Desolate Mantle Page 20

  Bailey nodded. “Okay.” She started toward the body, and Gabe turned to Shaun.

  “Someone needs to give Kyra a ride out of here.”

  “Want me to ask one of the unies?”

  “Actually, I’d like to do it myself. It’s not far, and the fewer people who know where she is…”

  Shaun nodded thoughtfully. “Fine. Just come right back.”

  “Wait,” Tyke dug a small notepad and pen from his pocket and handed them to Kyra. “There is a bit of a crowd out there, now that it’s light. Keep your head down and pretend to make notes on the pad. Their eyes will slide over you like water. Just another cop.”

  Kyra gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Tyke.”

  Outside, the unies kept a perimeter around the warehouse. A small group of onlookers had gathered. Their eyes followed Gabe and Kyra when they first emerged, but slid back toward the open door of the warehouse, most moving around and going up on tip toe, trying to get a better view. Once safely in the car, Gabe pulled away without incident. A glance in his rear view mirror showed they’d already been forgotten.

  Kyra, of course, didn’t relax until he’d pulled into the parking lot of her hotel. Once the car was in park, she took a deep breath, and when she released it, all the tension leaked out of her shoulders.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “One of the stranger nights I’ve had since coming to Abstreuse—which is really saying something—but yes, I’m fine.”

  Gabe smiled.

  “Oh. Here.” She started to shrug out of the police jacket.

  “You can keep it,” he said.

  “Thanks, but even going into the hotel as myself, if I wear a police coat, people are sure to notice. I’d just as soon not draw the attention.”

  He helped ease the jacket off her shoulders, conscious of the soft feel of her skin beneath his fingers. She handed him the cap, using her fingers to shake out her hair so it hung loosely around her shoulders.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said, pulling her bag into her lap. “So I’ll…talk to you soon?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I should have something for you about the Carmichael district in a few days. Will you do me a favor, though? Give yourself a day or two to relax? Maybe don’t go out again for forty-eight hours?”

  She frowned. That upside-down triangle appeared between her eyes again.

  Gabe sighed. “This spooked you, Kyra. And rightly so. This kind of stress can take a toll. Give yourself some recuperation.”

  The wrinkle relaxed. A little. “I can’t promise not to go out again, Gabe. I have to find out who Jerome Dellaire is, remember? But,” she added quickly when he opened his mouth to protest. “I will promise to keep it low key. I’ll stay in places I’m familiar with, talk to people I know, try to gather information. I won’t try to go into the warehouse in the Carmichael district again until I hear from you. Promise.”

  After a moment, he nodded. It was the best he could hope for. “Thank you.”

  She gave him another tight smile before exiting the car. He watched her walk into the hotel, black bag slung over her shoulder. Shaking his head, he pulled out of the lot and headed back to the crime scene.

  ***

  The man with the gimp leg sat in the beat up VW van, rolling his Roman coin between his fingers as he watched the little woman get out of the detective’s sedan and enter the hotel. The face on the coin was only raised on one side. The other side of the face had been worn smooth. A bizarre kind of stroke victim.

  The hotel was more upscale than he’d expected, though not posh. He’d known for a while now that she had some kind of secret haven. The entire purpose of tonight had been to figure out where it was. Granted, he didn’t know which room she occupied, but the details wouldn’t be hard to discover.

  The detective’s sedan pulled out of the lot. The man in the VW van didn’t follow. No need.

  His plan had gone off without a hitch. He’d killed the woman—a pathetic addict who’d offered her revolting body to him in return for the fix he’d lied about having, and then begged him not to hurt her. Stupid bitch—posed the body in the warehouse, left the door open, and gone looking for the woman who called herself Supra. He knew where she’d be. She’d had her eyes on the Pit in the Carmichael district for some time, observing it often. She obviously didn’t know what went on there, but the man didn’t care about that, either. He could appreciate the activities the Pit housed, but he took no part in them.

