by Jackie May
Very good. “They came for the bomb materials that Dario got for them. I’ll tell you what it feels like: a change of plan. They hired Dario to get this stuff for them. Everything was going fine until yesterday, when the plan changed, and suddenly they have to scramble to silence Dario and the girls.”
“That could have been their plan all along.”
“I don’t disagree, but killing three people…”
“You don’t like it.”
“Because that’s only going to attract more attention. It brings cops in to look at those murders. Too risky. Plus, the bad guy business is just that, a business, and this kind of thing doesn’t exactly inspire others to work with them in the future. It burns bridges.”
“Okay.” He looks unsure. “Tell me what you like, then.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just, the guesses are starting to pile up.”
“But educated guesses.”
“Keep going.”
“I’ll tell you what I like. These killings were a reaction to something. A change of plan. You don’t silence, you don’t cover up, unless you’re scared somebody’s on to you. Somebody’s getting close.”
“But who’s getting close? Your agency didn’t know anything until after the killings.”
“What about you? You were making noise about Rosalind Rose, which led you to Dario’s place.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He considers it. “That could have scared them. But that seems extreme. The most I could have done was interview him about the girls. I didn’t know anything about bombs.”
“But they didn’t know that.” As I’m saying this, a lightning bolt flashes across my mind. Wheels spinning off their axles. So many leaps in logic.
Brenner sees me paralyzed in thought. “See what I mean?” he says. “The giant crossword puzzle. Still too many blank spaces.”
Then, suddenly, traction. I see a possibility—a complete through line. “Okay, so tell me this: how many coincidences have to line up before we can say that it’s not a guess anymore?” I jump up and grab my shoes. “What if I have a theory that puts all the different pieces in the right places at the right times? That has to mean something.”
“Let’s be clear,” he answers, “I’ll follow any lead you got, okay? I don’t care how thin it is. I’ll break down doors. Just know that this stuff hardly ever turns out how you think it should. I’ve seen the most logical theories—A to B to C—it makes so much sense, it has to be right, but five minutes into your first interrogation, the wheels come off. Back to square one, think of something else. It takes time. Could be months.”
“Nah.” I tie my shoes. “Forty minutes, tops.”
Which is how long it takes for us to run out to my car and speed 90 mph all the way to the Agency downtown. We throw the office door open to find familiar faces in familiar places: Oliver doing something that looks like grading papers, Ren watching animated porn, and Darla sipping from her favorite mug behind a computer screen. When her eyes raise to mine, I throw my hands wide and shout, “It’s a Don Deal!” Darla’s eyes bug out as she pitches forward and spits coffee all over her keyboard.
I slap Brenner on the chest. “Don Roman lied to us.”
Speeding north on Woodward Ave., weaving in and out of early rush-hour traffic. “So, I go to see you at the Agency yesterday,” I say into my phone, “and I tell you that I’m on to this demon guy who’s got all the stuff to make bombs in his apartment.”
“Yes,” Nick Gorgeous says.
“Darla is there, everybody is there, listening in. We all have a good laugh at my expense.”
“I remember. Good times.”
Yeah, hilarious. “An hour later, Darla goes on her lunch break, driving clear across town to Feng Zhu, where she meets her boyfriend every day.”
“And that’s Don Roman?”
“Don Deal Roman! And since Darla’s a vindictive, blabbering gossip whore, she tells him all about the highlight of her day: seeing Shayne Davies humiliated again.”
“And she repeated the bomb stuff to him?”
“All of it. Everything, probably word-for-freaking-juicy-word, because she’s a vindictive, blabbering gossip whore!”
“So then Don Roman gives a heads up to his people—whoever they are—and they think you’re on to them.”
“I was on to them!”
“You were on to something, not them.”
“Same difference!”
“So what, we got a possible connection to Don Roman, which, by the way, was a total guess on your part.”
