The gun, no longer cold but burning hot, waiting on her.
Across the street was the Escalade. She imagined Darke inside, watching her in that way he did.
She stepped into the road, fear keeping pace but she forced it down behind a smile. She’d let Darke see it, she was glad he came because she wanted it done now. She would kill for Robin, she didn’t even need asking.
“What are you doing?” Thomas Noble tugged her arm but she shook him off, turned and glared.
“Stay there.”
“You can’t just go up to him.”
Thomas Noble looked like he could cry, like he wanted to turn and bolt but the emerging man inside was jostling for place with the frightened kid.
She circled to the back of the Escalade.
The sidewalk now, beside the car, she trailed a hand along the paint, the shine deep enough to mirror her.
“Duchess, please,” he called, but she didn’t turn.
She slipped the gun from her jeans, kept it between herself and the car as she reached for the handle and pulled hard.
It was locked.
She pressed her face close to the glass and saw it empty.
She spun around. The parade rolled on, drums, ribbons. Kids marched in the band while girls twirled and beamed.
Duchess pushed her way through a group and heard kids curse her. Thomas Noble stayed beside. She saw Darke in everyone, warm smiles and cold eyes. She knew what men could do, all of them, capability was enough.
She was about to turn, and then she saw him.
She ran now, flat out. She knocked Coke from a kid’s hand, sent an old lady sprawling as people yelled. When she reached him he turned, and he looked up and smiled.
She knelt and took Robin into her arms.
“What is it?” Hal said.
And then a lady noticed what she held in her hand.
“GUN.”
Hal pulled her close as panic broke out around them.
* * *
The call came after dinner. Hal filled him in. By the time the panic died the Escalade was gone. Duchess did not get the plates. It could have been anyone. The reminder kept them all focused.
As he cut the line it rang again.
“You’re popular,” Martha said.
He’d promised to cook for her, lost track of the day so ended up ordering in. Martha had laughed, said she was relieved she’d at least get something palatable. He’d left her in the house, working through more papers.
“Cuddy,” Walk said into the phone. He hadn’t checked in with Cuddy in a while so was relieved to hear the big man’s voice on the other end. “How’s he holding up?”
“I got him back in his old cell, had to move a runner on, bitched something awful but Vincent seems more settled in there.”
“Thank you.”
“Any news on the case? I tried asking Vincent about it but he wouldn’t say anything. Not like the others, always crying innocence and injustice. I swear, you’d think we’d locked up a bunch of choirboys.”
Walk laughed. “So he hasn’t spoken to anyone?”
“No. I tell you, it’s like he never left here. Straight back into the old routine. Starting to think he missed the place.”
They made small talk a while, and then Walk heard Martha call.
He stood, left his beer on the deck and made his way into the living room.
Martha didn’t say anything at first, just straightened slightly, then leaned closer to the stack of files, put her glasses on and focused. She’d been the one that made the break, that traced Darke’s name to a company registered in Portland.
“You get something?”
“Maybe. Go bring me some snacks. I need some thinking peppers. You got any Habanero?”
He shook his head.
“Malagueta?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Shit, Walk. Some fucking poblano. I need heat. Jesus. Prepare for me next time.”
Suitably chastised he made his way into the small kitchen, brewed coffee and watched the street. They’d been at it four hours, from dinner to late, both yawning and red-eyed but both knowing they would sooner work than lie restless in their beds. The case was getting to her now, more because of the way Walk looked, like he was being ravaged by the detail.
He handed her the coffee, and a pepper mill.
She fought a smile, then flipped him off.
He watched her pace, in her hand was a corporation tax filing, a statement of registration. The trail was the kind of complex that had already seen her call in favors from a taxation lawyer she knew.
“Fortuna Avenue,” she said.
“The second line homes.”
“All but a couple are owned by the same holding company. When did the report come in, the first one? The eroding cliffs. California Wild.” Martha chewed the cap of her pen.
Walk fished through a heavy stack of papers. “May, 1995.”
Martha smiled, then held up her paper. “This company bought the first house in September 1995. And then they bought another almost every year since. Eight homes, rolling finance, each mortgaged to pay for the next. That worked for the first six, till the rate hikes.”
“And then?”
Martha paced again, walked over to the cabinet, topped off her coffee with whisky and did the same to Walk’s. “So this company bought every house on the second line. California Wild gauged it at ten years, right?”
“Give or take. Then they built the breakwater. The King house is safe.”
“The second line, they’re not worth all that much. Small, family homes. Got them cheap, doesn’t look like they increased much over the years.”
“Until?”
“Until the front line started to fall, and the vacationers started to come. One by one they went down. So all that stood between the company and what …”
“Five million dollars. At least.”
“And all that blocked it was Vincent King and his family home. The land around. It can’t be built on. No one would get a permit while the King house stands.”
“This company, what’s it called.”
“The
