"Can I go home now?"
"No." Penzler, sneering.
"You can't keep me against my will, and we both know it." A mistake, and he knew it, but just . . . fuck him.
DeRossi said, "You want to lawyer up?"
"No." Callahan glanced at his watch. "I'll give you another twenty minutes, then you can call me come morning."
He walked in circles, his mind grabbing at straws. Would Quinn farm something like this out, just to have an alibi, or would that weaken him as an enforcer? How would Roth want this played? Why kill someone over such a small amount of money? Callahan drank some rancid tap water from the house and splashed his face. He was rubbing himself dry with the bottom of his tee shirt when a plain sedan pulled up.
Callahan squinted into the brightness. It appeared to be another male/female team. The officers and hangers-on stiffened. Mick figured this must be the detectives who had actually caught the case. Penzler and DeRossi backed away deferentially and acted like they had some real work to do. The new arrivals were also of higher rank. After a brief conversation, Penzler and DeRossi got in their own car and drove away.
Callahan waited on the lawn. He prepared to tell his story one last time. Wanted nothing more than to go home to try and get some undisturbed sleep.
The new detectives came closer. The lights made it hard to see, so Callahan shaded his eyes. The man seemed pretty tall and fit, salt in the pepper hair and a tiny shine from a hairline headed south. He was maybe forty and change, with a bookish manner and trendy glasses. His female partner had a great figure, long brown hair and . . . Oh, shit.
It was Darlene Hernandez.
NINE
Wednesday night
"Well, this is awkward."
"The murder, or meeting this way?"
"Very funny."
They were off to the side, away from the others. Things were winding down a bit, and Darlene had managed to get him away for a private conversation.
"We caught it, luck of the draw," she said. "I didn't know you were here."
"No, I'm glad it's you, not Penzler and DeRossi," Callahan said. "You might actually catch who did this. My friend Calvin deserves better than those two twits. They haven't got a brain or a ball between them."
"True enough." Darlene had her electronic notebook out. She was acting busy, as if grilling Callahan for details. She appeared as flustered as Callahan felt. Darlene wore a gray pants suit with a ruffled white blouse and as always carried a Glock at her belt on a holster. Despite the alley filled with garbage cans and the vague reek of death nearby, the warm breeze that rustled through her long brown hair carried with it a trace of her perfume. As usual, she smelled wonderful. Callahan felt homely and damp with sweat and hose water, too big and too clumsy for words, tainted by the hideous death that lurked nearby like some evil spirit. Dear God, Calvin had turned to run. Poor Calvin had known he was going to die.
Darlene stood back and appraised Callahan. "You look good."
Callahan couldn't think of an answer. He wanted to reveal what a miserable, lonely asshole he was, but he didn't say anything. Darlene's partner, the guy with glasses, came out on the porch. Things went far away again as the man droned on about what Callahan had already suspected and others had confirmed—no prints and no evidence, one very smooth piece of homicide. He seemed like a decent sort, which annoyed Callahan no end. She called him Dennis. Dennis knew who Callahan was, that much was clear. He stayed too long. He watched them for a long moment, but then went back inside. Darlene avoided meeting Callahan's eyes. In return, he cleared his throat a bit too noisily.
"Hal is coming to town. In the flesh. He wants to meet you."
Darlene laughed nervously. "What? You sure about that? I'm beginning to think the man doesn't exist."
"Me, too."
"Sometimes I've suspected that Hal is just a computer creation of Jerry's. It's like he pops up on your laptop to give orders from time to time. Hal is like somebody out of a video game."
"It feels that way to me, too. Been a long time, and I've missed him."
Darlene lowered her voice. "At least you'll have someone around who can get through to you, Callahan. You are one stubborn Irish sonofabitch."
Callahan was studiously avoiding looking at the house Julius owned. He pretended to survey the abandoned property next door. Her gaze felt hot and piercing, almost like she could still read his mind. "How have you been?"
"Okay, I guess."
Darlene began texting or typing notes to herself. Her fingers danced a bit too furiously. They couldn't connect again, even at a murder scene, which came was no surprise. So that's how the conversation continued, with no eye contact, Callahan staring at an empty, boarded up house and Darlene pretending to be working.
"So you didn't take that job in Cleveland?"
"It wasn't Cleveland, that offer was from St. Louis."
"Was it?"
"The Rams, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, a football team at last."
"I didn't take it."
"That was all on again and off again and on again, last I heard."
"They just kept upping the money."
"So you had to say yes."
"Well, I had to say 'maybe,' because the higher the offer the better my leverage would be for some other job, maybe around here. We talked about all that."
She closed her smart phone. "Callahan let me tell you something. Whenever you talk about leaving town, going on the road, some weird damned adventure or another, you light up like the Times Square Christmas tree.'"
"And?"
"So that's not lost on a woman."
"What isn't lost? Look, I can't get excited about new ideas? Dream a little?"
"Damn you."
The thermometer kept rising, as usual. "Hey, I'm sorry. This is spinning out already."
"Yeah," she said. "I'm sorry, too."
