The Granite Moth (27 page)

I massaged my aching arm, hoping the gesture might help other parts of me that hurt. It didn't. Instead I swallowed and tried to present my case logically. “He had opportunity and motive. He practically bragged about it to me.”

“And you have this all on record? I can take some audio to Ellen right now.”

“Ellen?”

“Detective Cowder. I can tell her, ‘why don't you take it easy this week.' Kathleen Stone's got this one in the bag for us. Excuse me while I call my parents and break their damn hearts.”

My old friend had never kicked me out of his apartment before, and I didn't know where to go when I wandered back out onto the streets. Would he convey the information I'd shared? I wasn't sure. Twenty-year-old Ellis would value justice above all else, even the bond of brotherly love. But that earlier version had long since disappeared. I walked north on Sixth Avenue, passing The Fountain, but not seeing Charlotte
manning the counter. She'd probably been promoted to CEO, too busy now to get her hands stained by copy machines or customers. It seemed all but certain that the death threats, however upsetting, didn't actually mean their murderous intentions. The Zeus Society was sending them to cause pain, sure, but not physical pain. At least Mr. and Mrs. Belasco were safe. Some comfort.

I walked over to Union Square and sat down on the steps to watch the skateboarders and consider my options. A boy no more than ten tried to ride down a handrail, splaying himself on the sidewalk when he didn't quite make it. A friend chased down the now wayward board before it skidded into traffic. The kid seemed unfazed, hardly checking out his scraped knee before trying again. He landed on his back this time and rolled toward my feet. When I extended my good hand, he hopped up on his own. “Nah, lady, I got this.” But he didn't. His third and fourth attempts were near neck breakers, and I started walking again before I was haunted by a child's spinal cord injury. I'd never considered my alter ego Keith to have a death wish, but I was reconsidering, given his penchant for a sport that seemed designed for concussions. Maybe Keith 2.0 could be into spoken word instead of skating.

I never intended to walk three miles to get to my office futon, but by the time I reached Central Park, I figured, what's the point in taking the train now. The sun had set, and the restaurants were full. Of my many sins, envy's not usually on the list, but with the people I cared about most in the world drifting (or already drifted) away, I couldn't help but stare at the happier-looking parties. A group of middle-aged women smiled at me through the glass at Rosie's Bar & Grille, and I turned away.

Somewhere during my undercover crash course, I'd read statistics about failed relationships for those attempting to blend into gangs or terrorist cells. I thought it wouldn't matter because I didn't
have any relationships to speak of. Only a friendship with Ellis Decker that I assumed would last, however neglected. A couple of acquaintances that wouldn't look at me twice if I passed them on the streets. As far as I was concerned, I could stay embedded forever, provide endless information to the NYPD or maybe the FBI someday. Then reality set in, and I couldn't believe what I'd signed up for. Would Magrelli kill me now after all this time? Or would his so-called plans for me make him hold out a few more months? It was something of a relief to know that there was no point in hiding in the city anymore. The relief of a blister being sliced open, leaving raw, new skin exposed to the elements. It was what the Sotos were feeling tonight, too, staring at their son's empty bedroom, blaming themselves for his bad decision.

I looked up to see my office building in the distance. It was a mid-sized, glass-windowed monstrosity providing business spaces at discounted rates until the owners decided to remodel into condos. Grateful for small favors, the floor secretary had gone home for the night, and I unlocked my office door, trying not to think about never seeing Meeza there again.

I typed a few notes onto my computer then fell into a restless sleep. When I woke, the sky was turning from black to blue, and a large man was leaning over me, whistling a tune I didn't know.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

D
EA agents don't
have to call up, apparently. They also move like ninjas even if 6'1” and a solid 250 pounds. I bolted upright, blinking when Thornfield flipped on the too bright overheads. They hummed faintly, bees waiting to attack.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“I wouldn't have pegged you for a morning person, Mr. Thornfield.”

“Us Texas boys know how to get our work done before the armadillo crosses the highway.”

“Excuse me?”

“Before it gets too hot. How are you doing with that? Burned, yet? John's fine, by the way. I ain't dead, yet.”

I swung my legs to the front of the couch and stood up, flexing my elbow and noting that it moved more easily than yesterday. All in all, I didn't feel terrible for having lost all my friends and slept on a futon for fear of going home. I switched on a lamp and switched off the overheads. See? Kat Stone, Problem Solver.

“Water's
boiling, if that's what you're asking.”

John grunted, approving of my attempt to speak his language. I filled him in on Vincent Patel and Lars Dekker, the newest lackeys of kingpin pain-in-my-ass Salvatore Magrelli. When I explained that V.P. had been spying on me since he lent me my first car almost three years ago, John didn't seem stunned. How could I have missed this connection? It would make sense for the car dealer to work with the Magrelli crew. There wasn't anyone else in town running his brand of operation. And why keep your own stack of license plates if the service could be provided for you? I'd even asked myself repeatedly why V.P. had never been shut down, assuming he was crafty not well-connected. Maybe he was both, but I still wanted him as far away from Meeza as possible.

I'd unofficially registered with V.P. under a pseudonym, of course, but he'd figured out my real identity faster than anyone had before or after. Fingerprints, I had assumed at the time. He hadn't been interested in my fake license, but in the evidence left behind on the plastic. Even then, I didn't stress. What did it matter if he knew that I was a former cop? I clearly wasn't signing back up for the force anytime soon. The leap from Kathleen Stone to Kalida Sanchez was more difficult. I had testified anonymously at the trial, and the newspapers withheld my name. But if there were informants inside most criminal operations in the city, there were informants inside every precinct, as well. My name may have been V.P.'s entry fee into the bewitching world of freighter ships, AK-47s, and late night rendezvous with the nastiest ear-slicing, head-chopping so-called “businessmen” that Mexico, Colombia, and Venezuela have to recommend.

