Bloodlust

Chapter 23

I’ve gotta get this.” With no more explanation than that, Mitch left Dylan sitting at the table, went swiftly into the guest bedroom, and clicked on the phone as he pulled the door shut. “Jim. Find out anything?”

“El Paso.”

“What?”

“Short and spry goes by the name El Paso. Even Malone refers to him that way. No one knows his real name.”

“So he is one of Malone’s men.”

“A kid. Early twenties at most. And he’s only been around for a week or so, coinciding with Adler’s departure.”

“Where’d you get this information?”

“A paid informant.”

“Reliable?”

“He has been as of tonight, and nobody’s wise to him.”

“You know this how?”

“He’s still breathing.”

“Okay, why’d this kid jump me?”

“You weren’t the only one he jumped, just the last one.

” Tucker told him about two previous incidents involving homeless people that had occurred within blocks of Malone’s restaurant.

“Malone has zero tolerance. Our snitch thinks he dispatched El Paso to spook a few so all of them would move to greener pastures.”

“I was a random pick, then.”

“I hope.”

“Had to be, Jim. No way he could have known I was a cop.”

“I hope. But we don’t know that for sure, do we? He might’ve been stabbing homeless people, believing them to be you, doing exactly what you’ve been doing, which is unauthorized spying on his boss.”

“Not a chance he knew me. I’d never laid eyes on him.”

“Somebody could’ve pointed you out to him,” Tucker argued. “Malone himself, maybe.”

“Then why would he attack the other two?”

“To make you seem random.”

Shit. That made sense. Uncomfortably so. Mitch moved on. “Does your informant know where El Paso went after he attacked me?”

“When I asked him that, he dried up.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear.”

“You’re holding out on me.”

“No. He got antsy and amnesia at the same time. He’s scared of Malone. And of El Paso. Says he has evil eyes.”

“What else about him?”

“Nothing else.”

“That’s it? He’s a twenty-year-old with evil eyes? That describes my nephew. I need more than that.”

“Well, that’s all I’ve got. Look, I’m busy here, juggling with one hand. I need to go.”

“Wait.” Mitch rapidly strung together everything Tucker had told him and added it to the agent’s sudden haste to conclude. “When a snitch dries up, he or she is replaced. Pronto.”

Tucker said nothing.

“Jim? I’d bet my left nut that one of your undercovers got a sudden hankering for Ristorante Italiano’s pasta.”

Nothing.

Mitch persisted. “Your new person spotted El Paso. He recognized him from the description your first snitch and I provided, right?” He waited, then said, “Your stone silence confirms I’m right. So tell me where the knife-wielding little bastard went after our fight.”

Tucker swore lavishly. “Mitch, I can’t.”

“You can. Please.”

After more obscenities, the agent sighed. “It was too late to order dinner. My person had tiramisu and coffee.”

“Was Malone still in residence?”

“Yes. After closing, my person hung around and spied El Paso slinking in through the kitchen door in back. About fifteen minutes later, he left by the same door and headed down the alley. My person followed, but lost him in the dark.”

“So you don’t know where El Paso lays his head?”

“No.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.”

Mitch believed him, but only because the agent sounded frustrated, too. “Okay. Keep me posted. If I change phones, you’ll get a text. Otherwise, use this number to reach me.”

“Hold on,” Tucker said. “I have a question for you.”

“No, the cut across my gut wasn’t fatal, but thanks for asking.”

“Not that. Tell me about the restaurant’s new menu item.”

Mitch’s heart thumped. He glanced toward the closed bedroom door separating him from the main room. “What about it?”

“Buzz is that it was quite a dish. A hot dish.”

“Who gave you that?”

“The paid snitch. Before he dried up, he was very animated on that particular topic. Told me that for the better part of the evening Malone himself oversaw that it was served just right. Sat at the table where it was being served for maybe ten minutes. Gave personal attention to it.”

Mitch realized he was grinding his teeth. “Did your snitch get its name?”

“‘Mr. Malone’s guest.’ That’s it.”

“Huh.”

“So what’s its name?” Tucker asked.

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t. The tenderizing marinade is taking longer than I thought.”

“That’s cute, Mitch, but this is serious shit. Your meddling could screw the pooch for us—us being the agency and me—in an already combustible week.”

“Why combustible?”

“Meddling could also get you killed.”

“Why combustible?”

“Or both.”

Mitch relented. Tucker had told him all he was going to about the combustibility of this week. “At least get me some intel on El Paso, please.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I’m being careful, Jim.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m farting Chanel Number Five.” With that, he disconnected.

Mitch sat on the bed for a time, reviewing what he’d been told and thinking over what he should do with it. Reaching a decision, he called Auclair PD dispatch. When the duty officer answered, he identified himself.

“Hey, Mitch. Couldn’t tell it was you. ID says caller unknown.”

“My cell’s out of juice. I’m using a spare.”

“I thought it might be a whack job calling in.”

“Well, some in the department would think so.”

“I didn’t mean nothing by that,” the officer said quickly. “I wasn’t referring to you having to see the shrink and all.”

“No offense taken. Is Clarence on patrol tonight?”

“Let’s see.” After a moment, “No, he’s got the morning shift. Goes on at seven.”

Mitch checked his watch. It was two-forty. “Well, he owes me a favor. Do you have his cell number handy?”

When he went back into the main room, Dylan was pacing, eyes to the floor, tapping her fist against her chin. Immediately she stopped and turned to him looking inquisitive and anxious. “Who was that?”

“Tell me about El Paso.”

She gazed at him blankly. “The city?”

“The person.”

She bowed her head and pressed her temples with the heels of her hands. “Mitch, I can’t keep up. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t think her bafflement was faked. But there was too much at stake not to persist. “You created a buzz at the restaurant tonight.”

She scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh, you did. Mr. Malone himself personally oversaw the service you received.”

“I was his guest.”

“That was noted, too.”

“By whom? Who called you? Despite denying it, were you having me spied on?”

“This is my interrogation, not yours. Do you know any of Malone’s associates?”

She rolled her lips inward, sealing them. Then, “Take me home now. Right now.”

“Answer the question,” he said, raising his voice.

“I don’t have to,” she shouted back.

“You do if you want a ride home.”

That astounded her. She flung her arms wide to encompass the room. “What is this, house arrest? Before you start interrogating me, shouldn’t you flash your badge or read me my rights? Can I expect thumbscrews? An ankle bracelet?”

“It’s a simple yes-or-no question, Dylan. Do you know any of Malone’s—”

“No! Until tonight he and I have never even met outside my office.”

“Who was at the table with you?”

“I ate alone. That also should have been noted,” she said snidely. “There was no buzz. I didn’t even talk to anyone except for the ma?tre d’, the waiter, and Roland. We chatted for a few minutes before I left.”

“Where?”

“He sat down at the table with me.”

“Just the two of you?” He crossed his arms over his chest, widened his stance, and cocked his head to one side. “What did you and Row-land talk about?”

His mocking tone pissed her off. If he’d been in her shoes, it would have pissed him off, too. She stretched up to her full height and narrowed her eyes. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Her story coincided with what he’d been told about her evening.

If she had been in someone’s company during dinner, Tucker’s informant would have told him.

Although it turned his stomach to think of her in private conversation with Malone, how much significance should he give it?

A host making certain his guest had been satisfied?

Fine. But he didn’t like it, and his viewpoint wasn’t entirely objective.

She was still miffed. “Is that it? Did I pass? Are we done now?”

“No.”

He walked over to a three-legged end table that separated a pair of matching easy chairs. He picked up a baseball, which, for some unknown reason, was sitting in an ashtray from Pat O’Brien’s.

Casually bouncing the ball in his hand, he said, “You weren’t introduced to El Paso? He was around tonight.”

“So we’re back to that?” She looked helpless and bewildered. “Is that a trick question? Are you trying to lay a trap for me, or is that really someone’s name?”

He lifted the hem of his T-shirt. “He’s the guy who did this. He works for Malone.”

Taken aback by this new piece of information, her breath hitched, her indignant posture relaxed, and she turned her head aside as though needing time to process.

He continued bouncing the baseball in his palm. “After the scuffle, after the restaurant closed, after you and I were long gone, El Paso was seen clandestinely entering the restaurant through the kitchen door.”

“But if he works there—”

“He doesn’t wash dishes or sweep up, Dylan.

He knifes people. There were two other assaults on homeless people tonight.

While you were enjoying your dinner, that kid with the swagger and the switchblade was out doing your patient Roland’s dirty work.

And El Paso, or someone of his ilk, may not be finished for the night. Which is why you’re staying here.”

“Mitch—”

“Arguing about it won’t change my mind, so save your breath. You texted Malone that you’d made it home without incident. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that he will check to make sure you’re there.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To test your honesty. That’s what tonight’s spontaneous dinner was about. He was feeling you out because of—”

“Your sessions with me.”

“Well, good! You’re finally getting it.”

He dropped the baseball back into the ashtray and sat down in one of the chairs. Its seat cushion had been worn thin by Bowie family posteriors.

And Mitch’s own butt had contributed to the indentation in the cushion’s center.

He couldn’t count the hours that John and he had sat side by side in this pair of chintz eyesores and talked over cases, or planned their next fishing excursion, or laughed over escapades they’d shared that got more exaggerated with each retelling.

He missed his friend. He missed Andrew. He missed having a life beyond anything except this fucking quest for revenge. It might eat him alive before he achieved it.

But he couldn’t give up now. He’d made Angela a vow. He wouldn’t let her down a second time.

Dylan hadn’t moved from where she stood, arms crossed and hugging her waist, watching him with uncertainty, which, he realized now, was justified.

He said, “You can charge your after-hours rate, but let’s make this an unscheduled session so that what I’m going to tell you is confidential. Deal?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Earlier tonight, you asked me how I know that Roland Malone killed Angela.” She nodded again.

“Fair question. Deserves an answer.”

He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared at the stamped-tin ceiling. “One of the factors that convinced everyone Angela had committed suicide, in addition to the postpartum depression, was that she had taken off her wedding ring.”

Without moving his head, he cut his eyes toward Dylan, believing that she would understand the implication of that. Gauging by her sorrowful expression, she did.

“I couldn’t fathom why she would do that,” he said.

“To my knowledge she hadn’t removed it since I’d slid it onto her finger at the altar.

To everyone else, it seemed like a clear sign that she hadn’t been in her right mind, that she had harbored more resentment toward me and the baby than I was aware of. So on.

“I shot down those suppositions because they were too painful for me to contemplate. But I couldn’t come up with an alternative explanation for why she would have taken off her ring.

“So doubts have stalked me, bedeviled me, made me question Angela’s mental state, our marriage, her love for me and Andrew, my failure to recognize or acknowledge the depth of her depression.

“Gin helped to keep the doubts at bay, but I couldn’t drink enough to wash them down. They stayed with me, always there at the back of my mind, jeering at me.”

He lifted his head from the cushion and looked directly into Dylan’s eyes. “Until this Monday night.”

She’d been listening raptly, without moving. Now she blinked, she swallowed. “What happened Monday night?”

“I got the explanation for why Angela had switched her wedding band from her left ring finger to the pinky finger of her right hand.”

She assimilated that, and, when understanding dawned, she actually shuddered.

“Um-huh,” he said. “The last thing she did while she was still conscious was clue me to who had made her get into that car and start the motor.”