As far as Layla knew, she wouldn’t be venturing into any woods, not literally. But the uncertainty of the next day or so made her almost as uneasy. Why take unnecessary chances?
Carry.
But where?
She hadn’t found a holster in the truck, and she didn’t want to get one. So what were her options? Her wardrobe consisted of nothing more than two T-shirts, the dressy top and skirt she’d worn to Vic’s funeral, a pair of skinny jeans, and a pair of leggings. Nothing that suited this purpose.
What about the artist’s smock?
She rooted around in the suitcase until she found it, and for the first time, she put it on. In addition to the deep front pockets, two smaller pockets were angled at each hip. She slipped the pistol into the right one, felt weighted by it. But it was a perfect fit. The pocket held the gun securely, but not too tightly, and the handle remained accessible, yet under cover.
Still, as she approached the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, a wave of anxiety rolled through her.
Her first reaction: It fit great, and as artist’s smocks went, it was pretty cute. As an item of clothing to be worn in public, it occupied that ground between high camp and hipster chic on which Layla had never possessed the confidence to tread. But tread on it she would.
She was Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. She was mini-skirted Twiggy. And she was on her way to Phoenix to get Marla and Jake’s money.
Chapter 22
Phoenix
On the road, five hours later
Ahead on the right, a red-on-gold sign, the first in a series:
Coming soon …
SunTree Industrial Park …
5 Million Sq Ft of Prime Commercial/Warehouse Space
1 Mile Ahead …
Your Future Begins …
And Success Follows!
In the distance to her right, Layla spotted the hazy expanse of a human-constructed something, apparently the site of the industrial park. Nearer, it took shape as buildings or buildings-in-progress, rectangles that might be trailers, construction equipment.
Soon, the GPS ordered her to turn right, leading her onto a road to the park-to-be: a dirt road that made the truck churn up clouds of dust. An order to make yet another right took her into a warren of mobile-home-ish trailers, stacked shipping containers, and other temporary-looking structures—all of them arranged so densely that it felt like she’d entered some depressing industrial town.
Some abandoned industrial town. So far, Layla hadn’t spotted another soul, or heard a sound from the construction equipment. She guessed that the powers that be had given up on SunTree Industrial Park—or maybe just the legitimate powers that be, leaving cover for operations like Zav Leos’s.
She followed more twists and turns through the maze, noting the “one way” signs that had been posted here and there. Getting out of here, it seemed, would be another adventure.
After she rounded another bend, her GPS announced that she had arrived. Had there been some mistake? To her left was the site of Mike D’s Automotive, a cinder-block building that looked as abandoned as everything else, the only sign of life being a motorcycle parked in its side lot, the bike so road-worn that someone might have left it behind. Adjoining the building was a garage with two closed doors, and straight ahead, more of the maze.
She wondered whether Zav Leos had made off with the money and given Bette a phony address for his operations. Then why would he have bothered to make that condolence call to Bette? And say he’d set aside those art tools for Jake? She wasn’t sure, but something didn’t feel right.
Despite her doubts, Layla slipped off her shoe and retrieved the number Bette had given her. Punching it into the burner phone, she half-expected the tri-tone alert of a failed call and the robot voice that went with it. We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.
On the second ring, a human answered. A man.
“Michael Duprée’s. How might I help you?” His accent suggested Central or Eastern Europe. Poland? Hungary?
Caught off guard, she stammered a reply. “I’m, uh, looking for a Mr. Leos.”
Silence.
“This is Layla Shawn.”
More silence, then, “You’re speaking to Mr. Leos. I believe you have a code for me, Ms. Shawn.”
“Uh, yeah.” Bette’s birthdate, then Jake’s. Or was Jake’s first? Fuck fuck fuck.
Then she remembered: the first numbers were 0 and 9. September. Bette’s birth month. With this cue, she rattled off all fourteen numbers, hoping she’d gotten them right.
After another beat of silence, he spoke: “You can park in front of the garage, Ms. Shawn. Or might I call you Layla?”
“Layla’s fine.”
“You’ll find the customer-service entry at the side of the building. I’ll see you there in a moment.”
She parked the truck and headed for what she hoped was the correct side of the building, which didn’t inspire confidence. The painted-on name of the business was sand-blown and faded, and here and there cracks zig-zagged across the cinder-block façade. This place seemed a holdover from a time that pre-dated the aspirations peddled on the road signs, and it looked as if the last car had been repaired here years ago. Now, most likely, it was nothing more than a front for Leos’s sub-legal operations.
On the far side of the building she found a single smoked-glass door—no windows or other interruptions to the whitewashed surface, aside from a metal sign above the door: “Welcome,” with a smiley face.
As she approached, the door opened, revealing a slender, sixty-something man in a tailored slate-blue suit. No Nosferatu, though something about his appearance unsettled her. His face looked artificially tanned or bronzed, not unlike Vic’s in the coffin, and it had been stretched as tight as a drumhead. With his swept-back, dyed-black hair, he looked like a casino-land version of the undead.
