Mission Canyon (36 page)

He said, ‘‘It’s them, isn’t it?’’

From between my fingers I said, ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

Jax went to Yago. She kicked the pistol away from his hand and stopped to take a good look at him. I tried not to do the same, because I could tell that Yago’s face had become an exit wound. Jax nodded at Tim and made a slashing motion across her throat with her thumb.

Tim came toward us. He held the rifle tight to his side, index finger outside the trigger guard. He was wearing gloves.

He gestured for Jesse to move away from Adam. ‘‘Out of the way.’’

‘‘You’ll have to kill me,’’ Jesse said.

Tim’s dog-pound face registered surprise, but he didn’t slow down.

I said, ‘‘Don’t do this, Tim.’’

He said, ‘‘For chrissake, move. Let me take a look at the wound.’’

‘‘What?’’ I said.

And I felt Jax’s hand pulling me out of the way. Those ballerina arms were stronger than steel cable. Tim knelt next to Adam, set the rifle down, and peered at the shoulder.

He put his hand around Adam’s wrist. ‘‘You all right, mate?’’

Adam was sweating. ‘‘Been better.’’

Jax pulled me away from the men. I felt stunned, relieved, embarrassed. Jax held the pistol at her side. Her black gloves looked stylish.

She said, ‘‘You thought we came to kill you? You are the most distrustful person I’ve ever met.’’

‘‘I—’’

‘‘Be quiet and listen. The building is now secure.’’

‘‘You mean they’re all dead.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

I rubbed my hands across my face. ‘‘Did you follow Jesse’s car? How did you know what was going down?’’

‘‘Another time. What matters now is getting out of here.’’

She glanced toward Tim. He was talking to Jesse.

‘‘We can’t sanitize the site,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ll have to leave the bodies.’’

Ridiculously, I found myself nodding, as though I faced such niggles every week.

‘‘We can get you and Jesse away from here, but any halfway decent crime scene team will be able to figure out you were here,’’ she said.

Another glance at Tim. He looked back this time. He tapped a finger against his wrist and shook his head.

Jax’s expression didn’t change, but she lowered her voice. ‘‘Tim can’t find a pulse. If Adam doesn’t get to a hospital soon he’s liable to lose the arm. If he makes it that far.’’

I stared at Adam. He was gritting his teeth, trying to maintain consciousness. Tim spoke to Jesse, who maneuvered to get under Adam’s good shoulder, to lift him up and take the weight off the side that was impaled.

I said, ‘‘The police and paramedics should be here soon.’’

Her face hardened. ‘‘You called them? How long ago?’’

‘‘Maybe five minutes.’’

‘‘Tim. We’re going,’’ she said.

He said, ‘‘Right.’’

She put a hand on my arm. ‘‘When I say going, I mean far gone.’’

‘‘You know the police are going to interrogate me and Jesse,’’ I said.

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘I won’t be able to keep all this from them.’’

‘‘I know. You’re hardly an accomplished liar. What will you tell them you saw?’’

‘‘A flash in the dark. Yago falling. I presume it was a gunshot, but I didn’t see who fired it.’’

She nodded. ‘‘Fine. But expect to spend the night in jail.’’

In the distance, sirens. Tim said, ‘‘We can’t stay.’’

I turned back toward Adam. Jax stopped me.

‘‘Listen, i-heist is dead, but this isn’t over. And we can’t protect you any longer.’’

‘‘I don’t understand.’’

‘‘I-heist wanted to keep you and Jesse alive. They thought they could manipulate you to get money and access. But now they’re dead. And the people who are left only want to shut you up. Irrevocably.’’

The big band was starting a new tune in my chest. ‘‘What people are you talking about? Franklin Brand? I thought . . . Wasn’t he here tonight?’’

‘‘No. He wasn’t here.’’

Tim looked at me, then at Jesse. ‘‘If you want to go, we have to get you out right now.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Can you get Adam out of here?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Then I’m not leaving.’’

The sirens drew nearer. Jax went to the window, peered up the street.

‘‘Two squad cars, SBPD. We’re gone,’’ she said.

On the floor, Jesse struggled to prop Adam up. The sirens wailed outside. Lights kaleidoscoped across the windows, blue and red. Jax and Tim made for the door.

I said, ‘‘Thank you.’’

Then they weren’t there anymore.

I heard doors slamming out front, voices raised, cops talking. Adam breathed raggedly. Jesse spoke to him.

‘‘That’s it, breathe, hang in there just a minute longer, they’re coming now.’’

