Double or Nothing (Daniel Faust Book 7) Page 5

“Sorry, sugar, you’re on the payroll now. Some days you get the cash and the cars and the good champagne…and some days you gotta go to Albuquerque.”

  “I’m still waiting for the cash and the cars,” I said.

  Caitlin glanced over at Malone. “What about this one? You know, there’s an old superstition that burying a corpse in the foundation of a building brings luck to all who cross its threshold.”

  “I…have never heard that,” I told her.

  “Maybe it’s a new superstition.”

  Jennifer contemplated the man, curling her lip. “I think we ought to leave him in play for now. If he goes missing, the folks holding his leash might get froggy and jump outta sight before Danny gets a good look at ’em. Wait a week, and I’ll send a couple guys to keep eyes on him in the meantime. If you’re still feelin’ raw about the blood on your back seat, I’ll bring him to you myself.”

  We walked back over to Malone, and I laid down the law.

  “The lawyers told you to stay cool and stay put, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna do. Go back to your shitty hotel room, wait for their call, do whatever they tell you to, and forget we ever had this conversation.” I looked at Caitlin. “Let’s get this guy to the ER so they can patch his arm up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Malone said, “I won’t say anything about any of this. I’m not looking for trouble, swear.”

  I helped him to his feet. “It’s not us you need to worry about. It’s the people you work for. Know those blackouts and brain glitches you’ve been having? If you don’t want to go through that all over again, you’d better pretend to be as dumb as you look.”

  * * *

  I rode with Caitlin. We took Malone to Desert Springs Hospital over on Flamingo Road, dropped him off in the parking lot, and peeled away as he staggered to the emergency room doors. He was his own problem now.

  My problem was six hundred miles away. I had an address, the place where Malone got the whammy laid on him, and not much else to go on.

  “Albuquerque,” I muttered.

  Caitlin tapped her phone when we paused at a stoplight, pairing it with the car speakers, and set it in the cup holder between us. A Howard Jones album started to play, peppy strings and synthesizers washing in.

  “Might do you good to get out of town for a few days,” she said. “Travel is healthy for the heart. I’ll check in on the construction for you until you get back.”

  “Thanks. But it doesn’t matter when construction’s done if we don’t have a liquor license. So I’ll go out there, poke a stick around and turn over a few rocks, and see what squirms out. All I need is some kind of win I can bring to Mayor Seabrook. If I can find the ink pipeline, maybe a production facility, and leak it to the local cops so they get a big bust…yeah, that should do the trick.”

  “Worry about it tomorrow, pet. Tonight is for us.” She drummed her manicured nails on the steering wheel. “I want to dance. Let’s go to Winter.”

  I slouched in my seat. “A nightclub packed with hip, beautiful twentysomethings. I am too old for that crowd.”

  “Nonsense. You’re as young as you feel.” She winked. “Trust me. Then again, I could think of some other ways to get a good workout…”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. “Hold that thought.”

  I fished the phone out and glanced at the screen. The call was coming from the Blue Karma Restaurant in Denver. “Oh, hell.”

  Caitlin flicked her gaze at my phone and wrinkled her nose. “Indeed.”

  She turned down the music. I answered the phone.

  “Faust.”

  “Daniel.” Caitlin’s voice oozed through the phone, smoldering. “I was just lying here in bed, thinking about you. What are you wearing?”

  I leaned my head back and rolled my eyes.

  “Cait’s sitting right next to me, Naavarasi. Also, this thing called ‘caller ID’ was invented around thirty years ago. Knock it off.”

  She chuckled, a smoky sound, as her Indian accent returned and she spoke in her natural voice. “I can’t fool you. Still, what are you wearing?”

  “A chastity belt,” Caitlin muttered darkly. I gave her the side-eye.

  “I’m wearing my patience,” I told Naavarasi. “No, wait, I mean you’re wearing on my patience. What do you want?”

  “Straight to business, then. You owe me two boons. One for my aid while you were in prison, and one for my elimination of that shape-shifting wretch who dared to pretend at being one of my kind. I’m calling one of those favors due.”

