Drawing Dead (26 page)

NO ONE
else spoke for a while.

The Cross crew knew Mural Girl didn't work every day. The permanent camera-feed was downloaded every hour. That's how they knew she had no fixed schedule; how they knew she was never interfered with by any of the gangs warring over that single block of unclaimed turf.

And how they knew that whatever had branded Cross was always around. Its last message had been that full-house version of the Dead Man's Hand. Whatever was protecting Mural Girl wasn't something they could contact. The chance that
she
could reach out that far was what had brought the crew to her.

“POSSE CAR
at three o'clock, boss.”

“Yeah. I hear them. Rolling slow, working the muffler bypass just enough to represent. That thumping, some kind of rap?—probably heavy bass out of a trunk-speaker setup. They shouldn't be a problem.”

“Oh, they
won't
be,” Buddha promised, slowly pulling a long-magazine 40mm semi-auto from his jacket and resting it on the seat to his right.

“Buddha, stop. Stop the
car,
okay? There's no reason for us to cross paths. Cut the lights, they'll roll on past, never even look our way.”

The pudgy man behind the wheel muttered something under his breath but followed orders.

Less than two minutes later, Buddha touched the button that re-started the Shark Car and motored down the road for another few blocks. Finally, he shifted into neutral and cut the engine, letting the big car glide to the vacant lot next to the slab-sided building where the woman they called Mural Girl did her work.

“SHE'S NOT
here,” Tiger said, not hiding her disappointment.

“It isn't quite first light yet,” Cross said. “If she's coming, she'll be here soon enough. But if she rides up and sees
this
car, she might think one of the local mobs doesn't want any tags in their territory.

“Only she's not tagging, Tiger. She's painting. And there's no way she's gonna be scared of
any
damn car. She couldn't have been working this long without all the gangs knowing she's covered.”

“You think she actually talked to—?”

“I don't know. The nearest I can figure it is that they…or whatever it is…they can
send
messages, but—
damn!
”

“What?”

“I
felt
that one. Right here,” Cross said, tapping just under his right eye. “They don't miss much. Wherever they are, they can see us. Hear us. So Mural Girl must be—”

“Bicycle coming, boss. Riding the street, not the sidewalk. Hear the hum?”

“I do
now.
Okay, remember, Tiger's the only one leaving the car.”

A trail bike came into view. All they could see was the knobby front tire, illuminated by the bike itself; it looked as if every downstroke of the pedals flashed an orange glow from its heavy frame. As the bike pulled up, its rider jumped off, floating to the ground. The bike itself rolled toward the freshly whitewashed wall, turning at the last second so it was leaning upright as it came to a stop.

The dismounted rider pulled off a black helmet, shook her hair loose, unsnapped knee and elbow protectors, and strolled over to the wall. There was a ladder with a platform coming off the top shelf standing there—none of the car's occupants had seen it before Mural Girl's arrival.

“Did that ladder just show up?”

“Damned if I know,” Cross said to Buddha. “But she's acting like it's been there all along.”

“My turn,” Tiger said softly as she stepped out of the back.

BY THE
time Tiger had covered the distance to the ladder, Mural Girl was already at its top, holding a brush as if deciding what to create on that giant easel.

“Could I talk to you?” Tiger called up.

Mural Girl looked down. Studied the big girl with the trademark hair that announced her name. “How are you at rock climbing?”

“Good enough,” Tiger responded.

“Come on up, then,” Mural Girl said, pointing at a series of pegs emerging from the wall.

Tiger's face showed no surprise at this development. Her spike heels proved no handicap as she pulled herself up using only her hands, as easily as a gymnast climbing a rope. When she was level with Mural Girl, she carefully felt for toeholds, then planted herself.

“You do beautiful work,” Tiger said.

“Haven't done
any
work today.”

“I've seen some. Before today, I mean.”

“Camera's still working, huh?”

“You know. You've known all along, right?”

“Yes.”

“How do your murals disappear? It seems a shame, they're so—”

“They just disappear from
here.
When they leave this wall, they end up on other walls. All over town.”

“Oh.”

“Now you want to know if they get over-tagged in
those
spots, right?”

“I…I guess so. Yes.”

“No,” Mural Girl said. “Never.”

Tiger frankly studied the woman standing just to her left.
Dark-skinned enough to be almost anything,
she thought.
Could be Italian, Greek, Spanish, African…probably a whole bunch of roots went into that face. Sharp features, heavy hair…

“I pass inspection?” Mural Girl said, her tone underscoring that she didn't care about the answer.

“You're a beautiful woman,” Tiger said frankly.

“To some, I suppose I'd be.”

“I'm not hitting on you.”

“I didn't think that. Although”—looking Tiger over—“if you were, it wouldn't shock me.”

“Fair enough. I can play both ways. But what I said, it was just a…I don't know, just an honest answer to that ‘inspection' thing.”

“You must be here for something, yes?”

“Yes. Do you know how your murals get moved? Or why no gang ever defaces them?”

“Not how. And the ‘why,' that would only be a guess.”