Adam turned his head to look at Jesse. His lips moved, but his words were inaudible.

Jesse leaned toward him. ‘‘I can’t hear you, buddy.’’

Adam tried again. ‘‘Last leg.’’

Jesse swallowed. ‘‘No. Come on, stay with me.’’

‘‘Can’t. It’s up to you, anchorman.’’

‘‘No. Open your eyes, come on.’’

‘‘Not your fault.’’ He looked at Jesse. ‘‘I’m so cold.’’

Jesse listened, and watched, his face inches from Adam’s.

He said, ‘‘Ev, get the cops. Get the paramedics. Now.’’

I ran to the stairway. At the bottom of the stairs I could see flashlights. The cops came through the front door of the warehouse, guns drawn.

‘‘He’s not breathing,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘Adam. Son of a bitch.’’

‘‘Up here,’’ I shouted. ‘‘Hurry.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Breathe, Adam. Come on, do it.’’

I raised my arms. ‘‘We need the paramedics. My friend’s not breathing.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Get up here!’’

And I knew what had to happen. The lights and muzzles swung my way. A voice shouted, ‘‘Facedown on the floor. Hands behind your head.’’ I did it immediately.

The cops spread out, fanning across the ground floor. I knew they wouldn’t come upstairs, across open ground, until they thought they were secure. And they wouldn’t send in paramedics, either.

Jesse shouted, ‘‘He isn’t breathing. Help me.’’

I turned. Jesse was trying to support Adam’s head, and fighting, impossibly, to give him CPR. He couldn’t lay Adam flat, couldn’t clear his airway, couldn’t get him in a position where he could give him chest compressions that made a difference.

I called down the stairs, ‘‘Hurry.’’

The cops were coming up the stairs, stopping at Win Utley’s body, checking it for signs of life. I heard one say, ‘‘Jesus, there’s another one underneath him.’’ The flashlights zigzagged up the stairs. In the loft I heard Jesse pushing on Adam’s chest, three compressions and silence when he breathed into his mouth.

Feet above me now, a sharp voice saying, ‘‘Don’t move,’’ hands grabbing my wrists and pulling them back. I felt the cuffs snap around my wrists. They turned to the door into the loft, and one said, ‘‘Whoa.’’ Beyond Mickey Yago’s corpse Jesse held Adam’s face in his hands.

The officers said, ‘‘Move away from him and lie down.’’

‘‘Help me,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘On the floor, facedown. Move it.’’

He kept doing compressions. ‘‘Take over.’’

That’s when the buzzing started in my head. The officer crossed the room in two steps, grabbed Jesse by the collar, and dragged him away from Adam. Another cop talked rapid-fire into her radio, calling for medical assistance. I saw Jesse facedown on the floor, the policewoman kneeling at Adam’s side, and Adam hanging limp, soaked in blood, eyes wide.

More feet came running up the stairs, and I heard Lieutenant Rome telling me to keep cool. He hurried into the loft.

The policewoman got on the radio again, calling for bolt cutters, urgency in her voice. Jesse was saying, ‘‘Don’t stop the CPR.’’ Rome hovered above them, and I saw him give the cops a look. Jesse said, ‘‘Breathe for him, come on’’—and Rome went to his side. The buzzing in my head got louder. Rome was on one knee, his hand on Jesse’s back, talking, and I didn’t hear his words, refused to hear them.

‘‘You’re wrong,’’ Jesse said.

Rome called to the cops, said, ‘‘Uncuff this guy.’’

‘‘Don’t stop,’’ Jesse said.

The cuffs came off and Jesse crawled back to Adam’s side. He gripped Adam’s hand, calling his name. Rome knelt beside him.

‘‘Son,’’ Rome said, ‘‘he’s dead.’’

The sun was out, red light seeping through the afternoon haze. My eyes felt as though they’d been scrubbed with steel wool. I felt drained to the point of numbness, sitting in the interview room at the police station, waiting for Lieutenant Rome to come back and tell me it was time to take the drive to the county jail. An entire day of questioning hadn’t gotten him whatever answers he hoped to get.

The doorknob turned. I looked up and my spirit shriveled.

Dale Van Heusen stood in the doorway. He was pulled together with origami neatness, the suit stiffly pressed. An indecipherable look rode his face.

‘‘Let’s go,’’ he said.

I stood and accompanied him through the station. I didn’t see Rome, didn’t speak to anybody, received only a cursory glance from the man at the front desk. We walked out into the late afternoon.

He put his hands on his hips. ‘‘You’re free to go.’’

