American Blood (14 page)
“No. But they’ll know something about it. You run into shitbags one day and then go missing the next, chances are said shitbags had something to do with it.”
“What’s that, the law of shitbags?”
“No. It’s common sense.”
Quiet a moment as they ate. That faint squeal of cutlery on plates. She said, “How’d you get this information? That she’d been in contact with them.”
“It’s just something I know.”
He sensed she wanted to push it, but she let it slide.
She said, “Right. How did you contact them?”
“I called Rojas.”
“How did you get his number?”
Marshall shrugged, worked carefully on his meal, not looking at her.
She said, “What did you say to him?”
“I said, I have some stuff you might want to look at.”
She looked around the room, taking everyone’s measure, and then settled back on him. “So he thought you’d lined him up for a deal.”
“Yeah. He thought he was getting a free product sample. But I broke Bolt’s nose and kicked Troy in the balls and asked them about the girl.”
“How did that go?”
Marshall chewed. He said, “They didn’t seem that pleased about it at the time. Which I guess explains their behavior this evening.”
“If you wanted to ask them what happened to the girl, you missed your opportunity. In fact, I’d say you made a bit of a meal of it.”
Marshall shook his head. He was down to his last pancake. He halved it carefully and damnit if that wasn’t a perfect fifty-fifty. He made a neat incision and cut the bottom point from the left segment and ate it. He said, “I don’t think so. They would have got home and taken stock of everything, and realized they’re dealing with someone who takes life mighty seriously.”
She didn’t answer. Marshall sat there chewing slowly with his forearms on the table either side of his plate. He looked at her and she looked back as she drank her coffee.
He said, “Besides. I figured they had you tied up so I didn’t want to rush in and risk you getting bulleted.”
“Bulleted?”
He nodded, faint amusement in his face. “It’s like billeted, but faster.” He looked at the window. “And they don’t send you anyplace nice.”
She didn’t answer.
He said, “How’d you find me?”
“Someone in the diner saw your little meeting. And then the same someone saw the state of Bolt and Rojas.”
“Was it the truck driver?”
She just looked at him and said nothing, but he figured he was right.
He said, “But then how did you find me?”
“You stopped for gas. I got your plate off the video and got your address.”
He nodded slowly, seeing her side of things. The Corolla had been a gamble. It was in his name, so it led back to the house on West Alameda. He needed Rojas and Bolt to find him, but it meant Shore had, too. He said, “And then you came looking at the same time as the rest of them.”
“Yeah.”
They sat quietly eating again. He finished his coffee, tipped the mug vertical to catch the dregs. He set it back in the little moisture ring it had made for itself. Down to his last half pancake now. “Can I ask you a question?”
She spread her hands, be my guest.
He said, “Why are you sitting here chewing the fat with me, rather than sending out the cavalry for Troy and Co.?”
She said, “Your neighbors would have called nine-one-one. Plus it was a case of issuing another lookout notice for a guy we’re already after, or trying to figure out what your deal might be.”
“And have you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But it was worthwhile.”
Marshall nodded. “I think so, too. I certainly like a good pancake.”
She said, “Never seen someone eat them like that.”
“Like what?”
“One at a time. Normally have them as a stack.”
Marshall nodded slowly, thinking it through. “More than one way to eat a pancake. My way’s best though. Take each one on its own merits.”
She didn’t answer. She’d only managed half the sandwich and didn’t seem to pose a threat to the rest of it. Marshall chased some crumbs and mashed them.
She said, “How did you get them out of the house?”
Marshall said, “I triggered the alarm on one of their cars and when the guy with the hair came out for a look, I caused a bit of a commotion.”
“I heard gunfire.”
“I imagine you would have.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
He took a moment to respond, the contents of his plate apparently demanding some focus. He said, “I didn’t shoot anyone to death.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
Marshall didn’t seem to register the question. Last quarter now.
She folded her arms on the edge of the table and leaned forward slightly, like now they were getting down to it. She said, “So what’s your story?”
“What do you mean?”
But he knew what she meant. She waited.
