above the horse, a spear thrusting forward, and Miles decided he’d hit the shooter in the temple, where the bone and flesh were weakest. He couldn’t let the man hurt Joy and Cinco.
But then, God bless Joy, who said he wasn’t there. Cinco played along. Miles listened to the conversation, heard her parry with and then lie to the guy. Then he crept back to the office, thinking, He won’t kill anyone if he thinks they’re on the phone. So he lifted the handset, punched in the extension for Joy’s desk, heard it give off its internal buzz; Joy, smart, acted as if she’d gotten an outside call and Miles said to her, ‘Get busy, he’ll leave.’
Then a rattling on the door, and he heard the footsteps of the shooter leaving, heard him offer a polite excuse-me to a customer at the door.
He counted to ten, started down the stairs. Joy rushed past two women, possibly ignoring a buyer for the first time in her life.
‘Who was that?’ she said.
‘You lied to him,’ Miles said in surprise.
‘I didn’t like him. The sunglasses, the way he asked for you. I know trouble when I see it. You don’t do sales. So I knew he was lying.’ She grabbed his arm, hurried him to the back, told Cinco to go deal with the browsers. She slammed the door behind her. ‘Could a bad guy from your old life be hunting you?’
He knew she meant the Barradas but it was easier not to explain. ‘Yes. Listen to me. Close the gallery right now. Leave. In case he comes back at six. And I’ll make sure he leaves you alone.’
‘I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’
‘No. I’m not involving you further. Just go. Now.’ His face burned. ‘Thanks, Joy, for being my friend, you don’t know how much you and this job meant to me. Don’t tell Cinco about me, okay?’
‘I’ll make up a good story.’ Tears in her eyes, she tiptoed up and kissed his cheek. Then she opened the door, announced to Cinco and the ladies that they were closing immediately, nicely shepherded the two women out of the door, told Cinco to go home.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cinco demanded.
‘Get your mother home,’ Miles said. ‘Now.’
‘Would you please tell me why we’re all panicking?’ Cinco asked.
‘Michael, let us give you a ride…’
‘No. Go, Joy, please.’
Joy squeezed his hand and then she hurried Cinco to her car. They drove off in a peal of tire.
The shooter knew his name. Andy, seated on Cinco’s desk, said, ‘Game’s over, Miles.’
Miles ignored him, grabbed a University of New Mexico Lobos baseball cap from Cinco’s desk, pulled it low on his face, and then ran around to the back of the building. He needed to get back to his hotel. The gallery next door was owned by three potters – and he remembered that one always biked to work. He’d call her and tell her where the bike was later. He still had his lockpicks in his pocket and he worked the bike lock open in ten seconds.
‘Reduced to being a bicycle thief,’ Andy said. ‘Shame on you.’
Miles jumped on the bicycle, awkwardly – he hadn’t ridden one in ten years – found his rhythm, then sped around the building’s corner, out onto the lot, onto Canyon Road.
And saw the shooter behind the wheel of a car, heading back up Canyon, veering straight toward him in a scream of rubber.
EIGHTEEN
The buzz instead of a ring. It was a setting on office phones. The call Cinco took when Groote first walked in gave off a ring; Joy’d gotten a buzz for that second call, but she’d pretended it was an outside call. His instincts told him the woman had been lying. The idea of Michael Raymond coming back at six was just to get him out of the gallery.
So he veered hard, ignoring the horns laid down around him as he narrowly missed clipping a truck, vroomed back down Paseo de Peralta, and took the hard right onto Canyon.
And right ahead of him, an idiot on a bike, a baseball cap practically covering his eyes, riding and balancing awkwardly in the middle of the street. Groote just missed him as he steered the car hard into the parking lot for the collection of galleries.
Groote saw the CLOSED sign hanging crooked in the Garrison Gallery’s door. He ran up to the door, tested the knob. Locked. He broke the pane of glass closest to the knob; an alarm wailed. He opened the door, drew his gun, ran through the gallery, upstairs and down. No sign of anyone.
The police would arrive within minutes. He tucked his gun into his holster under his jacket, went out the back, saw a woman standing with hands on hips, frowning at the noise.
‘I’m a friend of Joy and Cinco’s,’ he said to her before she could speak. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘My bike’s gone.’ She gestured toward the gallery door, the shrieking whine. ‘Is it a break-in or a false alarm?’
The guy on the bike. Outmaneuvered by an art hippie lady and a guy on a fricking bike. He ran past the woman and hurried to his car.
Groote bolted onto Canyon, then Paseo de Peralta. Had to choose and took a hard right. He drove two minutes, running red lights, looking for the guy on the bike. Wheeled hard around and went the other way, cursing. He backtracked, tore up side roads at eighty miles an hour. His heart caught in his throat, he pounded the steering wheel in fury.
I was this close to him. To finding Frost.
No bike on the street. No bike anywhere. Michael Raymond was gone.
NINETEEN
Miles carried the stolen bike up to the hotel room with him, washed his face. The cache of money and equipment he kept at the bus station in case he ever needed to flee town on his own – now was the time to go fetch it. But if the shooter was prowling the roads of central Santa Fe, riding the bike was a risk; he couldn’t outrun a car.
A fist pounded his door. DeShawn, ordering him to open up.
He answered and DeShawn pushed in, frantic-faced, slamming the door behind him. ‘We’re moving you to a new city, getting you a new identity. Right now. Grab your bag.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve been disclosed, Miles. Your cover’s blown. The police found a laptop in Allison’s car trunk. It contained a scanned copy of your entire psychiatric file from Allison. Including the fact that you’re a federal witness and your real name.’ He shook his head. ‘It omitted the fact that you lied to me, of course.’
DeShawn’s urgency had nothing to do with the shooter’s appearing at the gallery.
‘I-’
‘You’re done in Santa Fe. Let’s go.’
Miles rocked on his feet, the news a punch in his gut. ‘How would Allison know my real name?’
‘You sure you didn’t tell her?’
‘No. I never did.’
‘I don’t believe you. You told me you didn’t even tell her you were a witness!’ DeShawn’s voice was cold. ‘You lied to me, Miles. She knew your name, she knew where you were from, she knew what you were, and now she’s dead.’
‘I never told her.’ The confession – signed with his real name – was still in his pants pocket. ‘You said a scanned file? Like a paper file scanned for a computer?’
‘Yes.’
Sorenson, opening and closing the file cabinet yesterday afternoon. He’d taken something. Miles’s file. But it
