part0020

CROW WAS RIGHT. Evan should have watched his back. Except Crow had been talking about down in Florida, not at home. His mind was too full of the task ahead of him, the address on the slip of paper Crow had given him. And the way that prospect made his heart sprint in the tight, breathless cavity that was his chest, left his mouth dry. His plan was to grab a few hours’ sleep before heading out again in the small hours of the morning.

He knew something was up the minute he stepped into his apartment, closed the door behind him. A woman with a gun in her hand and a twisted scowl on her face was sitting in his favorite easy chair like she owned it.

‘You’re the sister,’ he said after he recovered from the initial shock.

She had a point. It was rude. And it’s never a good idea to be rude to the person holding the gun. But he was dog tired, didn’t have the energy to give a damn.

‘I’m Todd’s sister, yes. Lydia.’

She looked exactly like the photo of her he had on his phone, nothing like the description he’d been given of the woman looking for him. Her hair was the sort of dark red color that only comes in a bottle, short like a boy’s and hacked into a shape that made him think she’d fallen asleep in a field on the day the combine harvester was working. But she had nice eyes. On the surface at least. You knew on a primeval, subconscious level that you didn’t want to look too deeply into them. She was slim too, again like a boy, with shapeless, unflattering clothes hanging off her.

Some vague intuition told him that the whole effect was deliberate, to eradicate all vestiges of her femininity. There would be some root cause behind this desire to make herself unattractive. It wouldn’t be anything good. Nor would it be safely squared away in her past. It would be something to be very wary of in the future.

‘You were looking for me in the Jerusalem Tavern.’

She nodded, motioned with the gun for him to sit down. He considered the distance between them. Decided it was a bad idea. The relaxed way she held the gun told him she was comfortable around guns. Comfortable with putting a bullet in his gut if that’s what it took. He sat, closed his eyes for a moment.

‘Why were you in Todd’s apartment?’

He couldn’t see any benefit in not telling the truth. Some people would say he should try it more often.

‘Looking for information.’

‘The person who hired him.’

She let out a short stutter of a laugh, shook her head.

‘Like he’d just leave that lying around. And after the police had been all over the place.’

‘Gotta start somewhere.’

His phone chose that moment to ring. It startled them both. They stared at each other a long moment.

‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

She waved the gun at him, irritation on her face as if the sound was grating on her nerves.

The phone stopped ringing before things could escalate. A few seconds later a double beep announced the arrival of a text message. It was from Guillory. He recognized the ring tone he’d assigned to her. He smiled at the thought of what she’d say if she ever found out what it was.

‘You think this is funny?’

She raised the gun. He took a better look at it, his mouth suddenly dry. Her brother had been a paid assassin. He’d have had a lot of guns, a lot of equipment to go with them. He wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave it in his apartment. Presumably his sister had access to it now. Hence the suppressor on the gun, an accessory that was illegal in some states, a pain in the butt to acquire in the others.

He shook his head, showed her his palms in apology.

‘Let me see the phone.’

He pulled it out carefully, threw it gently to her. She let it land in her lap, didn’t try to catch it. Then she checked the display.

‘Kate Guillory. That’s the cop—’

‘Your brother was paid to kill. And whose picture you tacked to the wall in his apartment.’

It was her turn to smile then.

‘And look what it got me. I was watching you on CCTV when you pulled it off the wall, saw what a soft spot you’ve got for her. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Why’s she calling you?’

‘No idea. See what the text says.’

She brought up the message and read it, her eyes flicking up and down between it and his face, never leaving him for more than a split second.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Better call her, then. Before you get in trouble.’

She threw the phone back to him. He caught it, didn’t make a move to do anything with it.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Invite her over.’

That surprised him. He couldn’t stop it showing on his face.

‘Because I want to know how she got from a situation where it was meant to be her dead and my brother alive to the opposite way around.’

‘She didn’t kill him.’

He knew who. Francisco Garcia, a gangster known to everybody as Chico, in the aftermath of an ambush gone wrong. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. Not now, anyway. And not because of any loyalty to Chico, a ruthless thug who deserved anything that Evan or fate itself might send his way. But because an idea was forming in the back of his mind, one that would allow him to forget about what Crow had just given him. He was thinking more along the lines of trade, rather than tell. It all depended on how close she’d been to her murderous swine of a brother, how much information he’d shared with her.