  I knew this was coming. Sooner or later, those two swords dangling over my head were going to drop. Might as well get it over with.

  “Fine,” I said, “come on out to Vegas. We’ll sit down and talk it over.”

  “No. You’ll come to me in Denver. As soon as possible—tomorrow would be best.”

  “I can’t just—” I shook my head. “Why can’t you come here?”

  “Because I don’t want to. And because of protocol. By the codes of the Cold Peace, when it comes to the exchange of owed boons between members of two courts, said exchange must always take place on ground belonging to the owed party. The case law is extremely clear on this matter. If I came to you, it would be demeaning to my station as a baron of hell.”

  I furrowed my brow. Naavarasi wasn’t a demon—the rakshasi matriarch had been drafted into her court at sword-point centuries ago, when Prince Malphas sieged the pocket dimension she called home. She was the last of her kind because Malphas, the prince she owed allegiance and loyalty to, had murdered all the rest.

  Suffice to say, “Baron” Naavarasi wasn’t a fan of demons or infernal politics. Hearing her quote the dictates of the Cold Peace like a veteran trial lawyer had my suspicions tingling. More than they usually did when dealing with her.

  “You’re forgetting something,” I told her. “I’m not a demon. Not a member of any court. Those rules don’t apply to me.”

  “But you are Caitlin’s consort. Thereby, she must bear the shame of a social indignity committed by you, so sayeth the Learned Commentaries of the Scholar Snikar’doweis.”

  I put my hand over the phone and looked at Caitlin. “Is there such a thing as the ‘Learned Commentaries of Snickerdoodles’?”

  “Snik—” Caitlin paused. Then she sighed. “Yes. You have to go to Denver.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else she complains to Prince Malphas, who complains to my prince, who calls me on the carpet and demands to know why I didn’t make you go to Denver. And then I have to make you go to Denver. So let’s cut out that unpleasant middle step, hmm?”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “I’ll be there.”

  “I will prepare a welcoming feast.”

  “That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ll grab food on the way. Don’t put yourself to any trouble.”

  I hung up. “My schedule just got busier.”

  “I’m having a thought,” Caitlin said. “Road trip.”

  “Road trip?”

  She gave me a nod and flicked her turn signal.

  “I’m coming with you, of course. So let’s take a few days and turn it into a little vacation.”

  “You don’t have to do that—”

  “Daniel,” she said, her voice firm. “Have you ever had an interaction with Naavarasi where she didn’t try to manipulate, maneuver, or otherwise put you on the losing end of a bad deal?”

  “You’re still pissed off that she kissed me that one time, aren’t you?”

  We paused at a red light. She fluffed her bangs in the rearview mirror, quick and precise, then glanced my way.

  “I was joking about the chastity belt. Was. Don’t tempt me, or this drive will be a lot more fun for me than it will be for you.”

  The light shifted. We pulled through the intersection, the Audi turning slow like a white steel shark.

  “Anyway,” Caitlin said, “I want to know what Naavarasi’s ‘favor’ is, and be able to veto it on the spot if necessary. If I’m no
t there, she’ll pull all sorts of court and protocol games, banking on you not knowing any better.”

  “Yeah, doesn’t that strike you as a little bit weird?” I asked. “Naavarasi hates infernal politics. She hates her own prince, hates her title. We made an ally out of her in the first place—well, as much as she’s anybody’s ally—by playing on that. Now she wants to act like nobility all of a sudden? Something smells off about this.”

  “She’s clearly plotting something. It won’t take long to find out what. We’re fortunate that the woman has a compulsive need to show off and make sure everyone knows how clever she is. If she could keep her designs to herself, she’d actually be dangerous. So, road trip? You and me and the open highway? I think we’ve earned a little relaxation.”

  I liked the idea. I’d spent some time lately wrestling with my own momentum. Pushing myself nonstop for months, pinballing from one catastrophe to another, no sleep between lighting fires and putting them out. Taking a little breather, just for us, sounded like a plan.

