by Rick Riordan
The complex was ringed with tenfoot chain link, no barbed wire at the top but a security guard in a booth at the front gate and good night lighting all the way around. In the day, traffic on the back side of the industry park was heavy-a constant stream of cars cruising NacoPerrin's ugly strip malls and fastfood restaurants. On the entrance side of Sheckly's facility, traffic was lighter. The only neighbour was a sulfurprocessing plant across the street, acres of weed, and mountains of moon dust.
At the moment the guard at the gate wasn't very interesting to watch. He was reading a little magazine, Security Guard's Digest probably. The gates were closed and there were two detached freight boxes in the yard in front of closed loading doors. No business in or out.
Allison sighed. "This is better than staring at the walls at the old house. But only slightly."
Before we'd left Monte Vista, Allison had started referring to her home of two years as the old house. When she'd plopped into the shotgun seat of the VW she'd insisted that she was completely all right, over Les, finished grieving for Brent, ready to help me, and convinced that our afternoon together had been nothing but a nice little break from reality. I wasn't buying any of it and I don't think she was either, but it did let us set aside weightier issues so we could concentrate on watching empty loading docks.
I was about to suggest trying address number six when a white BMW sedan cruised past us on Nacogdoches. It slowed, then turned at the gate. The security guard immediately discarded his magazine and came out to the driver's side window.
"Ignition," I said.
Allison sat up and looked.
Jean Kraus rolled down the BMW's window and spoke to the guard, who nodded. Jean spoke again, smiling, and the guard nodded even more vigorously.
The guard trotted up to the gate, unchained it, and swung open one side. The white BMW drove through. Jean Kraus parked next to the first trailer and he and two other men extracted themselves from the sedan. Jean was dressed for success-an Armani suit, beige, with a little black tie and plenty of silver accents. The other two men I didn't recognize. One was well built, Anglo, with curly brown hair and dress slacks that didn't match the sleeveless Tshirt. The third guy was taller, older, a black sweat suit and the remnants of black hair.
Jean seemed to be pointing out some things to the men, giving them the tour. After a fiveminute conversation and some head nodding and a few looks at the loading bays, all three got back in the BMW and left.
"They're moving cargo out," I said. "Getting rid of it early."
Allison looked at me. "Are we being constructive yet?"
"We're on the outskirts."
I started the engine of the VW.
We followed Jean's BMW for a few miles down Perrin Beitel before it became too difficult. The traffic was bad, Jean was a little too jumpy a driver, and my orange bug was anything but nondescript. To stay with him I had to risk discovery. I fell back and let him go.
"Does this mean we don't get to beat the shit out of anybody?" Allison wanted to know.
"I'm sorry, honey."
Allison pouted.
It was starting to get dark when I dropped her back at the old house in Monte Vista.
Allison insisted on staying there and she insisted on staying there alone. I didn't argue very hard with the second part. Seeing her get out of the car, I started developing a funny empty feeling in my intestinal basement that either meant I very much wanted to stay with her or I very much didn't. You get to feeling those extremes and not being able to tell them apart, it's time to go home by yourself and feed the cat.
I watched her walk all the way up the sidewalk and go inside and I watched the door for a long time after that. The door didn't reopen.
When I got home I showered, picked the cleanest things I could find out of the growing pile of laundry, then made two calls.
Ray Lozano answered at the Bexar County M.E.'s office.
"Raymond. This is Tres."
A moment of silence. "As in the guy who owes me the Spurs tickets?"
"Yeah, about that-"
"Save it, Navarre. You keep making promises and I keep believing, it'll just make me feel bad."
"Faith is an admirable quality, Raymond. You like the Oilers?"
"What do you want?"
I read Lozano the notes Frank had given me from the Avalon County autopsy of Brent Daniels.
"So?" he said.
"What can you interpret?"
"They were lucky to get as much tissue as they did, given the state of the body. It sounds like this guy was dead before he burned. No soot particles in the bronchi. No carboxyhemoglobin in the fluids. This guy didn't go down breathing smoke."
"And the lack of a positive ID?"
"Somewhat unusual, given that they know the victim, but it's early. They have to be one hundred percent sure. If you have to wait for Xray records from a big hospital, or wait for the odontologist, maybe the anthropologist to come down from Austin, it can take up to ten days. Sometimes more. It doesn't sound like there's really any doubt, though. The size is right, compensating for shrinkage? age and sex are right."
"What about these trace chemicals?" I read off some hardtopronounce compounds the M.E. had found in the few remaining fluids of Brent's body.
Lozano ticked his tongue a few times. "I'd have to check with a toxicologist. Was this guy an alcoholic?"
"Probably. Yes."
"Okay-that gives you a setup for liver damage, poor sugar processing. If the guy came in contact with certain other drugs in a large enough dosage, they could trigger the kind of chemicals you're seeing there, only that would mean the subject was in a diabetic coma before he died."
"A coma. You mean like if he came into contact with diabetes drugs? Gluco somethingorother?"
"Glucophage. Absolutely."
I was quiet so long Lozano finally said, "You still there?"
"Yeah. You think-would somebody OD on these, for suicide?"