She took his hesitation as an admission that he didn’t know.

He called her, held the phone out between them so they could both hear it ringing.

‘I hope you’ve changed your pants,’ Guillory’s tinny voice said from the small speaker, proof of the fact that Cortez had called her again to share the fish story with her. She sounded as if all the problems of their past conversations were just that—a thing of the past. Nothing like a fishy story to put everyone in a good mood.

Time to change all of that.

He raised an eyebrow to Lydia Strange. Got a nod back. He put the phone to his ear.

‘Piss off, Kate.’

He killed the call, knew she’d kill him next time she saw him. He gave Lydia a guilty smile.

‘Oops. Don’t suppose she’ll be coming over now.’

Lydia was on her feet before the words were out of his mouth, face twisted, fury and frustration colliding in her features. The whole of her slim body shook like a young tree in a gale, her anger lighting up the room like a flare. The gun quivered in her double-handed grip, way too big and unpredictable in the small hands, silenced barrel aimed directly at the middle of his face, wavering, pointing first at the bridge of his nose, now at his front teeth.

‘You think you’re clever, you fuck? You—’

She never got to finish.

He hooked his leg around in a wide fast arc. Caught her hard and low on the back of the leg. A startled yelp erupted from her mouth as she toppled backwards, fell into the easy chair behind her, gun arm waving crazily in the air as she tried to keep her balance.

By the time her butt hit the seat, he was out of his, moving fast. Adrenalin sledding through his veins. Heart racing, pulse loud in his ears. Leg muscles contracting, ready to leap at her, smother her with his superior weight and strength.

Then a noise like a distant thunderclap, still loud as if the suppressor were nothing more than an empty tin can.

Behind the shot, the sound of her voice screaming at him, knuckles growing ever whiter on the gun grip as dust and plaster drifted down from the ceiling.

The force of it slammed into him like a second shot hitting him in the chest, left him teetering on the verge of falling onto her below him in the easy chair. Now the gun arm was worryingly steady, the barrel that had been pointing at his face dropping to the bigger, unmissable target of his mid-section. He froze, a hard-wired natural instinct, a subconscious survival mechanism kicking in, telling him that she would not hesitate to fire again if he moved another thousandth of an inch.

Her voice was raw, hysterical with rage and frustration as she screamed into his face, so loudly he heard the rasping suck of air down her throat between every word spat at him.

‘Get. On. The. Floor.’

He backed off, palms towards her. Lowered himself carefully down, his movements smooth and unhurried for fear that any sudden movement might be misinterpreted. He lay on his front. Turned his face to the side, cheek on the floor. Looked up at her as she sat in the chair, tight lips flecked with spittle, eyes that he had thought pretty now pits of molten hatred.

He watched the small chest under the shapeless top rise and fall steadily, her lips parted now as she fought to control her breathing. It worried him that maybe she should be popping some medication right about now and who knows what would happen if she’d left it at home.

After the noise of the gunshot and the raw emotion of the screaming it was strangely peaceful in the room, his own heartbeat slow and steady. It wouldn’t take a lot for his eyes to close, a natural reaction to rest and recuperate after the danger has passed, the adrenalin leached away.

Except the danger hadn’t gone far if it had gone anywhere at all. She was staring intensely at him. He didn’t want to know what was on her mind. So he pre-empted her.

‘I can tell you who killed your brother. But I want information from you first.’

There’s nothing like negotiating from a position of power, he thought and bit down on a nervous smile.

He’d misjudged her.

Despite the outward show of calm that she’d achieved, she was still beyond words, beyond thinking. She got out of the chair, edged cautiously around him, the gun aimed at his head the whole time.

A sudden weight landed on his back and legs as she upended the easy chair he’d been sitting in on top of him as she passed. He threw it off, heard the front door slam, then the sound of her footsteps disappearing rapidly down the hallway.

There was no point going after her.

He had no doubt they’d be meeting again soon enough. And he had things to do that wouldn’t wait. The only difference being, his mental preparation was now shot to hell.