Gregg Hurwitz: You're Next

Mike’s heart did something in his chest.

He hung up. Clicked around in Andrés’s phone. Tried Manhan’s cell.

‘ The Nextel subscriber you are trying to reach is no longer -’

Mike hurled the phone against the side of the van. Andrés looked at him, then leaned over slowly, retrieved his phone, eyed the screen to make sure it still worked.

Mike was breathing hard. ‘I checked his goddamned license myself.’

‘You better check again,’ Andrés said.

His shirt sticking to his body, Mike made a chain of calls, jotting down each new number on the back of an envelope. The picture swiftly resolved. Vic Manhan’s license had expired five months ago, shortly after he’d finished the job for Mike. Manhan had let his general-liability insurance lapse before that, so it had not been in effect when he’d laid in the PVC pipes. The policy documents he’d produced for Mike had been fraudulent. Which meant – in all likelihood – no money to cover damages.

For the first time in a long time, Mike’s mind went to violence, the crush of knuckles meeting nose cartilage, and he thought, How quickly we regress . He lowered his head, made fists in his hair, squeezed until it stung. His breath floated up hot against his cheeks.

‘You can’t be that surprised,’ Andrés said. ‘About finding the PVC.’

‘What the hell kind of thing is that to say? Of course I’m surprised.’

‘Come on. Vitrified clay is heavier than cast iron. More expensive to make, to truck, to install. So how you think Manhan’s quote come in thirty percent below everyone else’s?’ The brown skin at Andrés’s temples crinkled. ‘Maybe you didn’t want to know.’

Mike looked down at his rough hands.

Andrés said, ‘You got forty families moving in. This week. Even if you want to spend all the money to replace, what are you gonna do? Jackhammer through all their houses? Their streets?’

‘ Yes .’

Andrés lifted an eyebrow. ‘To switch one set of pipes with another?’

‘I signed,’ Mike said. ‘My name. Guaranteeing I used vitrified-clay pipes in place of PVC. My name .’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong. This guy screw us.’

Mike’s voice was hoarse: ‘Those houses are built on a lie.’

Andrés shrugged wearily. He climbed out of the van with a groan, and a moment later, Mike followed, his muscles feeling tight and arthritic.

They faced each other in the middle of the street, blinking against the sudden brightness like newborns, the canyon laid out before them, beautiful and steep and crusted with sagebrush. The air, crisp and sharp, tasted of eucalyptus. The green of the roofs matched the green of the hillside sumac, and when Mike squinted, it all blended together and became one.

‘No one will know,’ Andrés said. He nodded once, as if confirming something, then started for his car.

Mike said, ‘I will.’

Mike sat on the hearth of their small bedroom fireplace, his back to the wall, staring at the cordless phone in his lap. Debating with himself. Finally he dialed the familiar number.

A strong voice, husky with age. ‘Hank Danville, Private Investigations.’

‘It’s Mike,’ he said. ‘Wingate.’

‘Mike, I don’t know what else to tell you. I said I’d call if I found anything, but I’ve got nowhere else to look.’

‘No, not that. Something new. I have a guy I need you to track down.’

‘I hope it’s something I can actually make headway with this time.’

‘He’s a contractor who screwed me.’ Mike gave him a brief rundown. He could hear the faint whistle of Hank’s breathing as he took notes. ‘I need to know where he is. To say it’s urgent is an understatement.’

‘How much you in for?’ Hank asked.

Mike told him.

Hank whistled. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, and hung up.

Mike was used to searching for information he probably didn’t want to know, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier. He got into the shower and leaned against the tile, blasting himself with steaming water, trying to pressure-wash away the stress. As he was drying off, the phone rang. Towel wrapped around his waist, he picked it up, sat on the bed, and braced for bad news.

‘Vic Manhan’s last-known puts him in St. Croix,’ Hank said. ‘A bounced check at a bar two months ago. God knows where he is now. His wife left him, he was staring at an expensive divorce, all that. Probably figured pulling a last job and splitting with his cash would be a better way to go. I’m not sure how he dummied the insurance papers and the databases, but there were no real policies backing him when he did your job.’

Mike closed his eyes. Breathed. ‘You can’t find where he is now?’

‘The guy’s on the run from the cops and his wife’s lawyers. He probably hightailed it to Haiti by now. He’s not findable.’

Bitterness rode the back of Mike’s tongue. ‘Come on. The guy’s hardly Jason Bourne.’

‘You’re welcome to have someone else try. I thought I did pretty good for fifteen minutes.’

‘It’s just another dead end, Hank. We seem to keep hitting them.’

Hank’s voice sharpened with indignation. ‘Oh, we’re back to that now? I told you when you first came in that what you were asking for would be next to impossible. I never promised you results.’

‘No, you sure didn’t.’

‘You can be displeased with the facts, but I’m too old to have my character questioned. Come by the office and pick up your file. We’re done.’

Mike held the phone to his face until the dial tone bleated, regret washing through him. He’d acted like an asshole, looking for someone to blame, and he owed Hank an apology. Before he could hit ‘redial,’ he heard the door to the garage open and then Annabel breezing through the kitchen. He tossed the phone onto the bed just before she swept in, his suit slung over her shoulder.

‘Sorry I’m late. He pressed the pants wrong, made them look like Dockers. Come here. Grab a shirt. Put this on.’ She jangled her watch around her wrist until the face came visible. ‘We can still get you there on time.’

The photo shoot. Right.

He obliged, moving on stunned autopilot. He couldn’t figure out how to stop getting dressed and start telling her.

Annabel moved around him, tugging at the lapels, straightening the sleeves. ‘No, not that tie. Something darker.’

‘It used to be I could pick out my own tie,’ Mike murmured. ‘When did I become so useless?’

‘You were always useless, babe. You just didn’t have me around to point it out.’ She went on tiptoes, kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘You look amazing . The governor will be impressed. Might hit on you, even. Could be a scandal.’ She stepped back, appraised him. ‘Certainly beats that plaid jacket.’

‘Windowpane,’ Mike said weakly. ‘Listen…’

‘ Lord .’ She’d spotted his work clothes, kicked off on the bathroom floor. ‘What’d you do, crawl through a sewer?’

She went over and scooped up the grimy clothes. A small brown box fell from the pocket of the jeans, bounced on the linoleum, and spit out a ring – the two-carat diamond he’d chosen at the jewelry store after dropping Kat off at school. He’d forgotten about it.

Annabel’s hand went to her mouth. She crouched reverently over the ring, plucked it up. Her eyes glimmered with tears. ‘The deal closed!’ She laughed and ran over, embracing him. ‘I told you it would all work out. And this ring. I mean, Mike, are you kidding?’ She slid it onto her right hand, splayed her fingers to admire the stone. The joy on her face was so absolute that the notion of breaking the spell tightened his throat, made it hard to breathe.