Chapter 17
Without asking permission, he pulled off her pashmina wrap and stuffed it between his side and his left hand. “Damn, that hurts.”
“Mitch, what are you doing?”
“Don’t want to leave a blood trail, and my clothes were getting soaked. I’ll buy you another thing.”
“I mean, what are you doing? You’ve been assaulted with a knife. You’re leaving the scene of a crime.”
“Where an undercover cop can’t be exposed as such.”
Her footsteps faltered. “Oh.”
“Did you think this getup was for Halloween?” He took a swift glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was in pursuit.
Pedestrians and motorists alike were gawking at the ongoing action taking place in the median.
Best he could tell, no one was paying attention to the ragged homeless man escorting a babe wearing high heels with sparkly stuff on the toes.
But he didn’t take for granted that no one had noticed them.
It was vital that they get out of sight.
He secured Dylan’s elbow more firmly and hustled her along.
“Here’s a cut-through.” As he squeezed them into a dark, narrow alleyway between two walled courtyards, he felt her hesitation. “Keep up, Dylan.”
“You know your way around here,” she remarked.
“Yep, and we’ve got blocks to make.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere but here. Like right now.”
“You’re covered in blood, Mitch.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“You need immediate medical attention.”
“Negative. Hurts like a mother, and I’d like to kill the little shit that cut me, but it’s not that bad.”
They came out of the alley and took a right turn down a buckled sidewalk shadowed by the widespread branches of venerable live oaks that sheltered condemned houses. After another few blocks, they reached the parking lot where he had left his piece-of-shit pickup.
Digging into the deep pocket of the baggy, dirty trousers, he found his key and ushered her around to the passenger side. She said, “This isn’t your truck.”
“It’s one of them,” he said, swinging open the door. “Get in.” He attempted to boost her up, but she resisted.
“You get in, I’ll drive.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Yes!” she said. “Incredibly stupid. You’ve been knifed!”
“Um-huh. And if I let you drive, you would head straight for the nearest ER.” Somewhere from back the way they’d come, a siren wailed. “There’s no time to argue, Dylan. Get in!”
She huffed something under her breath, but climbed up into the passenger seat, made difficult because of her stilettos and skinny skirt.
He went around the battered hood and hauled himself up into the driver’s seat, where he whipped off the cap with the fake, mangy hair, and tossed it into the floorboard.
Reaching behind him with his right hand, he took his pistol from its holster at the small of his back and tucked it between his thighs.
With alarm, Dylan said, “Who are you going to shoot at?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He started the truck’s reliable engine and left the parking lot in a hurry. As he drove through a maze of side streets, he kept one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror. He didn’t detect anyone coming after them and began to breathe a little easier. But only a very little.
He could feel Dylan’s baleful stare on his profile. Holding on tight as he took turns sharply, she didn’t distract him by talking until they were a couple of miles away from their starting point. “You realize that the doctor in front of my name doesn’t designate me as a physician of medicine.”
“Of course I know that, Dr. Reede.”
“God knows what was on that knife, Mitch. You need to go to an emergency care center.”
“No can do.”
“You’re trying to be tough? A hero?”
“If I wanted to be a hero, I’d be back there hunting down that son of a bitch with the switchblade.”
“Surely we’re far enough away by now that—”
“I’m not going to an emergency center with a knife wound. The facility would be obligated to report it to the police.”
“You’re the police.”
“Right, so what would be the point? Please just drop it. It takes too much energy to argue.”
She stopped arguing, but, still obviously frustrated, turned her head away. Then, “There! There’s a drugstore.”
It would be impossible to miss. The familiar chain store was lit up brighter than the Las Vegas strip.
She said, “Pull over. I’ll go in and—”
“Try again.” He blew past the store.
“I could get some bandages, antiseptic, pain relievers. I could—”
“You could call any-damn-body.”
“I won’t. I’ll leave my phone with you.”
“You could borrow one.”
“I wouldn’t. I swear.”
He glanced at her but didn’t let up on the accelerator. “On security cameras you’d be seen buying first aid stuff for somebody who just might have a fresh knife wound.”
“Nobody is looking for me.”
He gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep from commenting on that. There was plenty to talk about on that subject, but later.
She said, “Isn’t it a little late for you to be concerned about security cameras? This vehicle has probably been picked up by dozens of them by now.”
“It has a blurred license plate, and there aren’t any cameras at that defunct business where I left it, which is one of the reasons why I chose that spot.”
Having had that argument shot down, she resorted to pleading, “Mitch, please. You’re bleeding.”
“It looks worse than it is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my guts aren’t spilling out.”
“The cut should at least be cleaned.”
“It’ll keep for a while.”
“Damn you! Stop somewhere and let me see to it.”
Her impassioned shout was so unexpected, his neck popped when he turned his head toward her.
Her chest was rising and falling with agitation. “I had an injured man who ignored me. He insisted that he was fine, that he would be all right, that it wasn’t that bad, and he died. He died. I would prefer not to experience that again.”
Her voice had cracked. Her body was rigid, her expression stark. The appeal in her eyes was desperate.
