Chapter Nineteen

Nineteen

Maybe Richie has a point about my job, I thought as I swung into a sharp right turn that nearly made my car flip over. My next thoughts were, in quick succession, I wish I could drive like Spike —because Spike was the fastest and most skillfully reckless driver I knew. Where are the police when you need them? And finally, Rosie hasn't had dinner.

My solution to the first two of the latter thoughts was to floor it until the next light, then make an unexpected and extremely illegal left turn—the light was red—and pray that I'd get pulled over.

I didn't get pulled over.

As I tore down another deserted street full of abandoned-looking warehouses, those halogen headlights burning through my windows, I kept thinking about Rosie, and how, if this asshole were to succeed in getting me into a fatal accident, no one would know enough to check up on her for close to twenty-four hours. She'd be stuck in my apartment—hungry, frightened, and alone—until tomorrow afternoon at three p.m., when my fourteen-year-old neighbor, Cara, would innocently show up at my front door and use her spare key, expecting to take Rosie on her daily walk. (I paid her once a week for this.) Would Rosie be able to get by until three p.m. tomorrow with no food, no walks, no me ? And after that, who would take her? Spike? Richie? Would she be able to survive without me? What if she couldn't?

What a terrible thought.

I blazed through another red light. The RAV4 didn't slow down by even a fraction. It was as though Baseball Cap and I were the only two people left on earth, free to break any driving law we wanted to, with no repercussions. "Where are all the cops?" I said it to the windshield. And then the answer came to me.

The entire Boston Police Department was at the Gonzo manufacturing plant. An exaggeration, sure. But I happened to know that there were at least a dozen cop cars in the Gonzo factory parking lot. And I now had a plan. I'd lead him there.

My phone was mounted on my dashboard. I pressed the button and asked Siri for directions back to the crime scene. Cheerful as ever, my AI complied.

Siri told me to take a right at the next light. I did. So did the RAV4. She told me to go straight for three blocks, and I did. He did the same. She said to make a left at the next stop sign and I accidentally took a right and wound up on a dead-end street. He followed me. Siri politely told me to "safely make a U-turn," which almost made me laugh. I wasn't doing anything safely tonight. I threw my car into a U-turn and the RAV4 stayed where it was, then sharply pulled forward, its grill careening toward me. I jammed my foot on the brake. So did he. My heart pounded up into my throat, my ears, my hair. "Jesus Christ." I whispered.

We'd stopped short of a head-on collision. By inches. Millimeters. I was relieved, then terrified, then very, very angry. Adrenaline coursed through me.

He got out of the RAV4 and walked toward me. I thought about putting the car in reverse, but there was a telephone pole right behind me. So instead I reached into my purse. Got my hand on my .38 and slipped it out.

He moved closer. He was a big man with square shoulders. He wore a bulky black leather jacket with fur at the collar that looked real. This wrap of his managed to be tacky and expensive-looking at the same time—the worst of both worlds. Plus, it didn't work with the baseball cap. It was as though this guy couldn't decide what season it was and wanted to make sure he was covered.

He moved closer. Close enough so I could get a good look at his face. I recognized him. That cap. That smile, the meaty jaw half hidden by the scope of a gun the last time I saw him. He was Moon Monaghan's guy. No question.

Thanks a lot for taking me seriously, Desmond.

Moon's guy knocked on my window. I opened my door and stepped out slowly. The air felt about ten degrees colder than it had outside the factory, the temperature dropping quickly, the way it always did at this time of year.

He was a tall guy. So tall that when I raised the gun straight out in front of me, it was aimed at his stomach. I raised it higher. "Stay back, asshole," I said.

He stared at me for a few moments, his hands in the pockets of that bulky, cheesy fur-trimmed jacket. It looked worse up close. The fur was either fox or dyed rabbit. Or dog. It could have been dog.

"Where is he?" he said.

"Where is who?"

"Dylan Welch. Say where he is, you won't get hurt."

