Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

Now he wished he hadn’t tossed his coffee. The Nitros went down a lot easier with it, and sticky nuggets were clinging to the walls of his throat. Mitch could see a food cart on the corner at Columbus Avenue. If he walked over to it, he was almost certain that no one looking out the diner’s windows would have a line of sight to him. He had to have something to drink. He eyed the dot on the tracer’s grid, got out of the cab, and headed for the corner. With a glance across the street at the diner’s sun-glazed windows, he racewalked for a few steps and arrived at the food cart. The swarthy proprietor’s dense beard and forehead glistened with sweat from the steam billowing up from some cooking apparatus. Mitch took up a position where the cart hid him from the diner’s vantage point.

“Bottle of water,” he said.

“Got no water today, mehster. They scroot me at pehkup place.”

Mitch nodded. The i ’s coming out like eh ’s meant Mideastern. A Ranee, or Rocky, or a Leb. Maybe even an Izzy. Not that it made any real difference.

“Tough work, huh?” said Mitch.

“S’okay. Back home, they scroot you worse. ’Bout everytheng.”

“Yeah? Where’s home?”

“Damascus.”

Mitch nodded again. He liked being right. “Gimme a Red Bull.”

“Yes, sehr-one Red Bull.”

He dug his hand down into an ice-filled drum and came out with a can of Red Bull. Mitch paid him, popped the can, and took a sip. He had a decent view of the diner’s interior. He could see about three-quarters of the booths and tables and their denizens-but he couldn’t see Boddicker or his crazy sister, and now it wasn’t the Red Bull’s megadose of caffeine that was starting to pump up his pulse. He was getting that tight pinch of stress in his temples.

He glanced at a minivan parked across the intersection, directly in front of the diner. A delivery truck was coming across Columbus; Mitch used it as cover as it passed by and hustled across the street. Peering through the minivan’s windows, he could see straight into the diner without being seen himself.

“Fuck me,” he said. He pulled out his cell phone and punched two buttons. There was an answer halfway through the first ring.

“Yeah?” It was Hall.

“They’re loose,” Mitch said.

The silence on Hall’s end was potent. Then: “How long?”

Mitch’s cheeks crimped in a wince. “Don’t know.”

“Three questions,” Hall said, “just so we’re on the same page.”

Mitch knew that the three questions would actually be statements, each meant to clarify the parameters of a negative situation. But, in classic Hall fashion, the questions would also be designed to point out that Mitch had screwed up and was, in truth, an idiot unworthy of the continued inhalation of oxygen.

“One,” Hall said. “Targets were in a diner having breakfast?”

“Right.”

“Two. You were parked outside, watching the trace?”

“Right.”

“Three. Then how did they walk?”

“I dunno,” Mitch barked. “The trace has them right fucking here!”

Hall’s voice shifted into low gear and became a purr. “Mitch, where are you?”

“On the corner of Seventy-sixth and Columbus, standing in front of the diner.”

“I thought you were in the car with the trace.”

“I just came out to get a fucking Red Bull! I’ve been out of the car for two minutes and I never took my eye off the diner.”

Mitch’s cell phone screen might as well have had a video feed. He could see Hall sitting behind the wheel, tapping it with a finger. He was probably smoking a cigarette, the butt locked in his scowl. Ray would be beside him, listening, exchanging looks.

“Go back to the car,” Hall said, “and check the trace.”

“I’m on it,” Mitch said, and started away in a jog, cursing Hall’s dark heart. The only thing he hated more than feeling clueless was sounding that way. He slid into the front seat and checked the locator’s display.

“It’s still dead on,” he said to Hall. “Sonofabitch might as well be sitting in my lap. I don’t get it.”

“Go in the diner, ask a question or two, then call me back.”

“Where are you guys?”

“West Side, the One thirties.”

“Any more hits on the kid’s cell?”

“No.”

“On Boddicker’s?”

“No.”

“The kid’s mother?”

“No.”

The line went dead.

“Fuck you,” Mitch muttered. “And fuck each and every one of us.”

Rita saw the red hair and the mustache as soon as the cab driver came to the door. She strolled over as Mitch stepped inside.

“Sit wherever you like, hon.”

“Thanks, but I’m just looking for somebody.”

Rita noted the good ol’ boy drawl and watched him scan every corner of the place.

The cabbie turned back to her. “I let a guy and a gal off here a while ago, and I think he dropped some money in the back when he paid me. Two twenties.”

“Jesus,” Rita said, “an honest cabbie.” She gave him a grin. Mitch returned it with an “aw, shucks” shrug. She prayed she wasn’t overdoing it.

“He’s maybe forty or so. Thin, kinda washed out. And the gal was dressed in purple-kinda odd.” He tapped his forehead.

Rita’s heart was tap-dancing. She put her hands behind her back because she wasn’t sure if they were shaking. There was something genuinely sinister coming off the guy.

“Hmmm,” she said, pausing. “No, I don’t think I saw them. Must be your lucky day.”

She forced herself to meet his stare. She had no idea how she was coming off, and the guy’s expression wasn’t giving her a hint.

“Well,” he said, “guess you’re right. Okay if I use the head?”

“Sure, hon.”

She poked a thumb over her shoulder and held her smile in place as he walked away. She felt a little light-headed from the adrenaline buzz. She let a few seconds pass and then glanced back. The guy had gone into the hallway, out of sight.

Mitch stood in front of a door with a big Hollywood-type star and the name Angelina painted above it. He gave it a double rap, then turned the knob and opened it enough to stick his head in. Unoccupied. He moved down to the door with a star and Brad on it, put an ear to it, then walked inside. Someone had left the water running in the sink. He crouched down to peek under the door of the stall. It was empty. He turned the faucet off and looked in the mirror. He was sure the waitress was lying, but it didn’t matter-Boddicker was gone. The guy was sharp. He’d trumped Hall and Ray, and now he had Mitch standing in a bathroom staring at himself.

Mitch went back out to the hall and saw what he was looking for-a back door-and stepped into the alley. A copper-skinned dishwasher was leaning against the wall having a smoke, his dark eyes empty of interest.

“Ha visto un hombre y una mujer vestidos de morado salir de aqui?” Mitch asked.

The dishwasher shook his head, and Mitch headed across the street for the cab. Boddicker had made him and played him-and Mitch didn’t know how.

When his cell rang, Hall pulled over on Amsterdam. The back of his head and his sternum ached, the wolfed-down Egg McMuffin shifted at the bottom of his stomach like a shipwreck on the ocean floor, and he was furious-not at Mitch, not at Ray, but at himself. He’d thought his prep for this job had been impeccable. He’d followed Worst-Case Scenario six ways from Sunday, but he’d misread everyone:

Matheson, for being cold enough to run and leave his son behind.

Boddicker, for being a lot more than the sad sack he looked like. When they’d first met, Hall hadn’t felt a thing coming off the guy, and now he’d chumped them twice.

And Geiger, for having a genuine soft spot.