“Pay attention to the traffic,” she instructed him, and deliberately changed the subject. “You never told me where we’re going.”
“The usual places Cantoney hangs out. First we’ll look at his apartment, though. With any luck he’ll still be sleeping off the effects of last night. I suspect that the Lords have been trying to establish drug turf. Their attempts probably sparked the shooting of Ramsey. The gang was more penny-ante until Cantoney became involved with them. He’s got a taste for the stuff himself, and a few of the members have recently been nailed for possession with intent to deliver.”
“That’s why you think the real target of the shooting was Cantoney.”
Cruz nodded. “Fastest way to take out the competition would be to get rid of the brains of the operation. A hit like that would be difficult for the Lords to recover from quickly. From what I know of them, they don’t have much of a chain of command. Cantoney’s ego is too big to allow any of the other members to have much say. Makes him king of the hill, but if he’s out of the picture, the Lords would be fighting among themselves for control, and then the new leader would have to reestablish drag contacts. Yeah, if someone were to get rid of Cantoney, the Lords wouldn’t be a threat for some time.”
They rode in silence for a while before Cruz reached to turn on the radio. He glanced at Madeline, fully expecting her to protest when a country song filled the air. Surprisingly, she didn’t.
After a moment she asked nonchalantly, “Who sings this song?”
He thought for a moment. “Keith Urban.”
“No way. You’ve forced me to listen to this stuff enough now that even I know it isn’t Keith Urban. I think it’s Brantley Gilbert.”
“Who’s the expert on country music in this car, you or me?” he inquired. “I’m telling you I’m sure it’s a new one by Urban.”
Her head turned slowly to pin him with a gaze. “Care to make a little wager on that, Martinez?”
He caught on quickly, his face becoming instantly wary. “What kind of wager?”
“On the identity of the singer. If I’m right,” she said, grinning wickedly, “I get to drive your car all the way back to my apartment.” She almost laughed at the expression of terror that crossed his face. “If you’re right…” She shrugged.
“If I’m right, what?”
“You name your prize,” she suggested ingenuously. She cast him a sidelong gaze. What he might come up with if he won didn’t bear thinking about, but she wasn’t going to have to worry about it. She knew she was right.
Cruz thought quickly. There was no way, under the circumstances, that Madeline was getting behind the wheel of his car. Unless, of course, she was sitting on his lap. Both possibilities were equally unlikely. She might have an incredible sense of direction. Her memory might soak up every bit of information she absorbed from her cases and research. But he doubted very much that she’d even listened to a country song before they’d become partners. He sent her a speculative glance.
“I can name anything I want if I win?”
“Anything. But that’s an awfully big if, Detective. You don’t seem all that sure of yourself.”
He swiftly calculated the odds. He couldn’t lose this bet. Madeline Casey had grown entirely too sure of herself. For once she was going to be proven wrong.
“You’re on,” he told her smugly. “But don’t worry. I’m a very gracious winner.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied calmly. “But you should be,
He shook his head at her self-assurance. But his disbelief quickly became chagrin when she brought out her cell phone and brought up the Soundhound app. Smiling smugly, she held the screen out for him to read. “Brantley Gilbert,” he croaked. “How the hell did you know that?”
“We heard it once last week.”
“One time? You’ve never listened to the music before, you don’t know any of the singers, and you hear the blasted song one time and remember who sings it?” he demanded incredulously.
She lifted a shoulder. “I can’t help it, it’s a gift.”
He muttered something in Spanish that sounded suspiciously like a string of curses.
She raised her eyebrows. “Want to go for two out of three?”
He shook his head ruefully. “I can’t afford to. Somehow I think I’d end up owing you my first-born.”
“Now why do I have the feeling that letting me drive your car is even more of a sacrifice for you?”
He aimed an aggrieved stare at her. “You’re dangerous. Your memory ought to be outlawed. I’m surprised you aren’t making your fortune counting cards in Vegas.”
“Outwitting you is a lot easier. Why didn’t you tell me you were such a poor loser?”
The remainder of the trip passed with Cruz trying to wheedle her into accepting another prize. “What would I want with a pair of your boots?” she asked once of one of his offers.
“You could use them to kick me the next time I walk into one of your traps,” he suggested disgustedly.
When the car pulled up to Cantoney’s address, Madeline whistled. “Nice neighborhood. How does he explain his ability to live in a place like this to his parole officer?”
“He probably claims he’s living with friends. Maybe he is. But he’s in something dirty up to his neck, you can bet on that,” Cruz said grimly.
They heard voices from the hallway even as they walked up to Cantoney’s door. The voices ceased when they knocked on the door. During the next few moments of silence Madeline knew they were being observed through the peephole on the door. “Detectives Martinez and Casey,” she called. “We’re here to speak to Dirk Cantoney.”
A full minute passed before the door swung open. Cantoney himself appeared. “Well, what a surprise. Look, men, it’s the poleece,” he said in an exaggerated drawl. “I’ll bet they’ve come to tell us they caught the guy that shot Ramsey.”
Cruz looked over Cantoney’s shoulder into the room beyond. Several Lords members were seated or standing in the area. “Hi, Ramsey,” he said evenly. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
The boy stared back at Cruz, saying nothing.
Cantoney spoke again. “You’ll have to make it quick, Detectives. We’re busy.”
Cruz reached into his pocket, extracted the picture of Valdez and held it out. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Madeline watched Cantoney’s face carefully, but it revealed nothing. He looked expressionlessly at the photo, and then back at Cruz. “Can’t say I have. Why? Is he the shooter?”
“His name is Jose Valdez. We’re not sure what his connection to this case is,” Madeline inserted smoothly. “Maybe one of your guests will recognize him.” For a moment she thought Cantoney would refuse, but finally he reached for the picture and handed it to one of the young men in the room.
“That the best you can do, Martinez?” Cantoney asked disparagingly. “Bring us a pretty picture of someone who
“Think you could do better, Dirk?” Cruz asked him softly.
“Man, I know I could,” Cantoney retorted. “Another one of my friends could be shot before you find out anything.”
Madeline’s attention was divided between listening to their exchange and watching the faces of those who looked at the picture. She was disappointed, however. None exhibited any emotion at all when looking at it. Then one gang member exclaimed excitedly, “Hey! I think I know this dude!” Into the silence that accompanied his outburst, he added, “Yeah, I think it’s my mama’s ol’ man.” Laughter filled the room and another grabbed the picture. “No, it ain’t. It’s my fourth-grade teacher.”
“Naw, it looks like my probation officer.”
The photo was handed back to Cantoney, who turned to face the detectives again. “Sorry. Guess you’re on your own. Show yourselves out. We’ve got to get back to work.”
“Just what work would that be, Mr. Cantoney?”
The man’s pointed look was chilling. “We’re involved in some charity work, Detective Casey. Getting poor youngsters off the streets.” An outburst of laughter from the room accompanied his words, and the door shut in their faces.
They were silent until they left the building. “Another dead end,” Cruz remarked dourly. “Did you catch that
