off to search the barn, the outbuildings, the compound at the back from which three scared, hungry dogs barked manically in the night.
A crowd of curiosity seekers were being held back at the county road. Some parked their cars or trucks out there and stood on top of their vehicles, training binoculars or simply craning their necks, trying for a glimpse of the dingy white ranch house with the stone cladding beyond the first hill, all lit up like a carnival. Ranch houses perched atop hills miles away had lights burning, and even from a distance silhouettes could be spotted at the windows.
Abatangelo checked his watch. Well over an hour had passed since he’d left Waxman alone inside the house. The reporter was sitting with the guys from Homicide now. Abatangelo knew the detectives would pound on him. Something was bound to eke out. Waxman was an easy man to play upon, as Abatangelo himself could testify.
He’d pointed out to Waxman the notation above the phone, addressed to “Francisco.” He’d told him, “If there’s anything you do, make sure they see this.” Given what Shel had said about a botched ambush and the war brewing with Felix Randall, the only reasonable candidates for killer were the Mexicans. He’d obsessed on the phrase “The Lady Waits” for the past hour, managing finally to squeeze from it at least a token optimism. Shel had been taken, not killed, he thought. If the point was simply to kill her, they’d have left her with the others. A deal was being struck, a trade arranged. The ones left behind, they were for show.
Shortly a black Lexus turned off the county road, negotiated entrance to the property with the officers manning the roadblock, and made its way toward the house. It parked beside the coroner’s wagon, and Abatangelo recognized Tony Cohn as he belted his overcoat and stepped from the car. Cohn spoke to an officer outside the house and handed the cop his business card. At that same moment, a second officer rapped on the side of the coroner’s wagon and it pulled away, bearing three bodies.
The fact Cohn showed up on Waxman’s behalf would tie Abatangelo to the killings no doubt. He knew that. But Waxman would need a lawyer to lean on, someone to back him up and get him out of there, and no attorney they could trust would’ve responded to the call as mindfully as Cohn under the circumstances. Besides, tying Abatangelo to Shel would take any cop with a pulse five minutes. Fingers were most likely already tapping on computer keys. If it took till dawn to drag Abatangelo into this, they’d be way behind schedule.
He eased back into the shadows then made his way downhill to his car. He drove along the now familiar, winding county road to Oakley, past the sprawling ranches, the recent subdivisions, circling a strip mall twice, making absolutely certain no one trailed behind. Pulling down a narrow side street with parallel fences towering on either side, he eased halfway down then stopped, waiting for the headlights of a trail car to appear behind him. None did. He listened as the streetlight hummed overhead, noticing a cat perched atop a nearby garage, cleaning itself. Putting the Dart in gear again, he drove to the alley’s end, turned right and pulled into the lot of the same all-night grocery he’d come to that first night out, the one named Cheaper.
The place was lit up like an emergency room. Insomniac shoppers, many obese, all of them white, milled in and out. Within fifteen minutes Cohn’s Lexus arrived, pulling up next to the Dart. Abatangelo waited, again to check for anyone following, then stepped from his car into the backseat of Cohn’s.
The car smelled new, with a hint of pipe tobacco thickening the air. Cohn turned sideways behind the wheel, offering a pained look that, combined with the play of shadows across his face, accentuated its angles and made him look almost skeletal. Waxman sat in the passenger seat, gripping his elbows, arms folded across his midriff as though to contain an upsurge of bile. He was wearing the same shabby tweed jacket and Oxford button-down shirt as earlier, the collar frayed and hanging open; apparently he’d lacked the time to knot a proper bow tie. He looked strangely naked without it.
Neither man looked directly at Abatangelo, preferring instead to acknowledge his arrival with sidelong glances and thin smiles. The tension compressed the space inside the car, making it feel as though their faces were pushed together. Abatangelo nodded to Cohn, then turned to Waxman. “Good to see you in one piece,” he offered. “Things go like you thought?”
Waxman hesitated, glancing out the window at the bright storefront. “They gave me a little tour first, walked me through the rooms, showed me the bodies. The mother and child in particular. I watched as some technician inserted a needle in their eyes, withdrawing ocular fluid. The detectives, they asked me how I felt about it- the murders, I mean, not the bit with the needle.”
Abatangelo flashed on what he’d overheard a cop say once about a witness. Shaken well, ready to use. “It’s part of the process, Wax,” he said gently. “Messing with your head.”
“Well, yes,” Waxman said, waving off the show of concern. “They were remarkably well informed, by the way.”
“About?”
“You,” Waxman said.
Abatangelo chuckled. “I assume you’re not surprised by that. I’m not. This they, who are we talking about exactly?”
“There were three of them,” Waxman said. “The lead detective’s very sharp. Older guy, tall, thin, homely. Could play Ichabod Crane in the local repertory. His partner is a little chunkier; you can smell the coffee on him from across the room. Holds an unlit cigarette the whole time, tells you he’s trying to quit. It’s a very clever distraction.”
“Wax- ”
“There was a narc there, too, young guy- suede jacket, sharkskin boots- natty little goon. Said he worked on some sort of task force out here. An absolute, unmitigated asshole.”
“He threatened you.”
“He kicked me,” Waxman admitted. “In the leg.” He glanced at Cohn and Abatangelo sheepishly, then shrugged. “He threw a tantrum, called me names.”
“Let’s get back to well informed,” Abatangelo suggested.
Waxman nodded. “They brought up your name almost instantly.”
Cohn seemed indifferent to this news, which was hardly a surprise. Or maybe it’s his game face, Abatangelo thought, at the same time wondering what the lawyer and the reporter had found to talk about on the ride from the murder site.
“You showed them the message above the phone,” Abatangelo said.
“Of course I did.”
“And they said?”
“If you’ll wait, I’ll tell you.” Waxman, irked, adjusted his glasses. “Apparently they knew Ms. Beaudry lived out there. They tied you two together from the start. They knew about your recent release.”
“Gee, there goes another secret.”
“I told them about the story that’s running tomorrow, gave them a draft. It’s going to be published within hours. I could hardly withhold it.”
“I never suggested you should.”
“I don’t expose sources,” Waxman said, his voice rising. There was a disagreeable edge in it, too. He looked out at the market again.
“Wax, what- ”
“You protect a source,” Waxman continued, “because the target of your story might retaliate. Whistle-blowers, insiders, they take a great risk coming forward.”
“You handed me up,” Abatangelo guessed. He looked out the back. “They follow you?”
Waxman bristled. “Of course not, Christ- ”
“You want to talk about retaliation?” Abatangelo said, facing back around. “Police aren’t the only thugs here, Wax. Felix Randall, his hoods. Some Mexicans hell-bent on blood from the looks of it. Cops are known for their tactical leaks. Bad enough they’re gonna tie me to this. Now you’re telling me that’s the least of my worries. I’m public record. What else did you tell them?”
“They already knew,” Waxman protested. “Everything.”
“So you confirmed it.” Abatangelo groaned. “And what do you mean, ‘everything’? What the fuck is ‘everything’?”
“You were willing to be openly named to begin with.”
“You said it would help with credibility if I wasn’t.”
“Yes. Yes. But that’s no longer true.” Waxman looked to Cohn, hoping for an ally. Cohn regarded him with an