“A guess? Don Roman was eating takeout from Feng Zhu when we talked to him. And when Dario Machlin went to buy two vehicles with his 40K, Feng Zhu was one of the restaurants he ate at. Why? Probably because he asked Don Roman where was good to eat, and Roman says, ‘Feng Zhu, I eat there every damn day!’ And last, but not least, he had peppermints from the restaurant in his candy bowl!”
Nick lets go an exasperated breath. “Peppermints again.”
“The same peppermints Darla’s been saving on her desk. Hey, sometimes all you know is that the answer has five spaces and starts with a capital D. So I tried Darla, and it fits.”
“But lots of other five-letter words start with a D, Shayne, and I can’t show a crossword puzzle to the FBI! Hillerman’s scrambling choppers as we speak.”
“To go after Arael?”
“She’ll be in the air in thirty minutes.”
“Perfect! Tell her to stop by Roman’s.”
“We don’t have anything.”
“But the killers are fey, not demons. And guess who else is fey? Don Roman!”
“So get me something.”
“I’m working on it. A white Ford van, a white Ford car. That much he’s not lying about. I saw the paperwork myself.”
“Oh, that’s perfect,” he quips. “Now all you have to do is see if he has a white van or a white car…at an auto dealership! Half his stock is probably white vans and white cars, Shayne!”
I move the phone directly in front of my mouth to shout, “I said I’m working on it!” And I hang up. The Ardee Todd bobblehead nods with approval. You go girl. I tell him to shut up, which isn’t fair, but it’s better than my first impulse, which was to knock his head off.
“There it is.” Brenner points at Feng Zhu restaurant, passing on the right. Across the street are the enormous inflatable Greek pillars at the entrance of Don Roman Auto Plaza. There are three lots full of new cars with sale stickers.
“Lots of white,” I notice.
“Head around to the back. Looks like he’s got garages out there.”
“Got a lot more than that. Look at this place.” Behind the dealership is a vast expanse of junked cars. Vehicles in all conditions—some twisted wrecks of scrap metal, some only missing a wheel or a door—are spread across a field in rows. Farther out, we see towers of smashed cars stacked on top of each other. In the middle of the field are several enormous structures with five levels of shelves in which vehicles are packed like loaves of bread at the grocery store.
“More mazes,” I say.
Following along a chain-link fence, we pass through two more lights before taking a left to come around the backside of the property.
“Here we go.” I bump onto the curb and stop the car. All along this back road, ruined cars are stacked up to the top of the fence. “Just give me a boost over the fence, and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go in with you.”
“No, if I find anything, I’ll come back. What are they going to think if they see some random guy out walking around in their junkyard?”
“Oh, you mean you’re gonna shift…”
I’m already half undressed. “Just be listening. If you hear gunshots, and especially if they have a junkyard mutt, then you get your ass over that fence. If there’s both, then you just make sure to shoot the dog first, got it?” He looks alarmed, which makes me alarmed. “No, Brenner, tell me you’re not a dog person.”
/> “Most people love dogs.”
“Most people love people, too, but that doesn’t stop them from blasting each other if they have to.”
“If they have to, yeah.”
“Yeah!” Okay, forget the fact that we’re parked on a remote back street, with only half an hour to catch terrorists with a bomb, and I’m in my underwear—we’re going to fight about this. “So if you see that you have to—”
“—There’s a reason dogs never get killed in the movies, you know.”
“So, okay, let’s say five minutes from now, you look through that fence and you see me, a cute little fox, running for my life from a pit bull with a head big as a tire. What do you do?”
Without a second thought, he says, “I yell at you to run faster.”
I stop myself just short of punching him. “What! Let me get this straight. If you lose your memories again, I’m supposed to shoot you in the head, no questions asked. But if a rabid dog is trying to lock its jaws around my neck—”
“Foxes aren’t faster than dogs?”
Yes, we are, but, “That’s not the point! Do you, or do you not, owe me a life debt?” A low blow, I know.
“I do.”
“Anything, you said!”
“Anything you say.”