Lozano blew air. "Not unless they were mainline stupid. Chances are pretty good the drugs wouldn't kill you, they'd just turn you into a vegetable. I know one nurse at the Medical Centre that happened to, man-alcohol and diabetes medicine. They're changing her diapers three times a day now. Plus it wouldn't make sense-a guy goes comatose, then dies, then becomes a crispy critter."
"Okay."
"That information helpful at all?"
I probably didn't sound too enthusiastic when I said, "Yeah. It's helpful."
"Now what was that about the Oilers?" Lozano started to say. But the phone was already halfway to the cradle.
Milo Chavez was even more thrilled to hear from me.
"Tell me Miranda is safe," he demanded.
"Miranda's safe."
"Tell me I shouldn't kill you for taking off with her like you did."
"Come on, Milo."
"I had a couple of Avalon County dicks in the office this morning, Navarre. They had some questions about how Les and I got along with Brent Daniels, why I might've hired a PI and what kind of work you did, whether you were licensed or not. I didn't like the direction they were going."
"Avalon County homicide couldn't detect its way out of a cascaron, Milo. They're just trying to rattle you."
"They're succeeding."
I told him about my afternoon-about the autopsy files from Frank, then about the warehouse address I'd visited on PerrinBeitel.
"I know that place," Milo said. "This is good, isn't it? The RIAA guy, Barrera-he'll need to move on it now, right?"
"You ask Barrera, he'll tell you nothing's changed. There's still no evidence, no probable cause for a search. Just the fact I saw somebody there who I didn't like isn't enough. Barrera's willing to hold out another few years if it means strengthening his legal case."
"I've got until Friday," Milo muttered. "And you're talking about years."
"Barrera's technically correct," I said. "There's nothing they can move on in what I've found. At least not right away."
"Technically corre
ct," Milo grumbled. "That's just great."
"We'll figure out something," I promised.
"And Les?"
That one was harder to sound confident on. "Consider him gone. For good."
Milo was silent, probably trying to formulate some kind of B plan. When he spoke again his voice was strange, tightly controlled. "I'll need to talk to Miranda. If we're going to have to come clean with Century when we bring them the tape, I need to talk to my client about strategy. She needs to know the risks. Maybe-"
"I'll bring her by later tonight," I promised. "It'll take a couple of hours."
"My office at nine," he suggested.
"Okay. And Barrera is good, Milo. The people he is working with are good. They will eventually put Sheckly's ass in a sling."
The other end of the line was deadly calm.
"Milo?"
"I'm fine," he said.
"Let it go, Milo."
"All right."
"Your office at nine."
Milo said sure. As he hung up he was still speaking, muttering unhappy and angry thoughts. I had the feeling I was no longer part of the conversation.
53
Mendoza Street ran along the eastern edge of the San Fernando Cemetery. On the lefthand side of the road the graveyard's chainlink fence tilted and bowed at irregular intervals, like a football team had been using it for blocking practice. Evening ground fog had thickened on the cemetery lawn, diluting the tombstones and the air and the trees into one grayish smear.
On the right side of the street was a line of box houses with brightly painted wood slat siding and burglar barred windows and worn tar shingle roofs. The yards were squares of crabgrass, some gravel, some display areas for broken furniture and tires.
There were no kids in sight, nothing of value on the porches, no windows open, few cars parked on the street except those that had been stolen from other parts of town, then stripped and abandoned here. There were plenty of those.
Number 344 was a turquoise onebedroom in slightly better repair than the houses around it. Ralph's maroon Cadillac and a babyblue Camaro were in the driveway.
The front yard was white gravel, decorated with bottle caps. The burglar bars on the screen door and windows were painted white and shaped like ivy, though they were so ornate and thick they reminded me more of a fused curtain of bones.
I rang the bell and stood on the porch for about twenty seconds before Ralph answered the door, midlaugh. Somewhere behind him I could hear Miranda laughing too. The smell of mota smoke wafted out the door.
"Eh, vato." Ralph's glasses shimmered yellow in the porch light.
He stood aside to let me in.
The living room was bare except for one brown couch opposite the window. The interior walls were stark white and the floors hardwood and several bullet holes in the ceiling had been imperfectly spackled over. Driveby souvenirs from the house's previous owner. Ralph had gotten the place cheap because of that.
Through an archway I could see Miranda sitting at a dining table across from another woman. They were both laughing so hard they were wiping away tears. Miranda was still dressed as she had been this morning- in jeans, boots, and my Tshirt. Her face had more colour, though? her posture was a little less weigheddown. The other woman was a young Latina with long coppery hair and a bright yellow dress that showed lots of leg. She wore black pumps and silver earrings and makeup.
When the women saw me they both smiled.
Miranda said my name like it was a pleasant memory from twenty years ago.
The other woman got up and came to give me a hug. "Hey, vaquero."
She kissed both my ears, then stepped back to appraise me.
"Cally," I said. "How you doing?"
"Asi asi." Then, still in Spanish, "You've got a nice lady here."