He said, “Well. The parts worth listening to are the same parts I don’t like discussing. So it leaves us in a bit of a pickle, narrative wise.”
He thought for a moment, looking out the window. “I’d say it’s Bible black and best forgotten.”
The thin smile again. “Dylan Thomas.”
Done. He paired up his cutlery in the center of the plate and pushed it aside. “Bible black? I thought it was Wilco.”
She shook her head. They sat there a moment, no pressure to fill the quiet. One the other’s mirrored stillness.
At length he said, “You’re a little light in the badge and gun department compared to most detectives I’ve seen.”
“How many have you seen?”
He shrugged, and then pitched the question that was really nagging him: “How come you just got held at gunpoint and don’t seem fazed?”
She shrugged. “Training.”
Which Marshall supposed could claim a little credit but certainly not all of it. To reach the point where a hostage situation is nothing drastic, you’ve either seen a few minor dramas or perhaps one major crisis, and he guessed it was an even bet either way.
She sat watching him with her head on a slight tilt, and he got the funny sense she could see his thoughts as they surfaced.
She slid to the edge of the seat. “Been a pleasure. Wait here.”
She stood up and headed for the restroom. He watched her walk away. Poor choice of words, that parting line: too final and imperative, and he knew straightaway her little departure was more to do with making a private call than anything else. He just got that gut feeling.
Wait here.
Lucky he drove. This sort of place, the alternatives were limited should you be without wheels.
He rolled slightly on his seat and slipped his cash from his back pocket. All hundreds. It would be the evening’s biggest tip by a fat margin. He took a bill from the stack and arranged it in his usual fashion and quietly left.
A cool and starry night, and on the highway the traffic spent a long time as distant light before and after passing. Smell of dust and dry grass. He got in the Silverado, started up, and headed north, back toward town.
One after the other he dialed Felix’s three throwaways, but he didn’t get an answer. He tossed the phone on the seat. Beneath him the road unspooling in a blur. The shotgun was on the rear bench, the Colt in his belt. He liked traveling at night. Cabin warmth felt like safety from the world.
He drove.
Lauren Shore
She locked herself in a toilet stall for privacy. First up was 911:
“This is APD Detective Lauren Shore. I need a cruiser at Big Chip and Small Fry’s Diner down on Cerrillos Road. I’ve got a witness in a shooting on West Alameda from earlier this evening.”
She gave the operator Marshall’s details.
“Yes, Detective. ETA twelve minutes.”
She dialed Martinez.
He said, “This some sort of retribution for earlier? Waking me up?”
She told him what had happened.
“Holy shit. Are you there now?”
“No. There’s been a nine-one-one, but I left with Marshall.”
“Who’s Marshall, the blond guy?”
“Yeah.”
Quiet a moment. Puddles on the white tiled floor. A long tail off the toilet roll dangling just out of reach.
He said, “Where are you now?”
“At a diner up on Cerrillos Road. I’m in the restroom. Sheriffs’ve got a cruiser on the way for him.”
At his end she heard a door closing. “Holy shit, Lauren. Jesus. I can’t believe you went up there. What did you think you were going to say to him when he answered the door?”
“I don’t know. I never got that far. They grabbed me outside.”
“Was Bolt there, or just Rojas?”
“Just Troy, plus two other guys I didn’t know. I think Bolt might actually be dead.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, well, I heard Troy say Cyrus hasn’t called in yet, or something like that. I think maybe they sent him to clear the street, and Marshall killed him.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No.”
“How’s he acting?”
“Normal, I guess. He doesn’t look like he’s got a lot of worries.”
“Oh, man. I can’t believe you left the scene.”
“Well, he wasn’t going to hang around. And I figured it was worth going with him to figure out his deal.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“I’ll run you through it later. Look, I need to get off the phone. He’s going to wonder what I’m doing.”
“Hang on, hang on. I’m just thinking.”
She waited.
He said, “I’m going to come up. Once you get him in the cruiser you need to get back to the house. I’ll give SFPD a call and make sure they know what’s happening.”
“Okay.”
“Is he armed?”
