River of Glass (13 page)

Halfway across the lot, he turned and tugged something out of his waistband. His arm came up, and this time there was a pistol in it, something heavy and military-looking. It was too dark to see the make.

I threw myself to the left and rolled. Another burst of pain as my arm hit the ground. Then I was up and scrambling for cover, gritting my teeth against the fire in my arm and ankle. The gun popped twice, the
paf paf
of suppressed rounds, and a chunk of grass and earth flew up a few inches from my boot. I raised the Glock and fired back, the crack of the pistol loud in the empty lot. He grunted and staggered back.

His gun came up again. I ducked around the corner of the comic store, and half a second later, there was another
paf paf,
and a spray of brick dust stung my face.

For a moment, I stood there, back pressed against the brick, heart pounding and breath coming in ragged gasps. When I peered around the corner again, he was gone.

Nausea roiled over me and through me. I leaned a hand against the wall to steady myself. Why hadn’t I shot him when I had the chance? Maybe I could have hamstrung him, forced him to tell us where Tuyet was.

Of course, I might have killed him instead, and we’d be no closer to Tuyet than we were now. This might not even be related to Tuyet. Maybe it was sheer coincidence that a guy in a mask tried to kill me the same week I was turning the city upside down, looking for the man with the manticore tattoo.

I forced my gorge back down and hobbled back to Salazar’s parking lot. Khanh was picking herself up, brushing dirt and gravel from her pants. One knee of her trousers was torn, and a bloody scrape covered most of her good arm, from elbow to palm. Blood seeped from a gash on her forehead.

“You all right?” I said. My left arm throbbed like . . . well, like someone had bashed it with a lead pipe.

She nodded. “One week America, already mug.”

I picked up my keys and poked one at the lock on the driver’s side. It wouldn’t go in. I pressed a button on my key chain and shone a beam of blue light on the lock. A clear bead glinted in the keyhole. It looked like a droplet of water, but a tap of the key said otherwise. Super Glue. I checked the passenger side. Same thing.

I said, “We didn’t get mugged.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but I didn’t elaborate. Instead, I pressed my injured arm against my stomach, took Khanh gently by the upper arm, and limped to Salazar’s front door. The
Closed
sign was up. Not good business, considering the hours most of his customers kept, but probably a good idea when you’d just arranged for one to be murdered. I pounded on the door.

No answer. I pounded some more.

By the time he answered, my right hand felt bruised.

“Jesus,” he said. “You can’t read the sign?”

“Who did you call?” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You went into the back, and when you came out, you wanted to sit around and tell war stories. You were stalling us to give him time to get here.”

“Give who time? You’re not making any sense.”

“You set us up. It’s just blind luck we’re not in a hole in the ground.”

His sooty skin blanched. “Wait a minute. I don’t know nothing about no killing.”

“What? You thought he wanted to take us out for a beer?”

He rubbed his hands over his head. It looked like he was petting the snake. “You gotta believe me, man, I didn’t know—”

I leaned in close. “Your shit better be in order, Salazar, because cops are gonna be so far up your ass, you’re gonna think you got a colonoscopy.”

His shoulders slumped. “Why you gotta jam me up, man? I mean, how was I supposed to know what he was gonna do?”

“Because you have half a brain? Okay, maybe a quarter. Some fraction of a brain, anyway.” I nodded toward Khanh. “The lady’s bleeding. You got a clean towel? Emphasis on clean. Maybe some hydrogen peroxide and a bandage?”

“Do I look like a Doc-in-a-Box?”

“You look like a shitheel with a snake on his head. But I figure, this neighborhood, you’ve gotta have a first-aid kit.”

“No call to get personal. Let me see what I can find. You gonna keep pounding on the door, you might as well come in and wait.”

