“That’s Jessica’s car. Jessica’s a B.”
“What?” Alton said.
“You know, beeotch.”
“What?” Woody said.
“Bitch,” Alton said, snickering. “Slang for bitch. Maybe it’s a Louisiana thing.”
“There’s an APB out on the Mustang,” Woody said.
Woody pulled the Volvo up in front of Laura’s house. Thorne stepped out onto the porch with an Uzi in his hand and waved. “The car’s been spotted on Canal Boulevard near the big cemetery. Go give Sean a hand.”
Woody put his mind to remembering the main streets, the way the city was laid out. Canal Boulevard, not Canal Street near the river.
Woody waited for Alton and Reb to get inside before he did a rolling turn in the middle of the street and took off toward St. Charles.
The telephone rang as Woody turned onto St. Charles. It was Sean calling from a prowl car.
“There’s a problem,” Sean said.
“You got the Mustang?” Woody asked.
“Well, sort of. We have the car. It’s just that Erin isn’t in it.”
“Where is she?”
“The girls are taking the fifth. They refuse to say anything. It’s some sort of misplaced loyalty.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Woody pulled around the prowl cars and slid to a stop, tires squealing. There were six city cops standing beside the car, swapping teases with the girls. Woody stepped from the Volvo with his hand behind his back and strode over to the driver’s-side window. “Pretty boy’s here,” he heard a cop say.
A red-faced Sean stepped back from the car, and the girls laughed. He gave Woody wide berth.
Woody put his face even with the driver’s. She was sixteen, had blond flyaway hair and wide, excited blue eyes. “You gonna take us in?” she said, putting her wrists together and holding them above the wheel. The other girls giggled their pleasure.
“Girls, this is an emergency. Where’s Erin?”
“You gonna beat it out of us?” the driver asked coyly.
“Erin’s life is in danger.”
“From Eric?” she said, then put her hand over her mouth and laughed.
“I bet it is!” another said.
“Where’d you drop her off?” Woody was still smiling.
The driver shrugged.
“This is a nice car. I bet your daddy bought it for you.”
“He sure did.”
“I hope he insured it.” Woody lost the smile, reached in and pulled the keys out, and threw them. They arced high, catching the sun as they traveled far into the cemetery.
Jessica crossed her arms in defiance. “I don’t have to tell you shit. When my father-”
“Your father isn’t here.”
“You better get those keys…” Her face was red with anger and disbelief. She stopped talking because Woody was pulling a gun from the holster under his navy blazer. He aimed at the front tire and pulled the trigger, filling the still air with the explosion. The tire gave up its air in a whoosh. The cops were stunned, and their hands went for their holsters reflexively. Sean stepped between the men and Woody, his own gun in his hand. “No interference!” he yelled. They froze.
Woody took a couple of steps as he contemplated the car. Then he placed the muzzle of the Glock against the front of the hood and pulled the trigger again, punching a black hole and causing a waterfall beneath the car. A plume of steam rose from the curb as the hot water rushed out and searched for the gutter drain. The girls in the car began crying but were too frightened to move. Passing cars slowed, startled faces took one look at what was happening and sped away.
“She’s in the Quarter!” Jessica yelled. “She’s meeting her boyfriend.”
“Name?”
“I dunno, Eric Garcia.”
“Eric Garcia,” Woody said.
Sean was speaking to the sergeant in charge, whose face was red. He ran to join Woody as the Volvo pulled away toward the Quarter. “He said he’s gonna report this.”
“What’d you say?”
“I told him to spell your name with an e.”
“The French Quarter is a big place. She might not even be there still. We need the police on this. They found the car.”
“What car? That’s crap. Fuck that. I know where she is.” He tossed Sean the partially empty magazine from the Glock and jammed in a fresh one, which he pulled from his pocket. “Fill that back up, will you? Shells in the glove box.” He turned to Sean. “So, cute girls, huh?”
Sean started laughing. If Woody knew where Erin was, his ass was going to be safe-chewed raw, but safe. In the meantime, if anything happened to Erin, he was convinced that Paul Masterson would kill him. Literally.
Martin had followed the Mustang filled with girls across Canal Street and into the French Quarter. He kept far enough back so they wouldn’t spot him, though he knew they wouldn’t look back. He had been wary of the prowl car, but it was far behind them.
Martin wasn’t certain why she had ditched the young agent Merrin, but he assumed she had a reason. He had wondered briefly if it might be a trick to flush him out, but he was fairly certain they believed he was out of state. He didn’t see anyone else on their tail. Unless one of the girls was a ringer, an undercover cop, it made no sense. He didn’t sense a trap, he sensed a fifteen-year-old runaway.
Now what would he do? What could he do? Tipping his presence wasn’t in any of his contingency plans. He decided to watch and wait. He imagined himself, a large python sliding in the grass behind a grazing rabbit, hungry but not starving.
The Mustang pulled over after the car turned onto Canal off Carondelet. The door opened, and Erin stepped out onto the curb. The Mustang sped away, the girls waving and squealing as the car gathered speed. She started walking down the street into the French Quarter, and Martin passed her, pulled into a parking garage, and stepped out. He handed the attendant his keys and a five-dollar bill just as Erin walked past the open door. What if Paul is in town? What if she is going to meet him? No, she hates her father. Or does she really? Probably not. He let her go a block before he started following her.
Erin had never been to Roscoe’s. It had been pointed out to her by friends who knew underage people who’d been served in the place. She stopped and gazed across Iberville at the sad front of the place as she gathered her courage. The sign had been neon, but vandals, or patrons, had put an end to that part which flickered blue. ROSCOE’S TAVERN. She looked at her watch. Two forty-five. She had told Eric she’d meet him there at three.
Erin walked to the front door and tried to open it. It was locked. She pressed her face against the window, using her hands to cut the extraneous light so she could see inside. There was movement inside the room, like a ghost moving in a dream. She tapped on the glass, and the form moved closer. Then the door cracked open at the seam, and she was staring into the eyes of a boy who couldn’t have been much older than she was.
“Yeah?” he said.
“You closed?”
“Open at six,” he said. His eyes didn’t move from hers.
“I was supposed to meet a friend here,” she said. “At three.”
The boy leaned up against the doorjamb and wiped his hands on a towel. “You can come in. It’s hot out there,” he said.
“Not if you’re closed.” She smiled.
“You could wait inside. I’m just cleaning up.”
“You work here?”
“My old man owns the place. It’s okay.”
“Your old man Roscoe?”
