The door leading into the house was unlocked, and he cracked it an inch. Strains of B.B. King floated through the downstairs. A long time ago, Frank had played a mean blues guitar, then one day upped and quit. New priorities, Valentine remembered him saying.
He walked through the laundry room and into the kitchen. The kitchen had an island in its center, and on it sat a large coin counting machine, with thousands of dollar coin-wrappers arranged neatly behind it.
He walked down a hall and entered Frank's study. The TV set was on,
“Got to go,” Porter said into the phone. Then he climbed off the bike. Unshaven, wearing a jogging outfit with sweat pancakes staining both arms, he looked a hundred years old.
“Put the cell phone down,” Valentine said.
“You think I'm going to make a move?”
“You heard me.”
“Sure. Just don't shoot me.”
Porter's desk sat next to the bike. He placed the cell phone on a stack of books, and Valentine saw his fingers imperceptibly twitch. The .38's burp was louder than he expected, like a firecracker exploding in his hand. The bullet tore through the books. Porter jerked his hand into the air.
“Oh, Jesus,” he cried.
Valentine walked around the desk. Hidden behind the books was a .357 Magnum. He made Porter sit on the couch, then pulled up a chair. Porter buried his face in his hands.
While Valentine waited, he stared at the wall behind them. It was covered with autographed sports junk: footballs, baseballs, group pictures of every Super Bowl winner of the past ten years. The last time he'd been in Frank's house, none of it had been there.
“Tell me why you did it,” Valentine said.
Porter reached for the box of Kleenex sitting on a side table. He stopped when he saw the .38's barrel move.
“Real slow,” Valentine said.
He tugged a Kleenex out of the box and blew his nose. “That's a good question. The money, I guess. That, and it was a sure thing.”
“How is stealing a sure thing?”
“It is when you're stealing from a crook.”
“You mean Archie?”
Porter nodded. “Brandi approached me last summer. She said Archie was skimming money off The Bombay. I said,
“So you were the last in.”
Porter blew his nose again. “Yes. I don't know if I would have gone along if so many people weren't involved. But I did.”
“How does the Desert Storm gang fit into this?”
Porter looked surprised. “You did your homework.”
“Answer me.”
“The Desert Storm gang is the core of the group. It includes Sparky, Brandi, Gigi, and Monique. They do the legwork, like getting the money out of The Bombay and laundering it. They also keep everyone else in line.”
“And they're the ones making the bombs.”
“Yes.”
“Whose idea was it to make the Croatians into patsies?”
“Mine. Just in case something went wrong, we could point the finger at them.”
“Was it your idea to buy a white van that looked like theirs?”
Porter nodded. “But then they started bleeding us, so I had a bright idea. I wanted to see if Archie really was scared of the police, so I hired Doyle, knowing he'd sniff out the Croatians right away. Doyle did, and I told Archie.”
“And Archie told you to keep the cops out of it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Valentine rose. “Get up.”
“Where are we going?”
“To have a talk with the district attorney.”
Porter remained sitting. “You're not going to help me out?”
“No.”
“I thought we were friends . . .”
“Get up,” Valentine repeated.
A funny look flickered across Porter's face. Like he was adding up his options. Then his hand dove under the cushion. Valentine shot him in the chest.
Porter flew over the chair, his legs going straight up into the air. An automatic pistol fell out of the cushion and onto the floor. Valentine crossed himself, then walked around the chair. Kneeling, he pulled back Porter's sweatshirt. He was wearing a Kevlar vest, the slug lodged in the indestructible material.
There was a bottle of Evian in the drink holder on the bike. He poured it on Porter's face. His friend blinked awake.
“Two guns. You expecting someone?”
Lying on his back, Porter nodded.
“Double-cross your partners?”
His friend didn't say anything.
“I'd like to meet them.”
“No, you wouldn't,” Porter said.
He marched Porter downstairs to the basement and tied him to a support beam with a piece of rope. “I want to know how Archie's skimming The Bombay.”
Porter was sweating profusely. “You and everybody else.”
“You don't know?”
He shook his head. “It's Brandi's ace in the hole. If the gang gets busted, she'll turn state's evidence and use it as leverage.”
“She tell you that?”
“Fuck, no,” Porter said, “I figured it out myself.”
“One more question.”
“What.”
“Who killed Doyle?”
Porter looked at the concrete basement floor.
“Don't ask me that,” he said.
Valentine considered pistol-whipping him. Or beating him up. Only this was Porter, a guy he'd known for over twenty years.
Instead, he went upstairs and searched the house. In the master bedroom he found a suitcase packed with tropical clothes. On the dresser, a ticket to Guatemala and a passport.
He dumped out the suitcase and ripped open its walls. Stacks of hundred dollar bills spilled out. He marched down the basement stairs clutching the money to his chest. Opening the furnace, he fed a stack to the flames.
“Tony, please don't do that,” Porter begged him.
“Who killed Doyle?”
Porter stared at the money, then back at him.
“I want the name of the person who detonated the bomb that killed my partner,” Valentine said.
“They wouldn't tell me who did it.”
Valentine fed the rest of the money to the flames.
Porter's driveway was over a quarter-mile long, most of it on an incline. Valentine walked to where his rental