While he hunted down a first-aid kit, I dialed 911 and then a twenty-four-hour locksmith. The police said they’d send someone right away. The locksmith said he’d be there within the hour. I wouldn’t have made book on who’d get there first. I debated calling Frank, decided it was too late to bother him, then changed my mind and tapped in his number. If it were my case, I’d want to get the call. It went to voice mail, and I left a detailed message.

Salazar came back with a roll of medical gauze and a bottle of peroxide. Khanh winced as the peroxide bubbled in her wounds, but by the time I taped the bandages on, she’d reclaimed her stoic expression.

Thirty minutes later, a patrol car pulled up to the curb, and a young guy who looked about a year out of college football climbed out. Khanh and I met him on the sidewalk, and he gave us a quick once-over. “The dispatcher said you didn’t need an ambulance. You kind of look like you need one.”

I looked at Khanh. “You need a hospital?”

She touched a finger to the bandage on her forehead and shook her head. “Like say in movie, only flesh wound.”

I wasn’t sure I could say the same, but I put on a brave face and looked back at the young cop. “We’ll run by the ER after we get things straightened out here. You might want to fax your report to Frank Campanella and Lieutenant Malone at the West Precinct. There’s a good chance it’s related to a homicide they’re working.”

A line formed between his eyebrows. “Maybe you should tell me what this is all about.”

Before I had to explain it, Frank’s Crown Vic rounded the corner and rolled to a stop behind the patrol car. Frank climbed out and stumped over, hands jammed into the pockets of a baggy trench coat. Beneath the coat was a wrinkled gray suit with a loosely knotted tie. After he’d greeted and dismissed the kid, he said, “You want I should drive you to the hospital? Get that arm looked at?”

“I can drive. But thanks.”

“You both look like you could use some rest. You up for making a statement?”

“I’m up. But I don’t know how much I can give you.”

“Let’s start with whatever you remember about the guy who attacked you.”

“He was dressed in black and wearing a mask. There’s not much to remember.”

“Your message said he spoke to you. Anything distinctive about his voice?”

“I think he had an accent. It was hard to tell. He hardly said anything. Just that he didn’t think I’d shoot him.”

“Probably just as well you didn’t. You don’t have another link to the girl, do you?”

“Apparently, I don’t have this one.”

“Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“I doubt it. He was . . . not whispering, exactly, kind of rasping.”

He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “You didn’t see his face, and you wouldn’t recognize his voice. That’s going to make it hard for us to identify him.”

“You have Salazar’s phone records.”

“Which I’m running even as we speak, thanks to the wonders of modern technology. And now I’m gonna go in and check his cell phone. But what do you want to bet there’s nothing on it?”

“Sucker bet,” I said. “But we might get lucky.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That would be a nice change. You know what I’m wondering?”

“Same thing I am. Why use the pipe when he had a gun?”

“Million dollar question. Maybe he didn’t want to kill you.”

I thought of the burst of brick dust inches from my head. “When he started shooting, I don’t think he was missing on purpose.”

“So he changed his mind. But what changed it?”

“When I find him, I’ll ask him.”

He reached out and took my left arm gently in his hands. It throbbed at the touch, but it was bearable. “It’s swollen,” he said. “Make sure you get this looked at. Your sister’s head too. I’ll call you when I find something.”

“Or when you don’t.”

“Either way,” he said. “And keep your eyes open. He didn’t get what he wanted. Which means, whatever it is, he still wants it.”

17

F
rank had gotten it right: the only call on Salazar’s cell phone was to a throwaway phone that couldn’t be traced. It had probably already been ditched. Frank gave me the news with a weary resignation. It was what we’d both expected.

“Sure you don’t want me to wait until your guy shows?” he said.

“We’ll be okay. He should be on his way.”

“I’ll keep the phone by the bed. Call me if you need a ride.”

I waggled the phone at him, repeated the line he’d given me at the murder scene. “Got you on speed dial. Go home and get some sleep.”

We went back inside to wait. Salazar, somehow managing to look both contrite and put-upon, brought us two cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups. I took a sip and set it on the counter. It tasted like dirt. “You just blew a shot at three hundred and fifty dollars,” I said. “So he must have offered you more.”

