Goran’s funeral.’
She sneers
‘You, cry? I’d pay money to see that.’
‘You already saw it, asshole.’
The lady is right again. Last night, coming in the door, there were tears on Deacon’s cheeks.
‘You’re not going to kill me, Ronnie.’
She shrugs. ‘Not without a gun. Unless you want to fight like a man.’
‘I gave up being macho for New Year’s. Bad for my health.’
‘Pussy.’
‘No thanks.’
I turn my back on the exchange because it’s giving me a headache and duck into the bathroom to use the facilities and check my hat. I talk while I work.
‘Here’s the plan, Ronnie. I’m going to stash your car somewhere safe. You know, the one with the dead detective covered in trace in the trunk. I’m also taking your blouse with the blood spatter that I’m sure the forensics guys can read like a book. Then I’m coming back here and we can work this out. You want a career and I want you to have a career.’
‘Blackmailing motherfucker,’ Deacon calls from behind the sofa. ‘Maybe I should just throw you out the goddamn window. You could land on the car.’
‘Bring it on, doll head.’
My headache spikes behind one eye. Even at a time like this, people will not lay off the scalp.
‘I have had transplants, if you must know,’ I say, a little touchy, striding into the living area. ‘This bald thing is temporary.’
Deacon is standing by the window, cuffs on the floor, her gun in one hand, mine in the other.
‘For you, Dan,’ she says, ‘everything is temporary.’
If I had the time and the flexibility, I would kick myself in the arse, not a glancing blow either.
‘You had a key on the memory bracelet, right?’
Deacon smiles like a wolf. ‘That’s right. One of my fondest memories is a little handcuff session a couple of years ago. Now take your hand out of your pocket, kneel down and say
I give her my best doorman dead eyes. ‘I only kneel before the baby Jesus on Christmas morning.’ I glance over her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you ask my friend?’
Deacon closes one eye, like she needs to take careful aim. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll ask the guy behind me. Kneel the fuck down, McEvoy.’
I press the remote button in my hand and the window buzzes open, swatting the detective on the butt.
Deacon puts three shots into the pane and I’m out the door before the glass stops tinkling.
I have a ten-second head start, and I can add a couple of minutes to that unless Deacon is crazy enough to chase me half naked.
Better pick up the pace.
CHAPTER 8
Army basic is a lot like school. You learn a lot of junk that you won’t ever need, and miss out on stuff that could save your life. I’ve been cracking heads for twenty-five years now and not once did spit-shined shoes or a shipshape locker give me an edge.
Some people learn the hard way that life lessons are the valuable ones, like a certain short-lived Private Edgar English who checked his Steyer for blockages by squinting down the barrel. Others are lucky enough to survive the lesson and bank the information. I know because I was that student of the bleeding obvious during my second tour.
One desert-dry evening, Tommy Fletcher and I were leapfrogging ahead of our patrol in the village of Haddataha when we were cut off by sniper fire. Suddenly the air was alive with buzzing, shimmering missiles. Metal sparked against metal and chunks of building rained on our shoulders. Jaded old men played backgammon on their steps, barely pausing to watch the intruders get shot at.
While I wasted time spouting military jargon and making hand signals, Tommy put his elbow through the window of the nearest car and twisted the ignition tumbler with his bayonet. Thirty seconds later we were safe in the ranks of the UN peacekeepers. And you can bet your grandma’s medical insurance that the first thing I did when my heart slowed down was learn how to start a car I don’t have papers for.
Different time, same strategy; I would make my getaway in Deacon’s car, bringing the evidence with me and leaving the detective without a ride.
I take the steps three at a time to the street, and it doesn’t take a genius to spot Deacon’s unmarked cruiser virtually abandoned in the vicinity of the kerb. For a start there’s a
Smear, pool, smear is the pattern. Someone crawled, then rested, then crawled.
A cop leaking outside my apartment. Deacon will have me on death row for this.
I check the trunk to be certain that Goran isn’t in there, but the only thing I find is an In & Out Burger carton run aground on a metal ridge in the congealing crimson lake. No one with that much blood on the outside of their body is crawling very far.
‘What did you do, McEvoy?’
Deacon is beside me, her coat belted tightly at the waist. Pallor shines beneath her dark skin, like a ghost behind a window.
‘Not me,’ I say. ‘I just got here.’
Deacon jams her weapon into my kneecap, and I can see she’s got the
‘There are people on the street,’ I point out, but she’s beyond caring.
I grab the gun and twist it clean out of Deacon’s hands. A move every doorman knows well.
‘Oh yeah?’ says the detective, and I glance down to see a small snub-nose tickling my kidney. Her ankle gun. Cobra.32 maybe.
This is insane. I need to eat something and sleep some more. A massage would be nice, and I hear body wraps are good.
It’s just gone sunrise and I’m wrestling a blue on the front porch.
‘You can’t just shoot me, Deacon.’
The detective shrugs. ‘Fuck it, McEvoy. I’m just staying alive until someone kills me.’
I know this fatalism well. There were nights in the Lebanon when death and life held more or less the same appeal.
‘We need to find Goran, Ronelle. It’s the only way out of the tunnel.’
Deacon dips a painted nail in the blood. ‘I put a full clip into her,’ she says, staring at her fingertip.
‘I carried a survivor out of a bomb crater once, and saw another guy killed by a bee sting. You never know.’
‘Jesus Christ, McEvoy,’ says Deacon, snapped out of it by my dime-store philosophising. ‘Bee sting? You on some kind of drugs? Any more crap about bees and I
This is the Ronelle I am comfortable with.
The blood trail meanders across the street, along the kerb for a couple of gouts, then down a basement stairwell.