  He did care what this Supra was up to, and if she represented a threat. He’d paid one of his people to run past her, knowing her curious nature and hoping she’d take the bait. She had. And now he knew where she stayed.

  Lifting sunglasses he didn’t need from his eyes—he’d used them mostly to hide his appearance; gray clouds covered the sky today—the man in VW van pocketed his gold coin and pulled out of the hotel parking lot. Knowing where the little woman hid was the first step in discovering more about who she was. Only then would he know whether he needed to kill her.

  Chapter 15

  Kyra sighed and shifted her position for the fifth time in an hour. The sun wasn’t yet down, but the pavement already felt icy. It wasn’t the temperature of the hard surface that bothered her, so much as its inflexibility. Every muscle in her body felt both stiff and numb at the same time. She longed to stretch or exercise. After sixteen hours in the same five by five space, no position brought relief. She willed the darkness to come on faster.

  After Gabe dropped her at her hotel, she’d showered and slept for twelve hours, waking as night fell. She hadn’t left the hotel until after midnight, when there would be the least chance of being seen. Then Kyra made her way back to the Carmichael district, feeling only somewhat guilty. She’d promised Gabe she wouldn’t approach or try to enter the warehouse until he knew more, but she hadn’t actually promised to stay away. Plus, she’d flat out told him she wouldn’t stay in the hotel for two days, so she truly wasn’t breaking her word by going back.

  She’d stuffed her bag full of food, an extra blanket, and a small notepad to record observations and times. That way, she could go back and analyze things afterward. She suspected she might end up using it to doodle the time away if she got bored. That was okay with her. Whatever it took, she wanted to observe the warehouse for twenty-four hours. If she could get some idea of what happened there during the day, it might shed some light on what was happening at night.

  She’d found the perfect spot around 2 a.m. A dusty, narrow crevice between two buildings ended in an opening small enough to be easily concealed with a splintered wooden pallet she’d found nearby. Peeking out of the narrow triangle between the pallet and the brick wall, she had the perfect view of the warehouse. The warehouse loomed far enough away that hers wasn’t exactly a front row seat, but the crevice gazed out on a long stretch of road and two blocks down, she had a clear view of the most-used door. She’d come armed with binoculars and a disguise—different from that of Supra—so she could venture out every so often. Her disguise consisted of a braided red wig and enough makeup to make her eyes look gaunt. For clothing, she’d worn a pair of dirty jeans and a worn cotton top. If she staggered around enough, she’d look like a drunk prostitute. No one would recognize her.

  It occurred to her that if Gabe knew she was posing as a prostitute—sort of—he’d pitch a fit. He wouldn’t be wrong, what with the killer targeting prostitutes and all, but it wasn’t as though she’d be working street corners in the getup.

  She’d nestled into the hiding spot, pulled the wooden pallet up in front of it, and waited. The night passed slowly, with nothing of note happening. She didn’t see or hear a single person or creature before the sun came up. Not even any of the little groups of junkies being led in. Though, admittedly when she’d seen them before, it had been well before midnight.

  Once the sun did rise, things weren’t much better. Very little activity took place in the area, nothing like K or M Street. Every so often a vehic
le would pass by. Every couple of hours, the door of the warehouse would open and shut. Men dressed like the guards who’d chased Kyra through the city twice now would enter or exit. But that was it. That, and the occasional tumbleweed blowing in the wind. No Mirelings were taken into the warehouse in the daylight. And, to her chagrin, none came out, either. She’d been careful enough in her observations to know they weren’t using the back entrances for anything. So, either there was some kind of secret underground tunnel—she glanced back into the darkness of the crevice she inhabited and shivered—or the Mirelings going in simply weren’t coming out.

  Kyra came out of her hiding place twice as the day wore on. Once in the early morning, right after the sun came up, and again not long before noon. Both times she staggered around the block, mimicking a still-drunk partier who’d gotten lost trying to get home. Neither time did she meet anyone or observe anything of note.