  “Deal,” I said. “And I know just the car to do it in. I asked Pixie to track down the Hemi Cuda. They impounded it when I got busted, but it’s been long enough that the heat’s gotta be simmering down. If it’s going up for police auction, I should be able to send a proxy in there and win it back.”

  Caitlin smiled contentedly. “I do enjoy driving that car.”

  “I know you do. Okay, so first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll go see Pixie and see what she’s got for us.”

  7.

  “What the hell?” I shouted. “Harmony Black stole my car?”

  I caught looks from the far side of the room, but I was too pissed off to care. It was breakfast time at Saint Jude’s, and the vintage dance-hall-turned-soup-kitchen was filling up with the castaways and forgotten tribes of Las Vegas. Dusty light filtered down from the high windows, the aroma of burnt hash browns and powdered eggs thick in the air.

  Pixie glared at me over the rims of her chunky black Buddy Holly glasses. The tips of her short-cropped scarlet hair were dyed ice white. “Number one, use your inside voice. Number two, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “You don’t steal a man’s ride, Pix. You don’t do it. You especially don’t do it when said ride is a painstakingly rebuilt 1970 Barracuda with a four-hundred-and-twenty-six-cubic-inch Hemi engine that can pull a fourteen-second quarter mile.”

  “I did like that car,” Caitlin said, standing beside me.

  “She didn’t steal it,” Pixie said. “It was being held in the police impound lot over on A Street. According to the quartermaster’s inventory, it was ‘temporarily requisitioned by Special Agent Black of the Critical Incident Response Group, pursuant to an ongoing investigation.’”

  I spread my hands. “What investigation? As far as she and anybody else in the FBI know, I’m dead. No. She stole my car. She stole a dead man’s car, and that’s even more morally unacceptable. That’s grave robbing.”

  “Really?” Pixie stared at me. “You’re gonna talk about morals. You.”

  “As an FBI agent, she should be held to higher standards than me, that’s all I’m saying. Where’s the car now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” she said. “I’ll keep an ear out, and if she puts it back in impound, I’ll let you know.”

  I looked to Caitlin. “You realize this means war.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, her voice bone-dry. “The thousand injuries of Harmony Black you have borne as best you could, but when she ventured upon insult…”

  “Are you humoring me? I feel that you’re humoring me right now.”

  She stood behind me and rested her hands on my shoulders, leaning in. I felt the warm tickle of her breath against the back of my neck.

  “I am absolutely humoring you,” she whispered. “Come on, we’ll take my car instead.”

  With two destinations to choose from, we decided on Albuquerque. First, because we wanted to strike while the iron was hot—and before Malone’s bosses had any chance to figure out we’d flipped him and learned their home address. Secondly, because it’d keep Naavarasi waiting.

  “You do have to go,” Caitlin said, “but there’s nothing in the terms of the Cold Peace that says you can’t be fashionably late.”

  We set off on Highway 93, just me, her, and the open road. An hour later we crossed the state border into Arizona, cruising smooth and easy on the open highway. I rolled my window down and basked in the arid sun. Away from the neon, away from the noise, gliding past looming mountains dotted with scrub and ponderosa pines.

  “You were right,” I said to Caitlin. “I think we both needed this. Just a little time to get away from it all.”

  Her phone rang.

  She pushed a button on the steering wheel. The call routed to the Audi’s speakers, killing a bouncy pop song in mid-crescendo. Emma’s voice flooded the car.

  “Caitlin. There’s a problem with the money train.”

  Caitlin arched an eyebrow. “Last I checked, the money is your department.”

  “Until it becomes a matter of security, then it’s your department. Our friend from Reno is skimming. Two of the last shipments of laundered cash arrived short.”

  “Wonderful,” Caitlin said. “Put a bag over his head, throw him in a closet, and let him stew until I get back. I assume he’s protesting his innocence—”

  My phone buzzed against my hip. I tugged it out, checked the caller ID, and took the call.

  “Dan,” Gabriel said, his melodic voice sounding apologetic. The boss of the Cinco Calles was built like a brick wall but spoke like a lead soprano. “Sorry to bug you, ese. Jenny told me you were on a road trip, but this ain’t gonna wait.”

