Chapter 32
Walker
When the alert I set for the master manipulator’s calendar pops up, I’m strangely proud of taking on calendar management.
It frees RJ up so he can dig into why a group of pedophiles are coming to town.
And the fact that the alert comes in at the exact right time to delay my trip home for Thanksgiving is a bonus I’m feeling owed by the universe after all the shit we’ve dealt with.
I have no idea what Trips and Clara had to do to get evidence sent to the blackmail bunker, but I’ve decided not to think about it. But the mural on my bedroom walls now includes blood and bones in one corner, so I’m obviously worried. Even if I’m pretending I’m not.
RJ takes off in the van first, heading out a few hours before the blank spot in the calendar, in case Westerhouse runs other errands first. We stuck the Santa’s Elves Light It Up emblem on the side of the van, as it’s a good excuse for sitting on the street without anybody asking questions.
The visibly high cartoon trees falling over each other still make me chuckle every time I look at them.
I don’t often do cartoons, but I have to say it’s some of my best work.
And because it’s a cartoon, nobody realized I designed it.
I even made a sparse website for the company, so it looks legit enough.
Somebody should have figured it out by now, but I guess I’m just that good.
I should probably say something, but honestly, I’ll take whatever zings of joy I’ve got right now.
I’ve always said my art was tricky.
Emma picks me up with Jansen in her passenger seat, and I wave off our tail.
Even though Jansen’s energy isn’t quite right, it’s great to see him bouncing on the seat. It’s clear he’s better than he has been.
The last of our unmonitored cash goes toward two shitty cars that Jay promises will run, and once Emma goes home, he lets me know we can cross another guest off our list—Tao will send runners to pick up any hot cars we have after the wedding.
I’m glad Jansen’s up for taking the initiative.
It’s been a while since we've trusted him on his own with anything important, even if we did just give him a small adventure at Bryce's. With the hot car situation figured out, Jay and I caravan to the western suburbs, ready to tail Mr. Westerhouse wherever he’s going. I’ve got my earpiece in and my sunglasses on, the light blinding off yesterday’s fresh blanket of snow.
We wait only twenty minutes before RJ announces that the paternal evil has left the estate and assigns Jay as the first tail.
We take turns, sometimes in front of the man, sometimes behind, always turning off and finding another point to get back within sight of him, switching often so he doesn’t realize he’s being followed.
Jansen directs our pursuit. Apparently, he, his cousin, and Summer pulled similar stunts when they were kids to steal special-order cars.
The guy is a veritable well of criminal pasts.
Honestly, Jansen’s full of unusual experiences and skills.
He’s one hell of a medic, thanks to his mom’s shit health and their inability to get her treatment.
Charming, with an encyclopedic memory of nearly every street in the Twin Cities, and one of the few people who’s willing to discuss the meaning of art with me, even if it’s more from a philosophical perspective than anything.
I’m glad he’s back, even if this version is a little different than before. He’s still impulsive, but less volatile. He’s still energetic, but not frantic, still ready with a joke, a smile, or a hug, whether or not you think you need it.
I’m tailing from in front when I recognize where we’re heading, and knowing why Jansen doesn’t recognize our destination makes me pissed. “RJ? Are you seeing this?”
“Fuck,” RJ mutters.
“What?” Jansen asks.
“We know where we’re going,” I mutter.
“Where?” Jansen asks, annoyed that I’m not giving him the answer right away.
“The storage unit where you almost died,” RJ says, not sugar coating it.
I think, signaling my turn long before Trips’ dad gets there, so he’ll feel more like he’s following me than the opposite. It’s especially easy now that I know where he’s going. “It can’t be the same unit. There were only medical supplies there.”
“Same facility, then,” RJ says, his voice bitter.
“Makes sense,” Jansen says, somehow less bothered by this than RJ or me.
“This way, they only have to bribe one set of staff to let them in under a fake name and turn the other cheek. Emma said the girl at the booth looked about ready to twist her head out of its socket trying not to see who was in the car.”
I drive past the storage facility, slowing as I reach the next traffic light so I catch it as it turns red. Watching in the rearview mirror, the Westerhouse vehicle turns into the facility, as expected. “He’s there.”
