She launched herself at the roof of what might’ve been a tool shed, which sat to the right of the sign. She landed awkwardly, her left ankle twisting under her. “Damn it!”
Someone shouted something behind her. She caught “Stop or …” before she bit her lip, ignored the pain and sprinted the three steps across the roof. She threw herself at the leg of a can-can girl on a sign she didn’t recognise. She grabbed it, swung her legs up and hurled herself at the fence. She landed on top of it, balancing unsteadily for a moment before the fates tipped in her favour and she fell forward out of the museum grounds.
She landed messily on her side, jarring her elbow as it met concrete.
A car screeched to a halt in front of her.
She was about to run when the back door flew open and she saw Tatiana inside.
“Get in!”
Dionne dived at the opportunity and the car accelerated away.
The car took a corner in a handbrake turn, the door slamming shut as it did so, and throwing Dionne into Tatiana’s lap. The other woman helped her to sit, and from there she saw that it was Joy in the driver’s seat.
“Alright, slow it down,” said Tatiana.
“They’re after us,” replied Joy.
“You keep driving like that and every cop in Vegas will be after us.”
“How did …?” panted Dionne.
“We followed you.”
“But?”
“You ain’t as good as you think you are, Sister,” said Joy.
“But …” repeated Dionne.
“We noticed the cops moving into position,” said Tatiana, “and we assumed they were for your benefit.” She nodded at Joy. “We anticipated that you might need a distraction and Evil Knievel here came up with her typically subtle approach.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” said Joy.
“I’m sure the owner of the Beemer you just blew up will see it that way.”
Dionne always tried to keep Joy and Tatiana apart for this very reason. The two women clashed on everything.
“Thank you,” said Dionne.
“Don’t thank us,” said Tatiana. “We were just following orders.”
“Oh. Does that mean …?”
“Yeah,” said Joy. “And Dorothy is seriously pissed!”
Chapter Sixteen
On the upside, Bunny no longer found himself possessed of the awful sense of unfounded foreboding that had gripped him since he’d stepped through the gates of Longhurst Prison. Now it had been replaced with a very real sense of justified foreboding. They had been so concerned with checking for someone who might know the real Rourke that it had never occurred to them to look at things the other way. Really, what were the odds that someone in a prison in Nevada could possibly know Bunny?
He had first met Alan “Shitty” Whiteside when the lad had been only fifteen. The nickname related to an event that had taken place during his childhood, but it also doubled perfectly as an accurate summation of the fella’s character.
In his life in law enforcement, Bunny had met all sorts. There’d been incorrigible criminals whose company he had enjoyed, and high-ranking, highly decorated Gardaí of whom he couldn’t stand the sight. Liking someone from the opposite side of the line didn’t make you a bad copper, as long as you always remembered where the line was. It actually helped.
The thing about crime is that criminals know more about it than anyone, which makes them an invaluable source of information. The secret to Bunny’s success as a policeman, if you could call it that, was his ability to find out what almost nobody else could. On the other hand, the secret to how that didn’t lead to a glittering career could probably be laid at the door of an inability to watch incompetence and not mention it.
Alan Whiteside had been a wrong ’un since the get-go, but he had not been one with whom Bunny had any rapport. He was blessed with one of the most punchable faces known to man – it was the perpetual sneer, as if he knew something you didn’t. In Bunny’s experience, as morally dubious as they might be, most criminals had codes. Whiteside didn’t.
When Bunny had arrested him as a teenager, he’d been ripping off pensioners who lived alone, using a list he’d bought from some ballbag in social welfare. No code. As he got older, Whiteside’s specialty had been using kids to deliver drugs. To assist with the smooth running of his operation, he’d also get them addicted to the product. When one of the kids disappeared, Bunny had made it his mission in life to bring Whiteside down. And he had.
They’d not got him for the murder, because they never did find the body, but he went down for possession with intent to supply, and two counts of possession of a firearm. Shitty was dragged out of the dock screaming that the two guns found in his apartment weren’t his, and hurling all kinds of accusations at the feet of Bunny and his then partner, Tim “Gringo” Spain.
They’d not taken it personally. Being accused of such things was part and parcel of the job of being a detective on the force. Besides, Whiteside might well have had a point. They had done what needed to be done, and neither he nor Gringo had lost any sleep over it. Even the judge had seemed keen to move things along. Shitty Whiteside was not a hard man to dislike.
The last Bunny heard, Whiteside had been released from Mountjoy after serving his sentence and promptly disappeared. It was assumed somebody might have got to him. Even criminals – some criminals, at least – weren’t wild about the idea of kids on hard drugs. The popular opinion was that Shitty would show up dead in a ditch or buried in a bog somewhere. Nobody was crying into their Rice Krispies at the thought.
As Bunny had argued over the definition of the words “biscuits” and “gravy”, the sudden appearance of Whiteside’s smug grin had entirely blindsided him. It had been the ultimate sucker punch. He’d completely lost his train of thought. Luckily,