He extended his hand, and she took it, found it chilled—from the building’s air-conditioned innards, no doubt.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Layla.”
“Likewise.”
“And please. Call me Zav.”
He stepped aside and held the door open for her. As she passed him, she detected a glint of disapproval in his eyes. Then she remembered the borderline ridiculousness of her smock-dress. For a man accustomed to tailored suits, it was quite possibly a violation of good taste.
Once her eyes adjusted to the building’s dim interior, she saw that she was in the reception area of M. Duprée’s, the name rendered in bronze lettering above the now-empty front desk. With its dark wood paneling, recessed lighting, and low-slung leather waiting chairs, the place—or at least this part of it—looked more like a white-shoe law firm than a car-repair joint.
If, in fact, it was that.
“Do you guys still fix cars?”
“Mr. Duprée does custom work on occasion.”
He led her to a door by the reception desk, then turned her way. “I feel I must ask about your sister.” Your sister. Vic had been the last person who’d said this to her, she was sure. Now, these words brought on a fresh wave of sadness.
“She didn’t make it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. I’m very sorry about your father, too. He was a thoughtful and generous man.”
Thoughtful wasn’t a word that Layla had ever associated with Vic. Had the kindness he’d shown to Zav Leos been merely transactional? Or was it possible that it had been something more genuine?
Leos punched a code into a keypad by the door. Then he held it open for her.
They entered a hallway far longer than seemed possible, based on how the building appeared from the outside. Unlike the reception area, the hallway was brightly lit and white-walled, almost sterile-looking. At the end of it, a security guard paced back and forth.
He reached into his pocket, handed her a slip of paper the size of a fortune-cookie banner.
“The same code works for all the cases. If you should lose it, which I’m sure you won’t, just phone me.”
She studied the six numbers: no familiar birthdate, no familiar anything.
“Would you like to inspect the contents, Layla?”
Why? she thought. Unless the briefcases contained Monopoly money, she wouldn’t be able to tell whether the bills were fake. Even if they were, she’d be powerless to change the situation. Now, all she wanted to do was get on the road and get the rest of her mission over with, as quickly as she could. If it were possible, she’d drive straight to Reedstown, not stopping for anything but gas, bathroom breaks, and snacks she could eat in transit. Not staying anywhere long enough to be a target—a stationary one, anyway. In reality, she’d need to stop for sleep. Somewhere, somehow.
“No,” she said.
“You’re sure.”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”
He attempted a smile. “Of course not. I just want to make sure you feel … comfortable with the handover.”
Comfortable would be the last feeling she’d associate with taking custody of two million dollars and hauling it two-thousand-something miles, alone.
Leos spotted something on his jacket sleeve, brushed it away. She imagined that all the suits he possessed, as well as his office and his home, were OCD-level spotless. “As you may know, I’ve set aside some things for Jake Doloro.”
It was weird hearing Jake’s full name, with its connection to Vic. She wondered whether Jake would ever feel burdened by that connection. Or maybe he’d grown close enough to Vic that he was glad to share this part of him, and carry it into the future.
“I’m aware of that,” Layla said.
“They’re just next door, in the garage.”
He reached for two of the briefcases, leaving Layla to take the third.
As she did, something stopped her: a question that had been lurking in the back of her mind since she first laid eyes on Leos.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you happen to know a guy named Wes? An old friend of Vic’s?”
Leos gave no sign of recognition. “I’m afraid not.”
Layla considered the answer she’d been hoping for: He’s an old friend of mine, too. In fact, he just paid me a visit. This might have explained Wes’s presence in Gallup, if in fact she’d read that photo correctly. She wasn’t sure enough of herself to mention the picture to Leos.
“I just thought your paths might have crossed at some point.”
“Mr. Doloro didn’t like to make connections between his various business partners. For strategic reasons.”
Hadn’t Bette told her as much? Leos seemed ready to move on from this subject. “Just follow me,” he said.
Within ten minutes, the two of them got the briefcases loaded into the truck bed and moved all of Vic’s stuff to the left side of the garage. There, two boxes labeled “ArtTech” sat on a shelf, next to dusty bottles of motor oil and mechanic’s tools. As Layla carried one of the boxes to the truck, Leos trailing her with the other, she had an urge to tear both of them open, see what was in store for Jake, and maybe for her, too. But she needed to get on the road.
When she was back in the truck, Leos approached her window.
“You just keep going that way.” He pointed in the direction Layla had been heading, farther into the maze. “It has a few more twists and turns than the way you came, but eventually you will get to the main road.”
After she started the engine, Leos gave her door three good-bye taps, a gesture more casual than she would have expected from him.
“Best of luck to you, Layla.”
