Sometimes I use it to help with this job.” He looked at Morris and put a finger over his lips as if to say, Shhh. “Like I said, most days I don’t miss being a cop. All things considered, I transitioned well from public servant into private life. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss some of the perks. Like the goddamned respect.”
Jerry drove around the block a few times, and after the fourth or fifth time-Morris had lost count-the silly little parking-enforcement vehicle was gone. Jerry edged right back into the spot where they were initially.
“The motorcycle’s gone,” Morris said.
Jerry was distracted as he straightened the wheels of the Honda. “What?”
“The motorcycle? The whole reason we’ve been sitting in this hole of a neighborhood for the past three hours listening to the radio when we could have been in a nice warm bar having a cold beer?” Morris pointed. “It’s gone.”
Jerry looked around. “Shit. We lost them.”
“You think?”
“You shut up or I’ll frigging leave you here.”
There was another tap on the car window, this time on Morris’s side. In the dark it was hard to see who it was, but Morris was guessing the damn meter maid had come back.
He rolled down his window. It was harder than it should have been because Jerry’s piece-of-crap car didn’t have power windows. The handle groaned in protest.
A face blacker than Jerry’s stared in at Morris. The man was covered in grime and he smelled like a garbage can, only much worse, because he also smelled like feces and urine. His hair, a snaked mess of dreadlocks, hung down inside the Accord’s window. He was smiling.
“We got no money. Move on now.” Jerry elbowed Morris, not bothering to lower his voice. “Roll the window back up. It stinks in here.”
“I ain’t ask for none.” The homeless man’s breath could have killed an elephant. His voice was a deep baritone.
“What do you want?” Morris asked.
“I got some information for you.”
“About?”
“About the white dude you was followin’.”
Morris and Jerry exchanged a look. “Who says we were following anyone?” Jerry said.
“Man, shee-it. I ain’t got no home, but that don’t mean I got no eyes.” The man stared at them.
Finally Morris’s curiosity got the better of him. “Okay, what information?”
“That white dude, his name is Wolfe.”
“And that means what to me?” Jerry was staring hard at the homeless man.
“He a hunter. You best watch yourself before he hunts you.”
“And you know this how?” Morris asked.
“I just know,” the man said with a shrug, backing away from the car. He lifted up his tattered shirt and scratched his stomach with soiled hands. “And his woman? The pretty white girl he with?”
“What about her?” Jerry asked.
“She the leader of the pack.”
“Hey-” Morris called out, but by the time he got out of the Honda, the man had disappeared.
Ethan rode just under the speed limit, taking comfort in Abby’s arms wrapped tight around his waist. In the bike’s side mirror, the unevenly dulled lights of the black Honda Accord finally caught up to him. His stalkers had guessed his route correctly, and knew he was heading home. Clearly the big black dude and Morris the fat fuck weren’t going to give up.
Ethan had first noticed the car idling by the curb as he and Abby were leaving for the soup kitchen. He had no idea how long they’d been following him, which bothered him. It meant he wasn’t paying attention, and that was not good. He’d been losing focus. The drive to Lake Stevens and back every day, often twice a day, was taking its toll and he wasn’t sleeping. But that was no excuse for getting sloppy.
Ethan couldn’t see their faces, but he could imagine the two men sitting inside that ugly car, talking about him, talking about Sheila, thinking they were onto something by following his every move. They were persistent fuckers, he’d give them that. It might have been flattering had it not been so completely inconvenient.
He dropped Abby off at the apartment, explaining that he had some work to finish up. She hopped off the bike and pecked him on the cheek.
She wouldn’t wait up. She never did.
On the highway, Ethan accelerated and moved into the passing lane. Sure enough, the Honda sped up behind him. There was only one place to lead them to, only one place where things could happen the way he needed them to with the least amount of risk.
Let them come.
It was what he’d built his kill room for.
CHAPTER 34
T he vintage Triumph took the exit off I-5 for Highway 204. Jerry followed suit, his face scrunched in concentration as he carefully wove his way through the light traffic. Rain was making the road slick, and Ethan Wolfe wasn’t going slowly.
“This guy’s nuts.” The PI had not taken his eyes off the bike’s taillight. “Who drives a motorcycle in this weather?”
“Rides,” Morris corrected. “You don’t drive a motorcycle, you ride it.”
“Whatever. The kid has a death wish.”
Morris looked out the window, but the Honda’s tinted glass made it too dark to see much of anything. “I think we’re in Lake Stevens. I haven’t been here in years.”
“It’s a nice area. Me and Annie looked at a place here after I retired. Thought we’d get away from the hustle and bustle of Seattle life.” Jerry grinned. “The thought lasted about a day.”
The streets were quiet and Jerry was forced to drop back a good distance from the Triumph. They followed for about ten minutes until Wolfe made a left into a gated subdivision. A stone half-wall engraved with fancy lettering proclaimed it THE BRIAR WOODS RESIDENCES.
Jerry didn’t turn left to follow Wolfe through the wrought-iron gate. Instead he continued straight at five miles below the speed limit. Straining his neck as they passed, Morris watched as Wolfe punched in an access code at the metal box next to the gate, which opened to let Wolfe inside. He saw Wolfe give an easy wave to whoever was manning the guard’s booth before the gate swung shut behind him.
Jerry made a right at the next street, parking at the curb of a small neighborhood, not as ritzy, with no gate or fancy sign to proclaim its exclusivity. He cut the lights.
“We’re stuck,” Morris said. “We can’t get through the gate without an access code.”
Jerry smiled. “O ye of little faith.”
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, then Jerry turned the lights back on. In less than thirty seconds they were back at Briar Woods.
The security guard lifted his head at their approach. Jerry rolled down his window.
“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?” The guard didn’t seem the least bit suspicious that two visitors had pulled up to the gate at eleven at night. He had a wrinkled, spritely face and a full head of neatly combed white hair. An ill-fitting brown polyester uniform displayed a name tag that read HENRY, and an embroidered shoulder patch said BRIAR WOODS SECURITY. Morris pegged the man as a part-time worker in his late sixties, trying to supplement his pension.
Jerry flashed his replica detective’s shield through the open car window. Unlike the meter maid they’d met earlier, Henry was suitably impressed.
“Detective Isaac.” Jerry was all business.
“Yessir.” Henry put down the magazine he’d been reading. “Did one of the residents call you? Is there a
