Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“No.”

“That’s all I want to know about. Did you see Garrick leave?”

“Yeah. I saw him.”

“Did he leave alone?”

“No.”

“Who was he with?”

“You really think I’m gonna tell you?”

“I’m hoping.”

“Well, keep on hoping, but it ain’t going to happen. Shit, you think I want to see my name in the goddamn newspapers?”

“I’ll keep you out of it.”

“Yeah, right, you will. Until you write some fucking best-selling book about it or sell your story to cable TV. No way, darling.”

Apparently her notoriety wasn’t such an asset, after all. “Just tell me if he was with a man or a woman.”

“Hey, all I know, it was one of them cross-dressers.” Biscuit laughed. “Put that in your book, why don’t you?”

He wouldn’t talk. She had wasted her time. She handed him a card with her cell phone number. “If you change your mind,” she said simply.

He flicked the card into a wastebasket. “I won’t.”

She started to walk away. His voice stopped her.

“Hey. I ask you something?”

She turned back to him. “Sure.”

“When you whacked the bad guys-you feel good about it after? Like, was it a rush?”

“No. I only felt good that I survived.”

“Yeah. That’s how was for me, too.” She recognized this as an admission that he had killed at least once. She said nothing. “I just wondered. Because everybody else, you know, they say it’s a trip. They say it’s like getting high. And I always tell ’em I feel like that, too. But I don’t. I thought maybe it was just me.”

“It’s not just you.”

He nodded and turned his back on her. Tess wondered if she should ask again for his help. But it was useless. In the end, she was the enemy, no matter what they shared.

She asked herself if Abby, too, saw her as an enemy, to be manipulated and cajoled, but never trusted. Perhaps she did.

And perhaps, from her standpoint, she was right. Because Tess still intended to learn what Abby had done last night. She would find a way. Somehow.

And if her suspicions proved correct, she would take Abby down.

Shanker knelt in the rear compartment of his van, arranging a small arsenal of illegal firearms under a pile of blankets. No way he would need all this firepower, but he didn’t know exactly what the Man had in mind for tonight, and his orders were to come heavy. He was debating whether or not to include the sawed-off shotgun he’d taken from a dead Mexican twenty years ago, a prized possession and one he ordinarily wouldn’t bring into combat, when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered impatiently, annoyed at the distraction. “Yeah?”

“Ron, can you talk?”

The voice he heard belonged to Marvin Bonerz, an ex-con who’d done six years in Soledad for murder in the second, but who was known to his associates as Biscuit.

“A little busy right now,” Shanker said.

“But can you talk?”

Shanker realized he was being asked whether or not he was still in police custody. “I can talk. They cut me loose.”

“Me, too.”

“So what’s up?”

“Just wanted to pass on some news. There was a fed in here a few minutes ago, trying to pump me. Lady fed, McCallum-you might have heard of her-”

“I haven’t. What’s your point? The feds are talking to everybody today. This isn’t exactly a hot news item.”

“Thing is, she’s working the case from a different angle. She thinks the hit on Dylan wasn’t gang-related. She thinks the shooter was some woman Dylan picked up last night.”

For some reason Shanker couldn’t quite identify, this information piqued his interest. He pressed the phone closer to his ear. “What woman?”

“Some bimbo, dressed real trashy. He left with her. I didn’t think nothing of it.”

“Why would some whore at Fast Eddie’s want to ice one of our guys?”

“I asked her the same thing. McCallum says the woman she’s thinking of ain’t no whore. She’s, like, a vigilante. Some kind of private operator.”

“Sounds like a load of bullshit.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. Except for one thing. The woman who went home with Dylan, she got hit on by a few other guys and gave them all the brush-off. Zero interest. I pegged her for a dyke. Then Dylan comes over to chat her up, and in five minutes they’re outta here. Like she was waiting for him, maybe.”

“Seems thin.”

“Well, I just thought I’d let you know.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks.”

“I didn’t really think it was this Abby, anyhow.”

Shanker frowned. “What was that?”

“I said I didn’t think she did it.”

“You called her Abby.”

“That’s the name McCallum had for her.”

Shanker shut his eyes. He remembered a conversation with the Man in the office of his shop yesterday afternoon.

I’ll be teaching Abby a few lessons about loyalty.

On the phone, minutes ago, Reynolds used the same words.

It was Abby he meant to take care of tonight. The same Abby-had to be-that the FBI woman was looking to nail for Garrick’s murder.

“You there, Ron?” That was Biscuit. Shanker had forgotten about him.

“The FBI agent,” Shanker said, “she was working this angle pretty hard, huh? So there’s a bunch of feds out looking for this Abby right now?”

“Not a bunch. Just one. McCallum. She’s working it alone.”

“She can’t be.”

“She is. It’s her style. She’s famous, Ron. If you would ever read the newspapers-”

“I only read the sports.” This wasn’t true. Shanker read the comics page, too, but never admitted it. “You really think McCallum is flying solo?”

“Looks that way.”

Shanker was thinking fast. If McCallum picked up Abby for questioning, then he and Reynolds wouldn’t be able to get her tonight. And Abby had worked for the Man before quitting. Under interrogation, there was no telling what she might say, especially if she was facing a homicide rap for Dylan Garrick. If she named Reynolds as her employer, the congressmen would be the next one questioned. That might be what McCallum was really after. If Reynolds was brought in, it wouldn’t be long before the whole goddamned thing was out in the open.

But if McCallum didn’t find Abby by six o’clock tonight, it would be too late. Abby would be gone for good. She wouldn’t be talking to anybody.

“You got any way to get in touch with McCallum?” Shanker asked.

Biscuit sounded puzzled. “She left her card. I tossed it. But I can dig it out of the trash.”

“Call her. Set up a meeting, just you and her. When she shows up, kill her.”

On the other end of the line, Biscuit drew in a harsh breath. “Fuck, man. She’s goddamned FBI.”

“Yeah, so what? You never bagged a fed before?”

“I only ever killed anybody that one time, Ron, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, today you get to go again. Don’t act like you got a choice about this. You signed on, Biscuit. You would’ve been dead in stir if our boys hadn’t adopted you. Those Mexishit assholes were just waiting to take you down. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No.”

“White man kills a cholo in a bar fight, ends up in jail with a bunch of other cholos breathing down his neck, and only the Scorpions could save him. Pull up your shirt, you’ll see a prison tat on your goddamned flabby-tit hairless chest. You’re in the crew. We looked out for you in Soledad, and now we’re calling in the favor.”

“Ron, a thing like this can bring down a world of hurt on all of us.”

“A world of hurt is what you’re gonna be in if you don’t follow orders.”

“Shit.”