“And I’m saying to shoot the dog!”
“And I will. If I had to, I’m saying, if it came down to you or the dog, of course I’d…” He blinks. Several times.
“Shoot the dog. Say it.”
“Shoot…at the dog.”
“Ohmygosh!”
“Scare it off.”
“Okay, that’s fine, you know, just fine, like, so if you lose your memories again, maybe I’ll just shoot somewhere in the vicinity of you.”
“No. Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll…shoot the dog.”
“Listen to me. Are you listening?” He is. “If this is going to work, I have to know without a doubt that you’ll shoot a dog for me.”
He gives a grave nod and a reluctant, “I will. If I can know without a doubt that you’ll shoot me for me.”
“I will.” I offer my hand. As he shakes it, a wishful quip comes to mind. Should we kiss on it? But instead, I say the somewhat less romantic: “Now get out and stand with your hands against the fence so I can use you as a ladder.”
I open my door and shift. As a fox, I see the fence more like a twenty-foot prison wall, but Brenner makes a good ladder, and with two bounds up his back, off his shoulders, I gain a hold with all four paws on the top bar of the fence. From there, it’s an easy hop over to the roof of the nearest stacked car, then down to its hood. I let myself down from bumper to bumper to the ground.
The salvage yard feels like a forest of steel trees. Except there are no sounds of wind in their branches. There is, however, a loud non-sound, as if the silence is echoing off all these metal surfaces.
Out here on the perimeter of the yard, there is no rhyme or reason to the placement of the cars. Some are stacked neatly; others are piled in a mound. Fortunately for me (and Brenner), there is no dog here. If there was, I’d smell it by now.
I reach the shelved structure, towering above me like a parking garage. In human form, I’d have to go around, but as a fox I can just manage to squeeze between cars, or I could go under them on my belly, if I really wanted to. The cars are packed in three deep from both sides of the structure. I wonder how long it’s been since these cars in the middle saw the light of day. It’s dark under here, and much cooler. I hear snakes moving away, no doubt annoyed by my intrusion. Coming out the other side of the structure, I stop right at the sharp line of black shadow and orange late afternoon sun.
In the field between me and Don Roman’s garages, there are long, straight rows of cars. All kinds—sedans, station wagons, trucks, minivans. No stacks here. It’s like standing at the edge of the woods, looking out on a field plowed into perfect rows. Not much cover. Instinctively, my eyes go to the sky. No birds. All is clear.
The garages are where I want to go. I can see their flat roofs on the other side of the field. I hear voices from over there. Sounds like some guys chatting, casual. Chains rattle as one of the garage doors lowers and bangs shut.
But I can’t just go running up on those guys. People usually don’t try to pet a wild fox. They don’t crouch down and whistle to us. Here, boy! They grab a rifle, or, like Brenner had said about the fox he found going through his garbage…wait, wait, so he won’t even think about hurting a dog, but he’ll throw rocks at a fox? Okay, now’s not the time for that. But I carefully file that thought away for use in a later argument I’ll make sure we have.
As for now, maybe Agent Hillerman’s tactic could work here. Play dumb. Announce myself, but in a nonthreatening way. That’s easy. All I need’s a stick.
Which I don’t find. But in a green Miata, I do find the round knob of a gear shifter. It’s got a bolt sticking out the bottom, but whatever. These guys will get the idea.
With the makeshift (zing!) ball in my mouth, I race all the way up one of the perfect lanes and crawl under the last car at the end of the row so I can survey the scene. Three guys in white painters coveralls loiter by a closed garage. They’re laughing and chatting. One sits on an overturned bucket and pulls protective slippers from his shoes. Another cracks open a soda. Behind them are half a dozen more garages, and I can see that most of them are open, but at this angle I can’t get a look inside.
