But not now. Now I had more important things on my mind. “Did you know Froelich and Mota were lovers?”
“No. I didn’t even know they knew each other. How did you find out?”
“I saw pictures of Mota and Froelich together.” I followed Deluski out the door and down the stairs.
“Where did you get the pictures?”
“Mota’s phone. He had a picture on there of himself with Froelich and Wu, the three of them clinking glasses over a stack of cash.”
“That’s how you knew they were in business together?”
I nodded yes before taking another bite of bread. Half of it was gone already.
“How did you get Mota’s phone?”
“Stole it.”
“Damn. How did you pull that off?”
“Broke into his house.”
We left the alley. The street was pretty well cleaned up by now and open to traffic. Wouldn’t be long before all signs of the riot were erased. We headed for the river.
Deluski said, “What I don’t get is how the killer got Wu to go with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he went to Wu’s place to kill Maribela and the kids there in the apartment, but he took Wu somewhere else, killed him, and brought his head back.”
“Yeah?” I took another bite of bread.
“So how did he get Wu to go with him?”
After a bewildered pause, I said I’d been wondering the same thing, even though I hadn’t. Hadn’t even occurred to me. But Deluski was right. Wu must’ve been home when the killer arrived the first time. Otherwise, there was no reason to go there twice. Had the killer met up with Wu somewhere else and murdered him there, he could’ve done the wife and kids when he brought the head over.
But he’d been there twice.
Deluski continued. “I can’t figure it, boss. I don’t see Wu going with him. Can’t even imagine it. Not after what he’d done to his family.”
I popped the last piece of bread in my mouth and chewed on it awhile. I couldn’t figure it either.
Why hadn’t I started thinking on this earlier? This was some obvious shit, and I’d totally missed it.
We came to the river. Fishing boats were moored to moss-draped docks, and I could see a few pedestrians carrying ice-filled bags of whole fish, water leaking out the holes. I stepped up to the river’s edge and, keeping the folder pinned tight under my half-arm, I punctured a film of algae to put my left hand in the foul-smelling water. As I shook my hand to wash off the honey, a small patch of clear, agitated water formed around my fingers.
I pulled my hand out of the water, flicked off the big drops, and rubbed the rest into my pant leg.
Deluski asked, “So if this same guy killed that Samusaka stiff Abdul found in the database, then why didn’t he decapitate him too?”
This one I had thought through. “I figure he’s tired of being anonymous. After his first killing got passed off as an overdose, he wants to make sure everyone knows he killed Wu and Froelich. He wants credit.”
“Do you think that was why he killed them? Because they didn’t give him the credit he deserved for killing Samusaka?”
“I don’t know. That’s why we need all the info we can get on Samusaka. What did you find out?”
“That file I gave you is pretty sparse. You’ll have to look it over yourself in case I missed something, but it doesn’t say much except Franz Samusaka’s death was ruled an overdose. This was eight months ago. I did see his father is wealthy, though. Hudson Samusaka is an oil man.”
“You have time to dig some more this afternoon?”
“No. I’m already late for a function at the mayor’s mansion.”
“Guard duty?”
“Yeah.”
“You better get going then.”
“Later, boss.”
I watched him walk away. The kid was proving himself smarter than I thought. I wondered how he got hooked into this gang of misfits in the first place.
Gotta find Maggie. We had to talk. Recalling the way she looked at me last night made me feel like hands were kneading the fried dough in my stomach.
I needed a phone. And a ride. I aimed for the docks. I’d ask around, see if I could bum a phone off somebody. I stepped out onto the planking. Wood bent and whined underfoot. I heard something slip into the water, something big. Monitor.
Lights on strings swung in the gentle breeze as I passed empty boats, fishnets piled like dirty sheets, barnacled hulls scraping against pilings. I found a young fisherwoman sitting on an upturned bucket, her fishnet spread across her boat. She labored at the net’s edge with a needle and twine, attaching coins as weights. She had a burlap bag full of half-pesos, the ones with square holes cut in the center.
“A phone?” I asked.
Without looking up, she shook her head no.
I moved farther down the dock, setting my sights on a boat up the way.
From behind, creaky footsteps approached. Quick footsteps. More than one set. My heart kicked into a new gear, and I moved my hand to my waist, making ready to drop the folder and grab for my weapon.
A voice said, “Stop.” A lase-blade sizzled to life.
Thirteen
“What’s your name?” The voice was close, the crackle of the lase-blade even closer, too close for me to pull my piece without getting carved.
“Mark.” A dry-mouthed lie. “Mark Josephs.” I slowly turned around, my raging heart already running at a full sprint.
Two men. One held the blade up to my face, bright red light blaring through my shades. The other held a gun, the lase-pistol hanging lazily by his hip. He snatched the glasses off my face and tossed them over his shoulder before giving my mug a critical once-over. “It ain’t him,” he said. “He don’t look right to me. Mota said the guy would be a big bruiser. This shit’s skin and bones.”
Mota. These two worked for Mota.
“Look at the eyes, though,” said the one with the blade. “Don’t that look like him?”
With them both mesmerized by my big browns, I wanted to go for my piece, real slow so they wouldn’t notice, fry the bastards’ balls off before they knew what happened. But I couldn’t drop this folder in my hand without telegraphing my intention.
And I had only the one damn hand.
I was fucked.
Fear rippled up and down my spine. I leaned way back, away from the blade, my feet creeping backward of their own volition, my wincing backpedal taking me to the dock’s edge. I didn’t want to go down like this. Scared. Helpless. Weak.
Not like this.
“Who are you?” asked the one with the blade, a panama hat with a monitor-hide band on his head. The frayed straw brim cast his eyes in latticed shadow. He pressed a finger against the bar-fight bruise over my brow.
I let the fear show in my voice. Didn’t have to try very hard. “I told you. M-Mark Josephs. Who are you looking for? You want money?”
Their faces were hard, their sneers well practiced. They wore crisp whites that shone pink in the blade’s glow. These were the guys Maria warned me about, the ones from upriver who had come looking for me. Must’ve