“A few more twists and turns” proved to be an understatement. After driving for at least ten minutes, she still heard no sounds of traffic from the main road, and was starting to feel as if she’d entered a cruel kind of puzzle: a labyrinth with no exit. At least the lane had widened—enough for two-way traffic—making her feel less closed in. And she’d have enough room for a three-point turn if she decided to go back the way she’d come, something she was seriously considering.
From behind, a crunch of gravel, the hum of another engine. Or just an echo? Glancing to the rear-view mirror, she saw nothing but the trailers she’d just passed.
She readied to make another right, then hit the brakes. A security gate blocked the turn. What the fuck?
Again, the crunch of gravel. Checking the rear-view mirror, she saw a car pull up behind her.
A white car.
The white car? It sure looked like it. And just as before, the driver was a man in sunglasses, his features indiscernible. But this time, there was no passenger.
Wes, it seemed, had lied about taking care of this little problem, or all of it.
She took a deep breath, tried to steady herself. Then she slipped the gun from her pocket, pulled the slide, chambered a round.
Chapter 23
Mike D’s Automotive
Zav had set out to make sense of the latest numbers. But he just sat at his desk, staring at the spreadsheets. Vic’s daughter had gotten him thinking about his own children—in particular, Josh. The day after tomorrow would be his birthday, the twentieth they wouldn’t celebrate together. He thought of the last time he’d seen his son, pedaling off on his bike. It felt like a lifetime ago. It also felt like yesterday.
A distant sound froze him: the squeal of tires, then the vroom of a motorcycle, receding and then vanishing. Reckler’s motorcycle?
Zav bolted from his office and glanced left, down the hall. Sure enough, the security-guard station was empty. But the vault-room door was closed, thank God.
Of course it would be. Reckler could never have broken the code.
Something—denial, maybe, or disbelief—led Zav to the lobby, and the main door to the office. He pushed it open, found Reckler’s motorcycle missing from its usual post. The pavement showed a fresh tire streak, its direction suggesting that once again, Reckler had ignored the one-way signs as he backtracked to the main road. “It’s the best way to go,” he’d said to Zav, multiple times. But his brushes with the law notwithstanding, Zav liked to follow the rules whenever they didn’t conflict with his, and his clients’, best interests. This had allowed him to operate under the radar for the most part, and to bypass the hitches and traps that had cut short the careers of more careless members of his profession.
“Don’t move. And put your hands up.”
A low voice, one he didn’t recognize. Closer than seemed possible. Almost certainly, Reckler had disabled the security system, admitting this intruder and preventing all alerts for backup. Then he’d fled. For a payoff, no doubt.
“Put your hands up!”
Zav did. Staring ahead, at the smoked-glass door, he saw a faint reflection behind his own: a tall man pointing a gun at him, his face nothing but a smear.
“You’re going to give me every last cent of the Hastings account.”
The Hastings account. Zav’s largest, and oldest. This man had insider information, from someone. Reckler? Possibly. Over the years he’d worked for Zav, Reckler had seen plenty of Hastings’s operatives come and go. Perhaps he’d overheard something. Perhaps …
The man stepped closer, pressed the gun to his back. “Go on.”
Zav did. He led the man to the back of the lobby and punched the code into the door-side keypad, the gun still pressed to his back. Then he led him down the hallway, to the vault.
My life is down to minutes, he thought.
Maskless men left no survivors—hadn’t he heard that somewhere? And hadn’t he heard that in the afterlife, you see only the dead you want to see? Picturing Josh, he calmed himself, then took the man into the vault.
Chapter 24
Somewhere in SunTree
Industrial Park
With a shaking hand, Layla held the gun close to her thigh, curled her finger around the trigger.
A door slammed behind her, drawing her gaze to the side-view mirror, to the approach of the man from the white car. As he came closer, he removed his sunglasses, tucked them into his shirt pocket.
His face froze her blood. There was no mistaking those dark, down-turned eyes, that blank, unsettling gaze, the widow’s peak. They were Gordon Cross’s. The Wolf’s. The only differences were the sag to his skin, the silver in his hair.
Now he was in front of her window, giving her that leering smile her mother had described in her journals.
Still smiling, he motioned for her to roll down the window.
Fuck no.
But what else could she do? She couldn’t drive herself out of this mess. Or shoot through a windshield if it came to that. She lowered the window and caught a whiff of sweet muskiness. Aftershave.
Had her mother smelled the same thing?
His smile had faded, and all that was left was his dull-eyed stare, the stare from her mom’s drawing.
“I apologize for this inconvenience, Ms. Shawn.” His voice was higher, reedier than she’d imagined. “I won’t be detaining you for any longer than is necessary.”
Layla feared that detaining included more than taking the money she’d picked up from Leos. She tightened her hold on the gun, and through her fear felt anger: anger at herself for agreeing to get the money; anger at Bette for asking her in the first place, and for trusting that fucker Wes.
Surely, he’d told Cross about the money, and kept him alive to get it. No doubt, Wes was waiting for his share at this moment. A coward who had someone else do his dirty work.
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