As he neared the freeway exit, Joey said, “Hang on.”
Pulled from his thoughts, he glanced over the console at her. “We’ve gotta get back to L.A.”
“There’s something I want to do first.”
The set of her face made him nod.
He followed her directions, winding into an increasingly shabby part of east Phoenix. Joey studied the passing scenery with an expression that Evan knew all too well.
“They call this area the Rock Block,” she said. “Can’t walk down the sidewalk without tripping over a baggie of crack.”
Evan kept on until she gestured ahead. “Up here,” she said.
He got out and stood by the driver’s door, unsure in which direction she wanted to go. She came around the car and brushed against him, crossing the street. He followed.
Behind a junkyard of a front lawn sat a house that used to be yellow. Most of the cheap vinyl cladding had peeled up, curling at the edges like dried paint. An obese woman filled a reinforced swing on one corner of the front porch.
Joey stepped through a hinge-challenged knee-high front gate, and Evan kept pace with her through the yard. They passed an armless doll, a rusting baby stroller, a sodden mattress. Joey stepped up onto the porch, the old planks complaining.
Despite the cool breeze, sweat beaded the woman’s skin. She wore a Navajo-print dress. Beneath the hem Evan could see that half of one foot had been amputated, the nub swaying above the porch. The other leg looked swollen, marbled with broken blood vessels. Evan could smell the sweet, turbid smell of infection. A tube snaked up from an oxygen tank to the woman’s nose. The swing creaked and creaked.
The woman didn’t bother to look at them, though they were standing right before her.
Joey said, “’Member me, Nemma?”
Fanning herself with a TV Guide, the woman moved her gaze lazily over to take Joey in.
“Maybe I do,” the woman said. “You were the pretty one. Little bit dykey.”
Joey said, “I wonder why.”
Air rattled through the woman’s throat, an elongated process that sounded thick and wet. “There’s nuthin’ you can do to me the diabetes ain’t done already. And that’s just the start. They cut out the upper left lobe of my lung. Five, six times a day, I get the coughs where I can’t even clear my own throat. I have to double over, give myself the Heimlich just so’s to breathe. Bastards took away my foster-care license and everything.”
Joey eased apart from Evan, putting a decaying wicker coffee table between them. She said, “You want me to feel sorry for you?”
The woman made a sound like a laugh. “I don’t want anything anymore.”
Evan noticed that his hip holster felt light. Joey stood with her body bladed to him so he couldn’t see her left side. The woman’s gaze had fixed on something in Joey’s hand. Evan recalled how Joey had brushed against him by the Altima after he’d parked. He didn’t have to move his hand to the holster to know it was empty.
Joey had positioned herself nicely. The angle over the coffee table was tricky. He wouldn’t get to her in time, not given her reflexes and training.
The woman gave a resigned nod. “You came to hurt me?”
Evan sidled back a step, but Joey eased forward, keeping the mass of the table between them. Her eyes never left the woman’s face.
He stopped, and Joey stopped, too. He still couldn’t see her hand, but her shoulder was tense, her muscles ready.
The only sound was the sonorous rasp of the woman’s breathing.
Joey exhaled slowly, the tension leaking from her body. “Nah,” she said. “I’d rather let life take you apart piece by piece. Like you did to all us girls. The difference is, I can put myself back together.”
The woman didn’t move. Evan didn’t either.
Joey stepped forward and leaned over her. “You don’t get to live in me anymore. You get to live in yourself.”
She turned and walked off the porch. As she passed Evan, she handed his pistol back to him.
They left the woman swaying on the porch.
68
Locked-Room Mystery
Candy stepped up to the police cordon at the Phoenix parking structure. The cops had loosened up the crime scene by degrees, CSI coming and going.
An officer stopped her. “Are you parked inside, ma’am?”
“Yeah, I work at the PT office across the plaza, and — Oh my God, what happened?”
“We can’t disclose that, ma’am. Please claim your vehicle and exit immediately.”
She nodded nervously and stepped inside, scanning the cars on the ground level. Van Sciver had kept satellite monitoring on the garage all day, and there’d been no sign of a black Nissan Altima exiting.
The ramp was still blocked off, cops dispersed through the parking structure. Candy strode toward the elevators, taking in the remaining cars. No black Altima.
The car hadn’t left the building. And it wasn’t in the parking spot where Lyle Green’s last text indicated.
Which made for the kind of locked-room mystery she wasn’t in the mood for.
Her gaze pulled to the trash can beside the handicapped spaces. It was stuffed with what looked like black tarp. She drew closer.
She said, “Fuck.”
She twisted the lid off the concrete trash container and looked down at the heap of stripped-off carbon-fiber wrap. Digging through the detritus, she pulled out the pieces, checking each one for distinguishing marks. Midway through the stack, she found a tiny copyright logo at the edge of a band of stiff carbon fiber: ©FULL AUTO WRAPATTACK.
She took a picture with her cell phone and texted the image to Van Sciver. As she shoved the material back into the trash, she noted the ditched license plates in the bottom of the container.
She exited the structure through a side door, slipped past a break in the cordon, walked across the plaza, and got into the backseat of one of two Chevy Tahoes waiting at metered spots. They were heavily armored, just like the one in Richmond.
Van Sciver and Thornhill occupied the seats in front of her.
Thornhill held up his phone with a location pin-dropped on Google Maps. “Full Auto WrapAttack,” he said, “At 1019B South Figueroa. Los Angeles. One shop, they custom-make their own materials on site. What do you think?”
Van Sciver weighed this a moment. “It’s not a sure thing,” he said. “But it’s the best bet. Let’s move headquarters.”
Thornhill said, “Good thing we’re mobile.”
Candy turned to look into the Tahoe parked one spot behind them. Through the tinted rear window, she could barely make out the outlines of the eight freelancers crammed into the bench seats. “Which one’s the pilot?” she asked.
“Guy in the passenger seat,” Van Sciver said. “I have a Black Hawk on standby. We’ll set up downtown, striking distance to most points in the city. The minute X eats or drinks something, we’ll have ten minutes to scramble to his location and put him and the girl down.”
“You think the girl’s worth killing?” Candy said.
“Why take the chance?” Thornhill said.
Candy said, “You pay him extra to answer for you?”
Van Sciver met Candy’s stare in the rearview.
She knew she had overstepped her bounds, and she had no idea what might happen next.
Van Sciver said, “Step out of the car, Thornhill.”
Thornhill obeyed.
Candy could feel the pulse beating in the side of her neck. “Let’s skip the part where you beat your chest and I back down,” she said. “Consider me backed down. Why don’t we think about this. And by ‘we’ I mean you and I — the ones with brains. Thornhill’s a blank space. A good body and a nice set of teeth. There’s nothing there.”