Peter Madero choked on his own spit.
Rivera and Leon stared at me.
"I don't know if Tremaine promised you money and you're just greedy and stupid, or if she has something on you and you're scared, but I'm her granddaughter. Flesh and blood. Think about it."
"I ain't scared of you or your memaw."
"So far one of your grandsons has both arms in casts, and the other might be dying. I need to know if you're going to drop the contract or try again. Because if you're trying again, I'm going to let Mad Rogan's people take custody of Frank."
"I'll tear your throat out and shit down your neck."
"You didn't survive to your seventies because you made bad business decisions. You send Roger after me, his baby will grow up without a father. You know it, and I know it. Who's left? The twins?"
"I'll do it myself."
"No, you won't. You had a triple bypass three months ago. Frank and Dave both could barely breathe three minutes into the fight. I won't have to fight you, I'll just run circles around you until your body gives out. And then where would the family be?"
"You stay out of my business!"
"I need a decision about Frank. I can't sit here all day. Also, what do you want to do about your dead people?"
"You give me my bus back, and I'll think about dropping the contract."
"No, that's my bus. I earned it fair and square."
He swore.
"Just admit you're beat, you cantankerous old bastard."
"Fine. Leave our dead at the hospital; we'll pick 'em up. And don't let me find you there, or I'll wring your scrawny neck."
I hung up. Rivera was looking at me like he'd never seen me before.
"I had a client like that once," I told him. "The only way to win his respect was to meet him on his playing field and give as good as you got."
I stared at my grandmother's number. Some sort of response had to be made. She attacked us for the second time. Do I call and issue an ultimatum? Do I call the Office of Records and complain? Would this make us look weak or would we look weaker by not complaining and just letting her continue to terrorize us?
Leon huddled next to me. Rivera studied him for a moment and spoke into his headset. "Kurt? Find me."
A moment later a gruff-looking man walked up to us. He had a dense red beard and shoulders that wouldn't fit through the door. He glanced at Leon and nodded. "Come with me."
Leon got up and followed him.
"What's going on?"
"Kurt is our PTSD specialist," Rivera said. "He's an ex –Navy SEAL, highly decorated."
"And with a high kill count?" I guessed.
Rivera nodded. "Leon needs help, and Kurt will be able to help him. He knows the right things to say."
"Thank you," I said.
"He's a talented kid," Rivera said, and walked away.
I looked at my phone. I needed some advice. If Rogan was here, I might have gone to him, but even if I did, he could decide to go and have a personal chat with Victoria Tremaine. So far he had been almost painfully careful about not stepping on my toes, but he nearly lost it when I came to him to ask about how to handle Augustine. He came close to killing his friend-probably his only friend-for my sake.
No, I needed a neutral third party. Someone who had no trouble navigating House waters, but had no personal stake in the matter. I scrolled through my contacts. There it was, Linus Duncan. Once the most powerful man in Texas. He said to call if I needed any advice. Cornelius thought the world of him, and Rogan respected him.
I dialed the number.
"Hello, Ms. Baylor," Linus Duncan said into the phone in his rich, slightly amused baritone. "How may I help?"
"I need some advice."
"Is the matter urgent?"
"Yes."
"Where are you?"
"I'm at Houston Memorial."
"Are you injured?"
"No. But I just survived a second attack by Victoria Tremaine."
There was a small pause.
"You're right," Linus said, a note of concern slipping into his voice. "The matter is urgent. As I recall, Houston Memorial has a quiet coffee shop. I will be there in forty minutes."
Sergeant Munoz peered at me. A stocky dark-haired man about twice my age, he looked like a cop, which is exactly what he was. Career cops had that odd air of ingrained authority and jaded world-weariness. They'd seen it all, they expected the worst-case scenario and crazy crap, and nothing surprised them anymore. If an alien landed in the parking lot and leveled a blaster at us, Sergeant Munoz wouldn't bat an eye. He'd order it to raise its limbs and lie down on the ground, but he wouldn't be surprised.