There’s a good stretch of cracked pavement I’ll need to cross before I’m close enough to them, so I dart out from under the car and surge at top speed. The guy sitting on the bucket sees me first. Understandably, the sight of a large fox sprinting straight for him is unexpected, and with a yelp he falls backward off the bucket. His buddies laugh, until they follow his pointing finger and see me, now approaching with what I hope appears to be a playful frolic. I drop my ball on the ground and back away. I know I’m still too far off, but I need them to see what I’m getting at before they go for something to hurl at me.
The guy on the ground is like, What the hell? The others simply stare. Okay, so far so good. I move the ball closer to them. Still no action. Moving to within ten feet of them, I drop the ball and back away, and then I wag my tail. So degrading, but it’s like I always say about dogs: if you can’t kill them all, join them.
The guy with the soda finally breaks their stupor with a laugh. “Are you seeing this? What have I been saying? What have I been telling you guys for months now? These things are all over the place. They’re basically domesticated. Look at this.” He tosses the ball past me, and like a good little simple-minded, slobbering doggy, I retrieve it. The men laugh. Good trick! At least as a fox I can still roll my eyes.
Now that we’re playing, I want to change the game slightly. I circle around the men, giving me a good view inside the first open garage. There’s a minivan with a body wrap advertising husband and wife real estate agents. It’s white, but not the right kind of van. The one I’m looking for is a boxy delivery van, the kind with double doors in back.
Now on the other side of the painters, I drop the ball and back up far enough to see inside the second open garage—empty. My message is clear: give the ball a hard throw, make me run for it. Changing his soda to the other hand, the guy picks up the ball, winds up, and throws a real Hail Mary. Atta boy!
The lopsided ball sails past all the open garages and plunks down with a dull bounce and an awkward skitter across the pavement. Here we go. Trotting leisurely, I look into every open garage as I pass by. There’s a truck with a landscaping logo; there’s a restored Nova with glittering paint, pearlescent baby blue. Pretty good work by these guys. I don’t have the most trained eye for this stuff, but I know enough to say that Nolan’s paint jobs are better.
There’s an empty garage; another empty one; and then my ears perk up. In the second to last garage is the stubby front end of a white Ford van peeking out from under a blue tarp. The shape beneath the tarp is tall,
long, and boxy.
This is my stop. I race into the garage and duck under the blue tarp. The guy with the soda gives a surprised shout, and the other guys start busting up, giving him a hard time. You go get it. Not me. You’re the one who threw it! Oh, but it’s so domesticated, isn’t it? Go ahead, stick your hand in its mouth.
At the back of the van I try to push the tarp out, but it’s heavy and bunched on the floor, so I have to throw my whole body into it. After three leaps, I manage to uncover the word stenciled on the back door.
FORD TRANSIT.
By the sound of his footsteps, I know the soda guy is halfway to the garage. He calls into each one as he goes. “Hey, git on now! Come outta there!” Not that one, his buddies are shouting. Further down.
I work on pushing the tarp out from the side of the van, but I keep stepping on it, and whatever’s painted on the side is too large to see all at once from this close. I see crisp paint lines, all one color, very dark, maybe purple, but hard to tell in the blue glow cast by the tarp.
“C’mon, now, out!” the man bellows from the doorway, his voice echoing in the bay. “Bad dog!” His buddies howl with laughter.
I scurry under the van as his footsteps approach. He checks one side of the van, then the other. With a frustrated murmur, he takes hold of the tarp.
“Don’t touch that,” says a man’s voice outside. “What the hell’s going on? I told you guys to bug out. No overtime.”
“We are. I was just looking—”
“Look tomorrow. Get those scrubs off and clock out. I’ll close up.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You guys get that fleet painted?”
“Nine out of ten. Last one in the a.m. tomorrow.” He claps his hands. “Don Deal.”
“Don’t do that, you know I hate that.”
As they talk, their footsteps trade places. The soda guy retreats while the other guy—the boss, sounds like—approaches. And approaching along with his steps, building like static in my chest, is the familiar buzz of a strong glamour.
“Do me a favor,” he calls out to Soda Guy. “Fire up the air compressor on your way out.”
