“Who the fuck!” he yelled.

I kicked one last time, blowing the door inward.

Sergey was standing just inside, wearing a tight white T-shirt that barely hung over his gut and loose boxer shorts. He stared at me in fear.

“Sergey Svitko?” I asked him.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You’re Cole Redson.”

“God damn right I am,” I said. I pulled what was left of the door shut behind me as I hustled him into his kitchen.

“What the hell is happening?” he asked.

“Sit,” I said, nodding at a chair. He listened, though I could tell he was beginning to find some confidence.

I needed to shut that down immediately. I got in his face. “Do you get off on blackmailing people?” I asked him.

He looked surprised. “What are you talking about? You people paid me off. I thought we were done with this crap.”

I cocked my head. Paid him off? That made sense; that was probably how the charges had disappeared. So it seemed Cindy and Frank were not above lying, or at least only telling partial truths.

“Who paid you off?” I asked him.

“Some big bastard. Never got his name. Said I either took his money and went back to L.A. or he’d break my spine.”

“Listen to me, Sergey,” I said softly.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“Finding you was easy. Listen to me now.” I was right in his face, practically breathing into his nose.

He nodded.

“I got your package. I know you took pictures you shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying to me, but I don’t fucking care. Tell me who you sold them to and I’m gone.”

“You dick,” he said, angry now. “You bust into my apartment and accuse me of blackmail? I’m a respected journalist!”

“You sell pictures of celebrities in bikinis and write gossip for cheap magazines. You sell lies and you spy on people.”

“Still journalism!”

“No,” I said slowly, “it isn’t. Now tell me who you sold the pictures to.”

“I didn’t take any pictures that night,” he grumbled. “I didn’t get a chance because you fucking punched me.”

“I’m going to do worse than just punch you right now,” I growled, getting angry. “Tell me. Now.”

“I’m telling the truth,” he said. “Look!” He pointed back into the living room. “All of my memory cards are in there. You can have that night’s. I don’t have anything on it.”