Blush(63)
The child, head on Mia’s chest, nodded, then swiped his hand under his nose. Mia handed him a wad of tissues. “Tell Cruz how we get to your house, honey.”
Thank God Charlie knew his way home.
It was three miles from Mia’s place. The kid had walked three fucking miles. In the dark. Wearing only Superman skivvies and a sock. He was six years old, for fucksake! He should’ve been tucked up in bed, with a night-light on, dreaming about superheroes.
“Turn here by the green house. Turn up there by that big tree.” The little boy sat up straighter and pointed. “That’s my house! That’s my house!”
Charlie jerked his head around to shoot Cruz an accusing look as they cruised by the small house. A light shone from a side window; the rest of the house was dark. And there was no truck parked on the street outside. “Stop! I told you! That’s my house right there!”
“I know,” he told the kid calmly. “But we’re not going to park outside the door, okay?” Cruz cut the lights, then circled the block again. “Where does your dad park his truck?” Latour had a beat-up Chevy filled with an untidy collection of gardening tools.
The boy pointed to his house. “There.”
“On the street, outside your house?”
Charlie nodded.
No truck was excellent news. Unless Latour had taken Daisy somewhere. To the hospital, perhaps? Unlikely. There’d be questions and police involved.
He parked beside an empty lot five houses down, then popped the door and stepped outside. The air was hot and muggy, and smelled like garbage. The good news was that all the streetlights were out. Shot out, taken out, or no power. End result, a patchwork of pools of illumination directly beneath the streetlights. Everywhere else was murky. There was enough ambient light to see fine, but at least Mia’s truck wasn’t spotlighted, and the shadows of the big overgrown bushes in the empty lot hid it from view of the Latour house.
“Stay put,” he instructed. “Lock the doors, slide over to this side. I left something in the door pocket. Don’t ask questions. Use it if necessary.”
He quietly closed the door, then waited for Mia, with Charlie attached, to slide over under the steering wheel. He motioned for her to lock the door, then pointed down. Her eyes widened when she felt the gun in the side pocket, and her head jerked up. “No!” She shook her head over Charlie’s. “You need it more than I do!”
Cruz shook his head and walked away at a fast clip. If anything happened, she’d have Charlie and herself to protect. He hated to leave them in the big, shiny, fancy new truck without him. The neighborhood was crap. Run-down or abandoned houses, weed-infested yards. No kids’ toys anywhere. A couple of old fishing boats up on blocks. A radio blared obscenity-laden hip-hop as he passed a dark house. Even from the street, the distinctive smell of pot was strong. A couple of dogs started barking several streets over. A motorcycle revved somewhere, then peeled away, scattering gravel.
He’d spent some gnarly nights in places just like this when he was a kid. Not slept, just rested, eyes open, always alert. Waiting to be robbed, or killed, or forced into some illegal activity at gunpoint. It was a shit way to live. Charlie deserved better.
As he passed the small house next door to the Latours’ place, Cruz recognized the sweet smell of ether and a strong ammonia or cat pee stink, indicating a meth lab. No surprise.
He glanced up and down the street for any movement. A cat darted across the street. That was it. Him and an alley cat. Brothers.
The decision whether to knock or just walk in was made easier when he saw that the front door was half off its hinges and hanging askew. Foot and fist. A lot of rage there. It told the story of a man locked out of his own house.
Cruz clenched his fist, hoping the bastard was there to meet him. He slipped between the door and the shattered jamb, heart racing now. A man that mad at a door would do a lot worse to his wife.
He was ready for Latour, but it was his wife Cruz was searching for.
“Daisy? It’s Cruz Barcelona. From Mia’s house,” he called softly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. The room was small, ten by ten. A sagging sofa turned on its side. A shattered wood pallet. A broken lamp. There’d been a fight here. One-sided, but a fight nevertheless.
“Daisy?” Cruz walked farther into the room. He could see almost the entire kitchen off to the right. He strode in. The tiny room was lit by the open refrigerator door, the contents dashed to the floor. He took an all-encompassing look around. No Daisy, but the obvious signs of a man enraged. Every door and cabinet flung open, the contents scattered in broken bits and pieces over the linoleum floor.