“Probably. But he’s not hostile. He probably saved my life. I just had coffee and pancakes with him.”
“Fantastic. Look, call me again when they pick him up. I’ll see you later.”
He clicked off.
She stepped out of the stall and pocketed the phone. Her first time in a diner in months, but she’d coped well enough. No quiet times to let in memories. She stood a moment at the door, and then she pushed back out into the restaurant.
He was gone.
Shit.
She walked over to the table. There was a folded hundred-dollar bill trapped under his mug. She went outside. His truck was gone. She walked out to the highway and looked left and right, as if she might discern which light was his, but of course she couldn’t. She called the sheriffs back and told them to cancel the cruiser.
Couldn’t call the man stupid.
She went back inside and spoke to their waitress.
“That blond man who was sitting with me over there, did you see where he went?”
“Sorry, miss. No’zing. He just go, I think. He pay though, I can see.”
She went back outside and stood a moment at the highway shoulder in the cool midnight. With the stars arrayed brightly and the flat plain unbounded in the dark she’d seen no truer glimpse of vastness. She walked back to her car and got in and drove up toward Santa Fe.
Lucas Cohen
He got the call just before midnight. Cohen eased out of bed and took the phone out to the hall, pulled the door gently behind him. Important not to wake the beloved, else sure as sunrise there’d be some pointed words come morning. He checked the ID. It was Bill Masters, the Santa Fe sheriff’s CIB lieutenant.
He stood at the upstairs landing with his phone elbow propped on the balustrade and said, “Good evening, Deputy United States Marshal Lucas Cohen speaking.”
Which was a bit more elaborate than his standard greeting, but dealing with the local fellers he liked to err on the side of fancy.
Masters said, “They haven’t fired you, yet.”
Cohen laughed. “Probably just because I look the part. See my reflection with the badge and gun and I say to myself, Lucas Cohen, if you don’t look like a million dollars I don’t know a man who does.”
Masters didn’t laugh. Folks called him Bull Mastiff, due to his canine droopiness, but no one ever said it to his face. Cohen sometimes toyed with the notion of being the first. He reckoned you’d get a prize, probably a mug or something with it written on the side.
He said, “You get the short straw or something? What are you doing on the graveyard shift?”
Masters laughed. “No, I’m at home. Just got off the phone with APD.”
“Who’ve they shot this week?”
Masters let his breath out, white noise on the line, like even the telling of it could get ugly. “Well, I’m not sure, but sounds like there’s been something. One of theirs had a shots-fired incident up here this evening, fair bit of lead exchanged. Wouldn’t be bothering you, but the name Cyrus Bolt came up. Believe we were talking about him just the other day.”
Cohen swapped his weight one leg to the other, stop the pins and needles setting in. “I believe we were. Hope you’re not gearing to tell me he’s put a bullet in someone.”
“Well, I don’t know. But like I said, there’s been some lead exchanged, whether someone’s ended up wearing any I don’t have the specifics.”
Cohen said, “Any bodies on the premises?”
“Not that I’ve been told. You’d think with what’s gone on there’d be a whole bunch of ’em. APD guy said it was real chaos, people out on the road firing guns, if you can imagine that.”
Cohen said, “I can. In fact, I’m imagining it right now.”
Masters didn’t answer.
Cohen put his head in the kids’ bedroom, check they were still under, and yes, all was right with the world. He said, “Is Bolt still there?”
“No, just someone from APD. Alive and breathing, thank god. I’s hoping they were going to tell me good news, like old Cyrus’d taken a .45 on the bridge of the nose or something, you know? Like, taunted bad luck enough, this time it’s finally got him.”
Cohen felt that little worldly nugget merited some reflection, so he gave it a moment before replying.
He said, “You got an address or anything?”
“Yeah, somewhere, let me see. Incident on West Alameda, just up by the river there.”
And Cohen said, “Shit,” because sure as anything it would be the Marshall boy’s house.
Masters said, “Everything all right?”
“I certainly hope so, but I think it warrants some investigating. You planning on coming out? I can meet you.”