  “Of course he says he’s innocent,” Emma complained over the car speakers. “Humans always say that until you find the right way to hurt them—”

  I cradled my phone close, cupping my hand over my mouth. “No problem, Gabriel. What’s up?”

  “Got an issue with the territory map. See, one line kinda squiggles on a street east of Fremont. Bishops say the patch oughta be theirs. Winslow says it’s Blood Eagles turf. The rest of the Commission’s already weighed in, and it’s a tie. You got the deciding vote. Sorry, man, somebody’s gonna be pissed at you no matter what.”

  “No torture until I get back,” Caitlin said to Emma.

  “Of course not,” Emma said. “I assumed we’d share the fun part together. But we have to move these shipments, and Reno isn’t reliable anymore. That’s your problem to solve.”

  I thought fast. “Gabe? Hold on a sec.”

  I put my hand over the phone, leaned in, and whispered in Caitlin’s ear. She nodded, whispering back.

  “Okay,” I told Gabriel, “here’s what I say. That patch near Fremont goes to the Bishops. Have Winslow call Emma Loomis at Southern Tropics Import-Export. She’s got some sensitive cargo that needs a regular escort, and she’s gonna give him the job.”

  “Emma,” Caitlin said, “you’ll pay Winslow and his Blood Eagles what you were paying that Reno lot, plus ten percent. They’re reliable. Agreed?”

  “Will they bathe before I have to meet with them?” she asked.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Will he go for that?” Gabriel asked me. “I mean, sounds like more work. How’s the money?”

  “Maybe not as good,” I said, “but more importantly, ask Winslow what sounds like more fun. They can sit on a couple of pool halls, collecting extortion money, or his boys can do what they do best: jump on their Harleys, ride the open road, and stomp anyone who looks at them cross-eyed.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Yeah, that sounds more their speed.”

  “Also,” Caitlin added, “if Emma adds any more routes or requires additional convoys to be secured, she’ll grant Winslow and his friends exclusive rights.”

  “I will?” Emma asked.

  “It’s a security matter,” Caitlin said. “As you just pointed out, that’s my decision to make. The Bishops receive
territory and stable income, the Blood Eagles receive a more entertaining task with the potential of more money in the future, and you receive top-notch security from a reliable and accountable provider.”

  “Deal,” Emma said.

  “I’ll give ’em the good news,” Gabriel told me.

  They both hung up. I set my phone down, resting it against my leg. We rode in silence for a minute or two, just watching the sandy mountains drift by.

  “Something occurred to me,” I said. “I think we’re a power couple now.”

  Caitlin thought that over. She pursed her lips and nodded.

  “An apt description,” she replied.

  Her phone rang. She sighed and took the call.

  * * *

  We cruised into Albuquerque with the setting sun at our back, rippling down in a grimy tequila-colored sky. The place had a strange vibe, like a small town that had somehow become a big city without realizing it. Adobe and remnants of the pioneer days shared space with the high-rises on Central Avenue. Tourist traps and hotels stood a block away from streets lined with hand-built houses from the twenties. I checked the address Malone had given us. Now we were rolling south, where everything was vintage except for the steel bars on the windows and the graffiti tags on the clay-brick walls.

  Dirty plastic shopping bags blew along a desolate side street. One caught on the prickles of a tall cactus and fluttered in the hot wind like a flag of surrender. Our destination was up ahead, along a tangle of industrial parks and warehouses. It was a long and low-slung factory with glazed windows, its tired beige eaves buckling under the weight of time. Sanchez Brothers Baby Formula, read a sign smeared with delivery-truck exhaust and road grit, Established 1932.

  “I think the Sanchez Brothers have been out of business for a few decades,” I said as Caitlin pulled over to the curb.

  “And yet,” she murmured, “the lights are on. Plan of attack?”

  “Let’s get inside and check the lay of the land. Always a chance Malone lied to us. I figure we’ll see what we can see, snap a few covert pictures so we’ve got something to show the mayor back home, and call in an anonymous tip to the local PD. Let them do the heavy lifting.”