“How do we figure out which unit has the blackmail? There have to be hundreds of them,” Jansen asks.
“Park around the corner. I have an idea,” RJ says.
I do, and a moment later, the van pulls up behind my pickup truck, Jansen’s 90s convertible stopping behind it. We pile into the back of the van, only for RJ to push us out of the way, set something on the roof, then dive back inside.
A moment later, the top of the van moves away from us on the screen, RJ’s fingers deftly twitching two controllers.
“Wait, is that the drone I stole from you last year?” Jansen asks, plopping cross-legged onto the bench behind him.
“Yup.”
“I guess I should be glad I gave it back.”
“Yup.”
The drone zooms over the outside of the winding building, catching Trips’ dad as he parks. I’m about to tell RJ to pull up higher, but then he does, the man a speck on the screen. “Can you zoom in on the camera?” I ask, leaning over his shoulder.
“Yeah, give me a sec. It’s been a while since I’ve played with this thing.”
He toggles the camera out by accident, and a SUV comes into frame, a young woman with her hair in thick black and purple cornrows and a balding white man in a suit walking away from the vehicle.
The girl stumbles, and the man pulls her tight to his side.
Too tight, based on the girl slipping away like he’s a magnet going the wrong way.
Then RJ toggles the right control and zooms in on Trips’ dad as he strolls up the exterior stairs.
He looks like he’s visiting a courthouse with a briefcase in his hand and purpose in his step.
The unit he unlocks is smack dab in the middle of the complex, unassuming and easily confused with its neighbors. A great place to hide some pretty damning information.
Once the door closes, RJ lowers the drone until he’s got an angle where we can see the number, Jansen scratching it out on a piece of paper.
RJ zooms back up, and we wait, all of us knowing that we should verify this isn’t his only stop here.
But that’s it. Less than two minutes later, he’s back in his car, RJ tailing him with the drone until it’s clear he’s heading to the mansion.
“Well, that squashes the original plan,” Jansen says.
“We could move it all to a different location first,” RJ says.
I try to think through things the way Trips or Clara would. “What kind of security do we think is on that unit?”
“If it has what we think it does, a ton, but only digital. He wouldn’t want to risk a guard,” RJ says.
I slump. “You already have too much on your plate, RJ. We probably shouldn’t add anything else.”
Jansen pulls one knee under his chin, the black hair and black jeans still unfamiliar to me. “Does this really change the plan, though?” he asks.
“You want to torch the place?” RJ asks.
I lean against the wall of the van. “If we start a fire, the cops might search other units, find that makeshift hospital and ask questions. Maybe.”
“What about everybody else’s stuff?” RJ asks.
There’s a soft thud on the roof of the van, and RJ brings the drone back in, cold air sweeping past before he sets it on the desk to charge. “We could keep it contained. Probably,” he says, eyes closed.
Jansen folds himself into a pretzel on the bench, still thinking. “What if we torched the evidence, and started but then put out a fire by the med unit? I bet they’re both under the same name. That would make the cops curious, don’t you think?”
“What about Reed? Could we get him involved?” I ask RJ.
“He’s sex crimes.”
“He could be a little birdy to another division.”
Jansen tugs his hair, the action obviously a holdover from when he’d compulsively put his hair up and down. “We don’t want the top investigators, though, do we? Wouldn’t that put us at risk?”
“No. We do want cops Westerhouse hasn’t bought, though,” RJ points out.
“Let’s look into containment and the local PD,” I say, once again feeling like the leader, for all I don’t want the role.
Jansen pops to his feet. “I call fire,” he says.
“Don’t you dare become a pyro,” I warn.
Jansen waves me off as he hops out of the back, the icy wind sweeping in a few flakes of snow. “Tried it. Didn’t stick.” Then the old motor of the convertible kicks up, the screech of rubber making me flinch.
“Do you think he’ll get pulled over?” I ask.
RJ just looks at me, and I have no choice but to laugh.
“You’re right. Worry about the real problems.”
But once I’m back home, packing for the much-dreaded visit to my parents’ house, I realize I can’t even keep track of which risks are most likely to bring disaster anymore— they all are.