The meta-message was scornful. He'd been insulted and couldn't pin down how much, less why. Women. "I don't know what to say to you. I really don't."
Darlene shook her head. "You just don't get it."
"Darlene, maybe you don't. Look, I just found the dead body of a friend of mine. I'm jacked up and scared and confused right now, and never expected to run into you like this. Okay?"
"So it's easy on me?"
"I didn't say that either."
Their voices had been rising with his blood pressure. They were now attracting furtive glances from onlookers who had high hopes of witnessing more drama.
"Okay. Again. I don't get it." What is it I don't get?
Darlene started to answer. She sensed the volcanic energy that would have been unleashed and wisely held herself in check. She said, "Physician, heal thyself."
"That's useful. I say it to myself all the time but nothing changes. You know what's really sad? If you were my client, I'd understand you."
Darlene nodded. "I believe you would."
They exchanged wan smiles. Darlene inched forward, but restrained herself from offering a hug. They locked eyes and revealed an eloquent truth without speaking.
Dennis came back out on the porch again, for reasons clearly contrived. Possibly due to the tense exchange with Darlene, this time Dennis didn't seem okay. In fact, he managed to get on Callahan's nerves, hovering like a moth checking out one badass flame, holding the high ground there on the porch. Staring down with those super-cool eyeglasses, their lenses glinting red and blue, crisp reflections from the lights on the parked police vehicles.
"You need any help, Sergeant Hernandez?"
Darlene read Callahan, felt him tense up. She stepped between Callahan and Dennis but a bit to the side. She looked up at him pleasantly. "We're fine, Dennis. Where is the ME at? We done here?"
"It's all over but the shouting. Going to post one of the uniforms here to do a bit of ultraviolet work, but basically he's done. One clean hit, Darlene. We're betting we've got prints on the occupants, Mr. Callahan here and maybe the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. Nothing we can
use."
"That figures."
"Hey, Mr. Callahan, I assume you don't mind us lifting your prints for comparison?"
"Not at all, Detective. I was in the house yesterday, so I'm going to turn up a few times for sure."
"And you'll be around if we need you?" Dennis grinned like a shark. "We wouldn't want you skipping town or anything."
Callahan frowned. The vibe had changed. Dennis now had a Mad Hatter tilt to his head and there was something mocking in his clear blue eyes. Mick turned, touched Darlene on the shoulder. She trembled slightly and then sagged a bit. He sensed that something had changed, a key moment had passed. She eased to Callahan's right and got out of the middle. She paused to look back and forth at the two of them before turning her back on both.
Darlene walked away briskly and left Dennis and Callahan to appraise one another. Callahan took one long step forward, closer to both Darlene's partner and the building. It brought his face into the porch light and let Dennis read what Callahan was thinking. Standing three feet higher than Callahan, up there on the splintering wooden porch looking down, Dennis apparently started feeling his oats.
"It wouldn't be hard to like you for this, you know."
"Yeah."
Dennis stared. "You stick around."
"Sure," Callahan said. "I'll be around."
Dennis grinned again. He studied his fingernails. "Actually, I'm not too worried about you running off and poof you're gone and all. Not a big hot shot like you, gets recognized all the time."
"What?"
"You heard me. You, you're Mr. Celebrity shrink and all that. Mick Callahan is in and out of trouble all the time. I've heard those rumors, Callahan. We all have. Wherever you go people get hurt and some bad shit happens."
Callahan couldn't exactly argue that point. He shrugged. "Feels like that."
"Oh, and you've had a magic touch so far," Dennis continued. His tone sneered. "So none of the shit sticks to you, but that celebrity thing, it has to catch up someday. And when it does, it's going to make it hard to hide from the long arm of the law."
Things came into focus. Callahan stared at the man he now realized was Darlene's new lover. His face felt hot. He tried but failed to smile. Whatever the expression became, it stretched his features wide and Dennis flinched. "How long you been wearing those glasses, Dennis? They do you any good there in the dark, with your head that far up your ass?"
Across the lawn, Darlene muttered something to herself. Something Callahan didn't imagine was particularly supportive. Something about a dick measuring contest. Callahan couldn't say as he blamed her.
"Wow," Dennis said, "Just like folks say, you got a mouth on you and a cow chip on your shoulder."
Without thinking, Callahan shifted his balance back into his left foot, loosened his knees and turned slightly away just in case Dennis launched himself over the railing. Things got very calm inside, the eye of the hurricane took over. Some reddish wisps of fog danced around the edges of his eyes. Callahan smiled. He started to invite Dennis to come down off the porch and take a walk with him, so they could explore their differences of opinion in total privacy. He mentally wrote three or four pretty good zingers about the dude's bald spot and the probable size of his male member. And that's when it hit Callahan that it was real, it was heartbreaking, she was gone. He sagged and stepped back, turned around. Mick didn't want Darlene to read his face. He took a few steps into the cooling darkness.
"Callahan!" Dennis called to his back, really pushing that luck, "you leave when I say you can leave and not before, got it?"