He went around to the cash register, puttered with the receipt printer beside it. “Man, I got him here. It ain’t my fault you couldn’t hold onto him.”

“Some warning would have helped. But that aside, how was he going to pay you?”

“I didn’t—”

I reached across the counter. Grabbed the front of his T-shirt with my good hand. “Don’t fuck with me, Salazar.”

He raised his hands and shrank into himself like a salted snail. “His woman, man. She’s supposed to bring it here.”

“What woman? Tell me about her.”

“I don’t know nothing about her, don’t even know her name.” I tightened my grip, and he let out a squeal. “I only met her once, at the tattoo shop.”

“She was a customer?”

“It was his idea, I think, but yeah. She got some kind of bird. Yellow, I think. With a broke wing.”

“Name of the shop?”

“Place called Art & Souls. Dude . . . Let go.”

I did, and he sank back against the wall, rubbing his chest. He said, “You find her, am I gonna get my three fifty?”

I bobbed my chin toward my aching arm, still cradled across my stomach. “If we find her, maybe I won’t come back and stuff that shirt down your throat.”

The cell phone in my jacket pocket buzzed. No name, unknown number. I flipped open the case and pushed the
Answer
button.

Ms. Ina said, “Bridget didn’t come to work tonight.”

“I take it that’s unusual.”

“If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be calling. No, she has a very good work ethic. She rarely misses, and when she does, she always calls.”

“But not this time.”

“No, and she doesn’t answer her cell phone. I even tried texting her. Nothing.”

“When’s the last time you heard from her?”

“Three days ago. She was off yesterday and the day before.”

Technically, she’d only been missing for a few hours, but I had a bad feeling all the same. “Have you told the police?”

“And say what? A stripper didn’t show up for work? Don’t be naive.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, ignored the quizzical looks from Khanh and Salazar. “What time was she supposed to come in?”

“Two hours ago. Could you go and check on her? And let me know what you find?”

“Is this the favor?”

“Certainly not. This you’ll do because you’re a decent human being.” She rattled off an address. “It’s off the beaten path. She’s living with her grandmother while she gets on her feet.”

“Could she be with a guy?”

“I doubt it. Her divorce was ugly. I got the feeling she’s sworn off men for a while.”

She’d barely looked old enough to be married, let alone divorced, but then, thanks to nature, makeup, and cosmetic surgery, I found it almost impossible to pinpoint the age of any woman between sixteen and forty.

It was too soon to be worried. Maybe she’d had a flat tire. Maybe she’d let her cell phone die. My niece Caitlin was always running down her battery playing Angry Birds or Bubble Witch, or whatever the latest, hottest, game was. “Can’t talk long, Uncle Jared,” she’d say. “My phone is about to die. I just wanted to call and say hi. And . . . well, you know.”

I shook my head to clear it. This wasn’t about Caitlin. It was about Bridget. I said into the phone, “I’m waiting for a locksmith, but I’ll run by after he’s done. I’ll call you when I know something.”

Khanh said, “Trouble?”

I filled her in, and she lowered her eyes and said, “This bad, yes?”

“Maybe. Maybe she fell asleep watching a movie. Maybe she was bumping bellies with a new boyfriend and lost track of time.”

“You think?”

“No. But I’d like to.”

I
T WAS
twenty more minutes before the locksmith arrived. By that time, I’d had enough of Ray Salazar, and it was a relief when he closed and locked the door behind us. The locksmith was a wiry guy about five feet tall, with stringy brown hair and eyes the color of mud. The name tag on his chest said
Waylon
, and he thrummed with nervous energy. He moved lightly on the balls of his feet, his footsteps quiet on the broken asphalt. He looked us over as he climbed out of his van. Lifted an eyebrow but didn’t ask why we looked like we’d been spat out of a meat grinder.