“But the Magrellis run mostly with the Mexican cartels, right?”

I was pretty sure John interrupted me to get the conversation back on track, since his intel was as good as mine if not better,
more up-to-date. I was only partly aware that my rant had been verbalized. “Yes, as far as I was able to tell.”

“The Skyview place seems clean. I would have bet my shirt that it was laundering money, but it's Eva's pet project. A try at goin' legit, maybe. Hottest game in town not withstanding.”

“But her cousin was recruited.”

“Sharp kid.”

His voice softened almost imperceptibly, and I guessed that he liked Ernesto. That seemed to be the majority opinion about the victim except for his boss in Brooklyn, covering shifts after Ernesto was recruited by the Magrellis. No wonder Eva felt guilty about her cousin's death. She was the one always pushing her husband to include her family. Bomber wasn't to blame for Ernesto's sick days, after all. Why take twenty dollars an hour plus tips when promised more money than you can spend? His cheating at The Skyview indicated that he wasn't opposed to risks, especially since it didn't seem like he had any idea who I was. It was a test for new players, half-practical, half-practical joke.
He was always talented
, his mother had said.

“And you're saying Lars killed him,” John said.

“I'm saying he had motive and opportunity,” I replied, considering Ellis's reaction to the same information.

John grunted again, slapping his cowboy hat over his bald spot and turning toward the door. He would investigate, I was sure. When I'd called him, he didn't seem surprised to hear from me. DEA agents have a reputation for being kamikazes—guns and attitudes blazing at all times. But I had a feeling that John had caught his fair share of bad guys by being patient. Sometimes you have to turn over every rock, and there are always plenty of rocks. In Texas and New York alike.

I heard John address the floor secretary as “ma'am” and imagined her disdain as he tipped his hat. I needed to pick up my check from Big Mamma, but I wasn't looking forward
to that errand. One of her own was a killer, accidentally or not. No, surely there was a better use of my time. I considered whether I could do anything right now for Meeza and tried to call her cell. When she didn't pick up, I left a vague message, counting on V.P. to have her phone bugged. Should I tell the Belascos that they didn't need to worry about the death threats? I figured the less they knew the better, but I couldn't stop myself from at least checking on them. They'd lost their son to greed.

The wind was whipping along Atlantic Avenue when Dolly and I got off the train in Bed-Stuy. He'd insisted on joining me when I called to delay my meeting with Big Mamma. I suppose I should have been grateful for the time together, but if he was going to leave, I wanted him to do it sooner rather than later. I'd never liked those sayings that begin “There are two types of people in the world,” but I was definitely a ripping the Band-Aid off type of woman. I pulled my scarf over my Kathy Seasons wig, the one I'd been wearing when I first met Ernesto's parents. Vondya had taught me a sure-fire way to get hairpieces to stay in place, but I didn't want to deal with the fallout if this one got tangled beyond my combing abilities.

Dolly was wearing a jacket too light for the brisk November morning, and he shoved his hands into the pockets. On the ride over, he'd been unresponsive, and I hadn't pressed him. When we'd walked a block, he began sharing memories of Taylor Soto, warring with whether to consider him villainous or misguided.

“He made a drink for me. Called it the Jolene Ain't Got Nothing on Me. You know that Dolly Parton song? ‘Jolene'? It's about a no-good, scheming husband stealer.”

I
nodded, though I wasn't sure I'd heard that tune before. Dolly fell silent again, and we approached the Belascos' block. The squad car was still parked outside, offering protection rather than surveillance now. I wasn't going to tell the department that an escort was unnecessary, but I was glad that it was. While I was focusing on that one bright spot, Dolly grabbed my arm and turned me toward him. “I want to apologize. I knew Taylor was ambitious. I should have known.”

Dolly's skin was more scabbed than infected now, and I looked into his eyes, wondering how many men had lost their hearts in the view. My own less distinguished eyes narrowed, and I gripped him by the shoulders, ignoring the twinge in my elbow. “Everyone I've ever met is ambitious. They don't try to blow up their friends.”

“Whatever you say, kitten.” He tucked a loose strand of my hair back under the scarf.

When Dolly called me “kitten,” it sounded like a purr, the way you'd call a beloved pet. How had Lars managed to make it sound like a slur? I hoped that I would never see him again, but that didn't seem likely. My best bet was that Magrelli didn't have a need for me at the moment, but he would. There had to be another way to get to him if not through Eva.

Our attention was pulled back to the squad car when it flashed its lights. My old classmate Sammy Carter stuck his head out the window. “If you two lovebirds are done, maybe come say hello, why dontcha. It's boring as shit out here.”

I winced as I watched a mother pull her child to the other side of the street, dismayed by the NYPD's ability to make civilians distrust them in every zip code of every borough.

“Hey Sammy,” I said. “Keep your pants on.”

“Or don't, sugar,” Dolly called, and Sammy cursed some more before opening the car door and waving us over.

“
Beats desk duty
,
the sergeant said. Really? At least I can take a piss at the station. Shoot the shit. I took over at 6
A.M.
and seen nothing. Not even lights. Why are you here anyway?”

I glanced at the Belascos' window and, sure enough, it was dark. My watch said 9, and it was possible that the couple was still sleeping. If anyone deserved a rest, it was them. My gut didn't agree with that assessment, and I forgot what Sammy had asked me as I jogged across the street and rang the buzzer.

“What the hell? You can't do that,” Sammy yelled, then followed me, flipping off a car that screeched to a halt to avoid slamming into him.