Dali. We counted on him taking no chances, and he didn’t disappoint. Declared dead or not, he kept the tracker active, wanting to be sure that he knew where I was. Pragmatism was his higher power and, I had to admit, it had served him pretty well, until now.
He’d been busy, spending time in Nevada and then in Oregon. It was pretty simple to figure out the addresses of the other locations. He was in Nevada now, and we were getting ready to go see him. To end this.
To kill him.
I long to kill him. I want to watch the life go out of his eyes. His death will be like water pouring down a parched and dusty throat. Will it quench my thirst? I don’t know. But it will keep him from coming after the people I love. That’ll have to be enough.
“I’m going to give Raymond your phone,” Kirby says. “He’ll carry it around with him while he’s watching Bonnie; that way it’ll look like you’re still here in LA.”
“Good. Are we ready?”
“I am,” Tommy says.
“The family that slays together, stays together,” Kirby chirps, then giggles.
Tommy and I don’t laugh.
We leave in the afternoon so we can arrive around dinnertime. The dark is better for what we’re after. There isn’t much talking; even Kirby keeps relatively silent. I watch California turn into the desert, feel the change of the temperature in spite of the air-conditioning. Watch as nothing turns back into the overwhelming something of Las Vegas. It appears as it always does, like some Flying Dutchman of a city. Mammon pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the sand. Up sprang Las Vegas.
There are two locations. One is the storage facility where he’s kept his Nevada victims. The other is a house, titled to a name that surprised me, even as it confirmed what I suspected about Dali based on what I’d seen. The reverse GPS confirms that Dali is at home.
We rent no hotel. No paper trails, thank you very much. Besides, we won’t need one. If you’re going to commit murder, better to come in and leave with the night. A page from Dali’s playbook of simplicity.
We do stop to eat at a diner on the outskirts of the suburb Dali’s home is in. I have a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. Tommy has even less; he skips the toast. Kirby has a T-bone steak, two eggs sunny-side up, hash browns, toast, orange juice, and coffee.
“What?” she asks, noticing that I’m staring at her. “Girl’s gotta eat. Who knows when we’ll get a chance again?”
I’m sure she’s right. She certainly has more experience at this than I do. My stomach, though, seems to contain the last bastion of my conscience. I stick to my coffee and toast.
Kirby finishes and sighs in satisfaction. “Good stuff. So—we ready to go kill someone?”
“It’s the third house down,” Tommy says.
We are parked on a suburban street, hidden under the nighttime shade of a rare tree. The homes are all adobe exteriors with rock and cactus front yards. Water is at a premium in Vegas.
“Small place,” Kirby says. “Good cover. Never a smart idea to flash those ill-gotten gains around.”
“Dali will have cameras,” I say, “but not too many. No reason to feel insecure here, and, again, too much concern for security makes you stand out. This is a safe house, probably used only when Dali is in town. The primary residence will be in Los Angeles.”
“How should we approach?” Tommy asks Kirby.
She grins, winks. “I’m for the direct method. I’ll go knock on the door. It’s not likely Dali knows who I am, right?”
“There’s no guarantee of that.”
She shrugs, pats the gun hidden under her light jacket. “If Dali doesn’t answer, then I’ll just have to pull out Big Red here and let myself in.”
“Kirby,” I caution. “We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves.”
She rolls her eyes. “Relax, boss lady. Professional here, remember? This is a throwaway vehicle with false plates. You two pull those stocking caps over your faces, and we’re golden. Trust me.”
I don’t trust her, I don’t trust any of this, but I have no choice. Kirby is the assassin of the group. She’s been killing for a long time and by all accounts is very good at it.
“Fine.” I sigh. “We’ll follow your lead.”
“Just relax and wait to hear from me. Either I’ll give you a chirp on the cell phones or you’ll see me kicking the door in. Okay?” She winks one more time and exits the car.
“Crazy,” Tommy mutters.
“Yeah.”
We watch her saunter up to the door of the house and knock. A few moments pass. Then another few. Sweat beads on my head, annoying me.
The door opens. We can’t see the occupant, but we do see Kirby reach into her jacket, push forward, and disappear into the home.
“Jesus,” I breathe.
The lack of hesitation. Given who Kirby is, what she does, it’s a disturbing glimpse into just how quickly a person could die.
About five minutes pass before my cell phone rings.
“I got Dali secured,” Kirby says. “I left the front door unlocked, so just park in the driveway and come on in. No worries, right?” She hangs up.
I stare at the house. No turning back now. “Well?” Tommy asks me. “Let’s go.”
The home is not what I expected. I had pictured a kind of suburban gulag. No decorations on the walls, a single carton of milk in the refrigerator, freeze-dried microwavable food in the cupboard.
Instead, I find various paintings, photographs hung in tasteful frames. Most of it is good. Some of it is very good, particularly the photographs, which are a mix of subjects, from people to landscapes. The floors are honey- colored hardwood, inviting and warm. Throw rugs are tossed in tasteful and useful places. The furniture is clean and just less than new.
“Kirby?” I call out.
“In the living room.”
“Is that music?” Tommy asks.
I strain an ear. “Classical. Beethoven, I believe.”
We move through the entryway and sitting room and arrive in the living room. It’s next to the kitchen, one broad, open space that builders are calling the “great-room concept.” I don’t like it. I like my rooms with walls. The living room has a nice couch, a midsize flat-screen TV, and a coffee table. Floor lamps light the space. The curtains on all the windows are drawn, and the blinds are closed on the sliding-glass door that leads into the backyard.
Dali sits in one of the kitchen chairs, cuffed at hands and feet, eyes cool.
“Hello, Mercy Lane,” I say. “Hello, number 35,” she replies.
I suspected it, and then the name on the house’s title confirmed it, but it still surprises me in the flesh: Dali is a woman. That thing I’d seen in my cell, the thing I’d kept to myself, had been a smooth neck, sans Adam’s apple. Eric Kellerman’s corpse, on the other hand, had a prominent one.
“How’d you know?” she asks me.
I don’t answer right away. I take time to study the person who brought me to this shadow land, a place where murder is both acceptable and desired. She’s a short woman, with a beautiful, aquiline face. She keeps her brunette hair cropped close, and it works for her. Her eyes are a shocking blue. She’s wearing blue jeans and a thin pullover shirt. She looks stunning and innocuous, like a cobra with its hood down.
“That was some plan,” I say. “How long have you had that escape hatch in place?”
Dali had been pragmatic in all things. This included planning for the possibility that we might someday find her. She’d decided to have a patsy, ready-made and waiting, and she’d sown the necessary seeds years ago. She put Eric Kellerman’s fingerprints on the body bags. She faked the symphorophilia fetish, choosing it because it was