I looked at Miranda, who was still smiling and wiping her eyes. There was only one lit joint in the room-in Ralph's hand-but there were assorted munchies on the table-bags of tortilla chips, a steaming canister of Ralph's homemade venison tamales, a plate of Ralph's special pan dulce-the kind with the green flecks in the icing. Uhoh.
Ralph saw my expression and spread his hands. "Everything's cool, vato. Just relaxing, doing the grief process, right?"
I stared at him.
Ralph shrugged, turned to Cally. "Eh, mamasita, let's go out back, get Chico to take you home."
Cally said goodbye to Miranda, gave her a hug, then kissed me one last time. Ralph gave us an amused grin, then led his lady friend out the screen door.
In the floodlit backyard, Chico of the yellow pirate bandanna and the easily kicked balls was working on a halfassembled Shelby. Ralph kept the car out there just for his grunts-sort of like the block table for kids at the doctor's office. Chico stopped messing with the fuel pump and quickly wiped his hands when Cally and Ralph came out.
I sat across the table from Miranda and turned the plate of laced pan dulce around.
"How many?"
Miranda blinked very slowly. "Two? I don't remember."
"Great."
My face was apparently good enough to warrant another laugh. She held her hand over her mouth, quivered silently for five beats, and then did a little snort on beat six.
"I guess I shouldn't ask how you're feeling," I ventured.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just-it feels good to laugh, Tres. Cally's so nice. Ralph is really lucky."
"Sure," I said.
"Have they been together long?"
I hesitated. "Actually they're more like business partners."
Miranda frowned. She reached for another pan dulce before I moved the plate.
"Better not," I said.
"Oh-right." She went for the bag of Doritos instead, examined the plastic edges.
"Ralph and Cally told me not to be mad at you. They talk about you pretty highly- said you usually knew what you were talking about, even if it wasn't fun to hear."
Outside, Ralph had finished giving Chico his orders. Ralph tossed him a set of car keys, then swatted Cally's behind by way of farewell. She grinned, then followed her yellow bandannaed chauffeur around the side of the house, out of sight.
"I spoke to Allison today," I said.
Miranda smiled ruefully. "My best friend in the whole world."
I told her about Allison moving out, about the addresses we had tracked, about how I had some new information on Brent's murder.
Miranda tried to pull her expression together, to anchor herself on my words. Her attention disintegrated quickly.
There was a small hole in the upper corner of the Dorito bag, much too little to get a chip through. The problem was too much for Miranda's stoned sensibilities. Finally she started breaking up chips inside the bag with one finger, getting them small enough to fit through the hole.
My story faltered to a stop.
Miranda looked up, probably wondering why the sound of my voice had gone away.
"What?"
"Milo wanted to see you tonight, to talk strategy. Maybe I should call him, tell him tomorrow would be better."
She processed those words.
"Milo wants-" Her voice trailed off, like she was just remembering that name. "My brother is dead and Allison's leaving town and Milo wants to talk about Century Records.'"
A car engine started in the driveway. Seconds later the headlights of the babyblue Camaro slipped through the livingroom window, over the couch and across the livingroom table, then disappeared down Mendoza Street.
Miranda moved a small piece of tortilla chip across the table with her finger, like it was a checker. "We should talk, Tres. Before we see Milo."
"I know."
"The things you said last night, the way you made me out…"
The screen door screaked open and Ralph came in alone.
I turned back toward Miranda. "Like I said, tomorrow would be better. I'll call Milo."
"Pinche Chavez," Ralph put in. "This lady need help it ain't going to come from his sorry ass."
&n
bsp; He looked at Miranda. She rewarded him with a faint smile.
I walked to the phone. Ralph sat where I had been sitting and helped himself to the tamales. As he pried off the canister lid a cloud of steam and cumin and spiced meat smells mushroomed up. He pulled out three of the tamales and began unshucking them. He told Miranda not to worry about a thing. We'd be taking care of her.
Gladys answered the phone at the agency office.
"Milo in?" I asked her.
Gladys sounded like she was shuffling furniture, or maybe moving quickly into another part of the office.
Her tone was low and urgent.
"He's out," she whispered. "You mean you don't know-"
"What do you mean, out?"
Our questions crossfired and tangled. We both backtracked and waited.
"Okay," I said. "Tell me what happened."
Gladys told me how Milo had cancelled his dinner meeting with an important client, then stormed out of the office. He'd thrown his pager on Gladys' desk on the way out, telling her "Don't bother." He'd said he had some business to take care of. Gladys had been worried enough to check Milo's desk, which she'd been forbidden to do but which she apparently knew well enough to notice what was missing-the handgun Milo kept in the middle drawer. She had just assumed, me being the most disreputable person Milo knew, no offense of course, that he'd gone somewhere with me. Gladys was about to tell me something else, something to justify her prying, but I cut her off.
"How long ago?"
"Ten minutes?" she said, plaintive, apologetic.
I hung up and looked at Ralph, then at Miranda.
"What?" Miranda said.
"Milo just left the office with a gun," I said.
My words took a while to impact, and even when they did the effect was dull. Miranda's brown eyes slid down to my chin, then my chest, then to her own hands. She pushed the Doritos away. "You know where he's going?"