"First, I feel like if one of us is going to do the threatening, it should be me." I released the safety.

"You kidding me?"

"Get your hands out of your pockets."

He took his hands out of his pockets. He was holding a gun in one of them. "Oh, now, come on," I said.

"What?"

"Drop it."

"No."

I switched positions and fired. The bullet hit the concrete half an inch from his foot. Close enough so he knew that I'd missed intentionally and that next time, he might not be so lucky. His eyes went big. "Jesus Christ, lady," he said. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He looked rattled. I was glad. When you're a woman and you're dealing with guys like this, it's best if they think you aren't playing with a full deck.

He said it again. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

"I said drop it , you piece of shit."

He dropped the gun, proving my point.

"Shooting me would be a mistake," he said. "There's lots more where I come from."

"Yeah, right. Like cockroaches," I said.

My headlights were still on and illuminated his face. He was sweating. A lot. His skin shimmered. Droplets fell from his forehead, his nose.

"What do you want with Dylan Welch?" I said.

"None of your business."

I aimed right between his feet and fired again. Bits of pavement went flying. He yelped. That's right. Mr. Cool-as-a-Cucumber Professional Sniper made the same sound Rosie did if you accidentally stepped on her tail. I found it tremendously satisfying. "Next time," I said, "I'm aiming two feet higher."

His jaw dropped open. I had no doubt he believed me.

I said it again. "What do you want with Dylan Welch?"

"He owes money to the firm."

"Moon and Desmond?"

"No, just Moon," he said.

"Desmond doesn't know about it."

"I have no idea what Mr. Burke knows and doesn't know."

"That's noncommittal of you."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," I said. "What does Dylan owe you money for? Drugs?"

"Medical supplies."

"Cut the crap. I'm not a cop."

"You wearing a wire?"

"You've been chasing me . This meeting wasn't by choice. Why the fuck would I be wearing a wire?"

He looked me up and down, computing the situation in his thick head. Then he actually grinned. "Can you prove you ain't wearing a wire?"

Idiot. I raised the gun two feet.

"Okay, okay! It's drugs."

"What kind?" I said.

"Designer stuff. From overseas. He owes us a lot. He said he was good for it and then he just…disappeared. Like Moon says, that's a dumbfuck thing to do."

"A real wordsmith, that Moon."

"Huh?"

I sighed. "What do you mean by ‘designer stuff'?"

"I…I don't know. Powerful shit. Moon figured he was good for the money because he's bought from us before. We didn't expect him to run away."

"Why do you think I know where he is?"

"We've been tracking his phone. You have it. Or you had it."

"The police have it now."

"Wait, what?"

"Welch is missing," I said. "I'm trying to find him, just like you are."

"Why are you trying to find him?"

"I was hired to."

"By who?"

"None of your business."

"He doesn't have his phone?"

"No, genius. He doesn't have his phone. He hasn't had it for two weeks."

"You gotta tell us when you find him," he said.

"I do, huh?" I took a few steps closer, the gun still pointed at his crotch.

"Fuck." He started to tremble.

I walked up to him and plucked his gun from the pavement. I dropped it in my purse.

"That's…That's mine ." He said it like a two-year-old on the cusp of a temper tantrum.

I stood up and resumed my stance. "Here's what I'm going to do," I said. "I'm going to get in my car and drive away. Here's what you're going to do. You're not going to follow me."

"What about my gun?" he said.

"I'll give it to Desmond. If he thinks you deserve it, I'm sure you can have it back." I offered up a cheery smile.

He said something I couldn't hear. I could tell it wasn't very nice. I turned and shot out one of his tires. "Watch the way you talk to a lady."

His face reddened. "What the…"

"You're lucky it's just a tire."

I held my gun on him as I eased into my car and closed the door. I kept it aimed at him when I started it up and drove away. It wasn't until I was back in traffic again on Soldiers Field Drive, and both guns were safely in my purse, that I was finally able to start breathing.