Cursing under his breath, Mitch dragged his attention back to the roadway. He moved into the right-hand lane in time to turn into the parking lot of another super drugstore. As they rolled to a stop in the darkest area available, he said, “Got any money? Cash, not a credit card.”
Having collected herself, she gave a curt nod and took a small wallet from her handbag.
She was about to open the car door when he said, “Hold on.” He reached into the narrow space between the seats and the cab’s window and pulled out a wadded-up windbreaker.
“I don’t use this for undercover. It’s not pretty, but it’s clean. Put it on and pull the hood up.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“If I say it is, it is.” He placed his right arm on her seat back. “Dylan, here and now, in these circumstances, I’m the experienced professional, so what I say goes. Understand? Besides, it’s starting to sprinkle.”
She looked none too happy, but after a moment of mutinous glaring, she put on the windbreaker and pulled the hood over her head.
Without saying another word, she got out and shut the door harder than necessary.
He waited until she was inside the store, then took his cell phone from the pocket of his dirty, threadbare “homeless” jacket.
He had Jim Tucker’s number on speed dial. He thumbed it, and his former DEA colleague answered immediately, stating only his name by way of greeting.
Cheerfully, Mitch said, “Guess who.”
Tucker groaned. “What do you want? I’m busy.”
“Not as busy as you’re gonna be. I have a tip for you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Tonight, a homeless man was assaulted with a deadly weapon.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.”
“The assailant was a short, spry male in his early twenties.”
“And you’re calling me with this why?”
“The incident occurred in the median of Esplanade, directly in front of a locally owned restaurant with a loyal clientele. We know it well.”
Tucker sighed a handful of swear words. Mitch could picture him removing his eyeglasses and rubbing his tired eyes. “Any ID on the homeless man?”
Mitch said nothing, figuring that Tucker would read between the lines of his silence. That was confirmed when the agent added more words to his foul litany. “Was there bloodshed?”
“Some.”
“Which of the two?”
“I can say with absolute certainty that one of them was wounded.”
“Gunshot?”
“Knifing.”
“Jesus. How bad?”
“He’ll live.”
“Did the other one bleed?”
“No.”
“How’d it start?”
“The runty bastard pounced on the homeless man. No provocation whatsoever.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m telling you. None whatsoever.”
“Okay. Could he have recognized the homeless man?”
“Not under all the matted hair, dirt, grubby clothes, et cetera.”
“Did the homeless man recognize his assailant?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive,” Mitch said. “With no provocation, and being unknown to each other, why did the punk attack?”
“Just meanness, I guess,” Tucker replied.
“Maybe.”
“You think there was more to it?”
“I think the ‘more to it’ isn’t so much about why it happened, as where.”
“Ah. The heart of the matter.”
“I have it on good authority that the owner of the restaurant doesn’t have a warm fuzzy for the homeless.”
“On whose good authority?”
“An eyewitness. Two nights ago.”
Tucker got the message because he cussed some more. “How’d the incident tonight pan out?”
In short-speak, Mitch explained about the mother and child. “The screaming spooked them both. They split. The whole thing lasted ninety seconds max.”
“Police presence?”
“They were quick to arrive, but, as far as I know, the assailant got away.”
“What about the homeless guy?”
“He got the hell out of there.”
“Undetected?”
“Unapprehended.”
Tucker snorted. “He’s one lucky son of a bitch. Batshit crazy, but lucky.”
Mitch couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
Tucker said, “The short and spry guy may have nothing to do with that restaurant or its operation.”
“Or he may.”
“It’s a stretch.”
“It is, but I’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”
Tucker cursed. “Goddammit, it’s like this every friggin’ time you contact me.”
“Like what?”
“Like I wish you hadn’t. But I’ll look into it. Right now, though, I’m busy with something else.”
Mitch recognized that particular tone. His antenna went up. “Involving what? Who?”
“Can’t say.”
“Don’t know? Or can’t say?”
“Won’t say. Bye-bye.”
“Wait. There’s more.”
Tucker blew out a gusty breath. “There always is.”
“A new item appeared on the restaurant’s menu tonight.”
It took a moment for Tucker to interpret that. “Appetizer or main dish?”
Dessert, Mitch thought, but he said, “I don’t know yet. It needs to marinate.”
“What’s it called?”
“Can’t say.”
“Don’t know? Or can’t say?”
“Won’t say.”
“So, you’re familiar with the dish, but this is the first time you’ve seen it on the menu?”
Mitch didn’t answer, which made Tucker testy. “You realize that this batshit-crazy homeless man had no business being anywhere near there.”
“He thinks otherwise.”
“He’s been instructed not to hang out around there.”
“Yeah, well…”
“If he’s caught… Christ. Does the homeless man’s friend JB know anything about any of this, about his nocturnal pastime?”
Through the plate glass storefront, he saw Dylan approaching the checkout with a basket of goods. “We’ll address that later. This phone might be compromised. Next time I call you, it’ll be from a burner, so answer your phone even if it doesn’t ID the caller.”
“Roger that, but—”
“Gotta split.” He clicked off and deftly removed the battery from his phone. He palmed Dylan’s, considered taking its battery out as well, but she was pushing through the exit.
He slid his phone back into his pocket just as she reached for the passenger door handle.