For a second I squinted at him. ‘‘How—’’

‘‘I’m not as useless as you imagine, Ms. Delaney.’’ He sucked his teeth. ‘‘This is now a Bureau matter; that’s all you need to know. Should there ever be a prosecution in regard to the deaths at the warehouse last night, you can expect to be called as a witness. But you’re under no threat of criminal charges yourself.’’

I tried to assess him. I was feeling faint. ‘‘That’s good to hear.’’

He buttoned his suit jacket. ‘‘And we’re square. From this point forward, we owe each other nothing.’’

‘‘What about Jesse?’’

‘‘He won’t be hearing from me.’’ He smoothed his tie. ‘‘Conveniently for him, the people I was after are dead.’’

‘‘Adam Sandoval’s dead too,’’ I said.

His hand hesitated, stroking the tie. ‘‘Yes. I’m sorry about that.’’

A erratic light roamed his eyes. It may have been sincerity or regret. Either way it was too little, too late.

He looked over his shoulder at the door. Jesse was coming out. Van Heusen said, ‘‘I’ll leave you two alone,’’ and headed back into the station.

Jesse looked wrecked. His hair was lank, his face pale, his eyes sunken. His shirt was smeared with blood. I wanted to throw my arms around him but held back, not sure how he’d take it. He stopped, facing the red sun, staring someplace distant.

He looked as if he wanted to speak but was waiting to catch the moment when his voice wouldn’t crack, as if a rough syllable would throw the master switch and blow everything to shreds.

He said, ‘‘I have to go back and get my car.’’

I knew there was no way he could cope with returning to the warehouse. I said, ‘‘I’ll get it.’’

‘‘No, I need it. I have so much to do.’’

‘‘You don’t have to do anything, Jesse.’’

‘‘I have to call Adam’s priest. And his relatives, he has cousins in New Mexico.’’ He closed his eyes. ‘‘I have to tell them he’s dead.’’

At that last word, his shoulders dropped and he pressed his fingers against his eyes. And I did put my arms around him, cradling his head in my hands. He leaned against me, and I felt him start to shake. But abruptly he pulled back. Maybe it was me, or being outside police headquarters, but he didn’t want to relent, give it up.

‘‘Come on,’’ he said.

He crossed the street and kept going along the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. The big building was tinted coral in the light.

‘‘What Yago said last night, right before he got shot. I know what he meant.’’ He stared straight ahead. ‘‘When he said I hadn’t told you, that I didn’t know myself. I do now.’’

I kept pace with him, waiting for him to say it.

‘‘It’s about Harley.’’

‘‘Her gambling?’’

‘‘That summer, before the crash, it was getting worse and worse. Stints in Vegas, losses to bookies. Until one day I stopped by her office and found her with a lot of cash.’’

‘‘How much?’’ I said.

‘‘Thousands. I walked into her office and found her stuffing it into envelopes,’’ he said. ‘‘I thought she was stealing it from her firm’s client trust account to pay off her gambling debts.’’

But she wasn’t. I knew now, she wasn’t. ‘‘What did you do?’’

‘‘Confronted her. Told her I’d go to the head of the firm and turn her in.’’

‘‘And what happened?’’

‘‘She broke down. It was pathetic, Evan. She was on her knees begging me not to expose her. Such a tough woman, falling at my feet, wrapping her arms around my legs and weeping.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I told her I wouldn’t turn her in if she put the money back and went to Gamblers Anonymous. That night. I said I’d drive her to the meeting.’’

‘‘And?’’

‘‘She clung to me, thanked me, said she’d do it.’’

‘‘And?’’

He looked at me. ‘‘You see where this is going, don’t you?’’

‘‘What happened to the money?’’

‘‘I put it in the bank for her.’’

‘‘How much?’’

‘‘Ninety-five hundred dollars.’’

He stopped. We looked at each other.

I said, ‘‘You smurfed.’’

It was a structured transaction, meant to keep under the Treasury’s $10,000 reporting limits.

I ran my hands through my hair. ‘‘Oh, Jesse.’’

‘‘I thought I was helping her. Thought I was keeping her clients from getting ripped off too.’’

His gaze drifted. Not, I thought, into the distance, but into the past.

‘‘Harley did come to see me in rehab. Told me she was going to a recovery program, meetings three nights a week. Proud of herself, saying she was getting straight. She thanked me for shocking her into it. That’s what Yago was making fun of. Imitating her, and he knew everything she’d said to me. She scammed me, Ev, to keep me from turning her in. She never stopped gambling, never stopped laundering money for Yago.’’