Callahan studied the ground. He imagined assaulting the prick, being dragged away with his fists bloody. A few heavy heartbeats later, standing there on a patch of dying grass, strangers all around, yellow police tape, bright lights, Callahan looked up with damp eyes and merely shrugged. He ignored Dennis and all the witnesses and police personnel and addressed Darlene.
"Mother may I?"
Darlene reacted. She jumped as if she'd been stung by something creepy. Clearly torn between coming toward Callahan and running away, she did neither. She snapped at Dennis, "Denny, get back inside. Now. I'll handle this."
Denny.
A vision came unbidden. The backyard in summer, a big metal tub willed with long necked bottles of beer, glass beading sweat, steam rising from the cubes in frigid water. Mick Callahan was young and violent and crazy and not needing to give a shit about anyone or anything except getting as high as possible that particular moment. I was that easy to replace? And she'd moved on so quickly? To hell with Darlene, to hell with Mary Kate, to hell with my dead mother Katherine, fuck 'em all, the long and the short and the tall.
Uh oh.
With a start, Callahan realized there was no guarantee he was going to make it home okay. Not that night. He'd just stepped over the threshold and back into the House of Pain.
"I'm out of here."
"Mick. Wait!"
Callahan backed away from the yard. He felt as lit up and scared as a soldier in a firefight. Darlene watched him go with real anguish on her pretty face. Dennis occupied his safe position on the porch, standing at the railing and behind the badge. He beamed like a man satisfied with his actions. He'd slapped down the asshole ex-boyfriend in front of a crowd. Hey, how cool was that?
Darlene Hernandez didn't move. She watched Callahan back away, he watched her. Callahan didn't turn his back on the scene until he was at his car. And then he got in quickly, slammed the door and drove away in search of a liquor store.
TEN
Wednesday night
It happened so fast Callahan was almost not aware of having a choice. The drive was a blur. He found himself walking slowly, steadily past a giant neon clown and into some dump called Circus Liquors. Watched his boots thud on the worn yellow linoleum, dried chewing gum, smoldering cigarette butts and showers of sparks falling everywhere around him like some barrio backyard on the Fourth of July. The men outside and inside stepped away. They stopped their conversation once they got a look at his face. He searched the shelves, grabbed something and went to the counter, where an acne-scarred Goth boy didn't meet his gaze. Callahan discovered he'd bought a fifth of Tequila and some lime juice. If he was going to give himself a hangover, might as well throw in some vomiting and one badass headache. He left the change on the counter and walked back out. The men started talking again.
He stopped in the parking lot and looked up at the smoggy sky. Los Angeles stank of gasoline and poverty and heartache. Callahan wanted to go home. He thought, just open the bottle and drive east and north into the desert. His phone had buzzed twice during the drive and once in the store. Jerry called twice, Hal once. Callahan ignored the messages and set all incoming calls to go to voice mail. The one he did want, from Darlene Hernandez, wasn't coming. Ever.
Callahan got in the car and started the engine. He considered tossing the cell phone out the window, but didn't. I can't leave, not until I settle this thing. Not until I nail whoever did this to Calvin. After that, all bets are off.
Callahan drove down Victory Boulevard towards a nicer part of the valley. He was still picturing what the gun had done to Calvin's body. That one hideous blackened hole in the back of his neck. A perfect head shot, then a second tap just to be sure. Quinn has the size for that sort of an angle, shooting down and into a helpless old man. Callahan hadn't gotten close enough, hadn't even seen the body from the front. He wished he'd had the chance. It looked like the kind of a hit that big, smug bastard would have thrived on delivering and especially after Callahan had shamed him in front of his boss. And if it was Quinn then by God. . . . Callahan had never hated anyone so much in his entire life. Some teenagers drove by, rap music thumping, and flipped him the bird. Callahan ignored them. He stayed within the speed limit. He licked his lips. The bottle rattled like a snake in the paper sack. It crouched on the seat next to him. Callahan touched it over and over again like a totem offering reassurance. He told himself he wasn't really going to drink i
t. At least not unless things got really, really bad.
Callahan also told himself that he wasn't going to be able to live with this one, if it meant not knowing. He couldn't just skulk away into the night and let this go, no matter what he'd told Darlene and that wimpy little boy she'd taken up with just a couple of weeks after they'd split, the bitch. Hell, she'd probably been sleeping with him the whole time, just lying to Callahan about wanting to work things out and having her own doubts and their friendship being the most important thing.
You're losing it.
Callahan was crazy, not stupid. He could recognize the old pattern, what he was working himself up to do. And it wasn't pretty. Under all his convincing self-righteous indignation and rage, most of it a rapidly assembled reaction formation, lay a teeming cesspool of omnipresent self-loathing and guilt. The things Mick had never been able to sit with for very long. Saving the world was supposed to save Mick from that curse. His ongoing, terminal case of "Who cares?"
Get it together, Callahan. Focus on what you need to do and get started. Jerry can give you all the information you need, but you have to assemble the clarity and motivation. The trail is getting cold.
Step one. Callahan needed to eliminate the possibility that his meddling had resulted in Calvin McCann's execution. And find a way to do that quickly. Mick popped in his headset and hit the speed dial.
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 10