The Death Box(75)
“That’s why I brought him on board.”
“You didn’t. He was thrust on you.”
Roy snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah. That.” The eyes studied me. “So what have you done that makes you a target, bud?”
I shrugged. “No idea, but I’m a threat to someone. Thing is, Roy, there aren’t many people who know what I’m into. Hell, I’m barely on the books.”
Roy considered my words. “That bothers me. It’s like someone has insider info. You’ve kept all this real low-key, right?”
I nodded. “And we haven’t blundered into anything I’d consider a strong lead.”
Roy pulled a cigar for twirling. “Whoever did this is scared of what you might find, a cautious type. I’m gonna put walls around you, a detail.”
“Thanks, but no bodyguards, Roy. Gershwin and I need room to move. We’ll be cautious.”
“You’re getting a couple units at your place. At night, at least.”
“I can live with that.”
“Found new digs yet?”
“Uh, getting close.”
He whapped my shoulder and retreated to a vehicle on the far side of the lot, got inside. There were two others in the vehicle, I noted, Tatum and Degan. They didn’t even get out to see how I was. I saw Degan’s eye scanning the battlefield and was waiting for them to light on me so I could fire a one-fingered flare, but heard footsteps at my back and turned as Deb Clayton ran up, pixie hair beneath a blue cap announcing FORENSICS UNIT.
“You heard about the blood, right? Come take a look.”
I followed her a dozen steps into the lot, saw the pool of red diluted by the rain, one side tracking off in twin rows. “Heel marks,” I said. “One of the assailants was dragged away.”
“Figured you’d seen it before. Doubt y’all had time to get a tag number.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I saw a white work van, smoked windows, eight to ten years old. Then the shooting started.”
She did a one-eighty turn. Techs had gridded out the lot and set numbers, photographing all the shell casings where they lay. We stepped past a young female tech crouching with a Nikon, clicking like a fashion photog.
“True gangland style,” Clayton said. “More shells than Sanibel.”
“It’s why they prefer rapid-fire weaponry. Country guys can go out in the woods and practice precision shooting all day long. Inner-city gang types are lousy shots, so they spray-shoot and hope they hit something. More often than not it’s an innocent bystander.”
Clayton shook her head and trotted off to supervise something. I saw Morningstar walk up wearing a simple white linen dress, the material stopping just above her knees. She twirled sunglasses in her long fingers.
“You’re all the buzz, Ryder. I had to come see the scene and, uh …”
She paused. I had just survived a close-range assassination attempt and was feeling bolder than usual and winked.
“To see if your favorite imported detective was all right?”
She looked at me like I’d lapsed into gibberish. “To make sure the blood evidence got handled correctly. I heard about the rain and it was on an asphalt parking lot. That means grease and petroleum and other adulterants.”
“Oh? You didn’t care if the blood was mine or not?”
She put the shades on and stared at me through expressionless black. “Sometimes you make sense, Detective, sometimes you don’t.” She started away, paused, turned. “But I’m happy you survived.”
“As long as I keep making sense?”
She backpedaled and spun away. “Actually, I’m beginning to prefer when you don’t.”
“Oy caramba,” said a voice at my shoulder, Gershwin. “The doctor lady has wheels.”
“Consuelo all right?” I asked, ignoring his reference to Morningstar. “Not distraught about the damage?”
“Auntie has plenty of insurance. But I’d hate to be one of our attackers if she got hold of them. Ever see a roast suckling pig?”
“I’d help baste. Where were we before we were sitting ducks, Zigs?”
“You wanted to look at the cistern site. Or do you need a nap after the big dance?”
38
Leala had taken a wrong turn. The streets were growing dirtier and there were bars and nightclubs and fences on the windows and the smell of drinking and garbage made the air feel like oil on her face. Cars were on the street, growling, honking, radios blasting rock, rap, mariachi. There were taxicabs as well, as yellow as flame.
She pushed back into the vestibule of a store with wood where once were windows. If she’d been smarter, she’d have bought a map, and not blundered into this busy, dirty area.