  The only exciting incident happened in mid-afternoon, when voices approached the crevice. Two men walked down the street, passing right in front of her hiding place. They were talking about where to find more product, of all things. They dressed like the guards employed at the warehouse, and a dog on a leash walked with them. A pathetic, droopy little thing that looked like a cross between a beagle and a wiener dog.

  “What about M street,” one of the two asked. His voice was nasally and dirt caked the bottom two inches of his pants.

  “I don’t know,” second said. His voice was deeper, his calves thinner. “There’s a lot of working people on M Street. Don’t know if it would be the kind we’re looking for.”

  “Probably better looking, though,” Filthy Pants said, and they both laughed, while Kyra frowned. “I still say we should case the nicer neighborhoods. Surely some of them leave doors unlocked or windows open.”

  “Just because people live in the nice neighborhoods doesn’t mean they don’t lock their doors,” Skinny Calves said. “They live close to here, and they know it. They lock up tight.”

  They’d passed her crevice. The dog hadn’t. To her horror, the dog looked directly at the pallet concealing her and pulled back on his leash, barking.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Filthy Pants said gruffly, pulling on the chain. “Damn mutt.” The dog yanked back harder, the barking becoming desperate.

  “Barking at the pallet, I think,” Skinny Calves said. “Maybe there’s a rat behind it.”

  They paused, and for one horrific moment, Kyra feared they’d move the pallet to see what the dog was barking at. Filthy Pants yanked on the dog’s leash hard enough to make the animal yelp. The man muttered something about stupid dogs. Their conversation about ‘product’ resumed, and the dog followed behind without complaint.

  As soon as Kyra got her heart rate under control, she jotted down some notes about the conversation. She couldn’t wrap her head around what they’d been talking about. By product, she’d assumed they meant drugs or some kind of substance. Why would they dismiss M Street as a potential buying ground? M Street was the place to buy drugs in the Slip Mire. And what had that been about casing the nicer houses? Why would it even be a viable option? Not that respectable people didn’t have secret drug habits, but it wasn’t as if they in plain sight for someone to just come in and take.

  She wracked her brain for what kind of ‘product’ wouldn’t come from M Street, but would be found in the “nicer” houses—clean furniture? Well-used showers? Healthy living books?—but came up empty.

  After that, she felt too jittery to leave her hiding place again. As sunset drew near, she donned her Supra disguise so that when she left her hideout, she could walk the streets freely. She’d learned nothing of much import, and she decided to get closer to the warehouse before she left, firmly pushing the image of Gabe’s disapproving glare from her mind. Perhaps she would see something important that would convince her the last sixteen hours of observation hadn’t been a complete waste.

  Then she’d head back down to M Street. She still had no idea who Jerome Dellaire was, but surely someone knew the name. She had to keep trying.

  Even after full darkness, Kyra waited another hour before emerging. There was no noise, no movement. Nothing stirred in this part of town. Echoes of voices floated on the wind from several blocks over, but nothing close by. Gathering up her things, she moved the pallet as carefully as possible, and stepped out. A look in each direction showed only an empty street. Shrugging into the straps of her pack, she headed for the warehouse. She would pass two alleys on her right before reaching it.

  Half-way to the first opening, she became conscious of footsteps behind her. How long had they been there? She was just suddenly aware of them, and wondered if they’d followed her from the crevice. Had they seen her come out of it?

  Kyra quickened her steps. The footfalls behind her sped up too. A lot. Whoever followed was coming at a dead run. She glanced over her shoulder, even as she broke into a sprint. A large, dark silhouette barreled toward her. Far too late in picking up speed, she cried out as the shadow tackled her against the brick wall on her right. The brick slammed into her back, driving the air from her lungs.

  The figure held her easily against the brick, no matter how she struggled. Then, a raspy voice in her ear. “I knew something was strange about that mutt’s behavior this afternoon.” The voice belonged to Skinny Calves. And Skinny Calves was Dorner, Jenkins’ side kick on most nights. Dorner always looked thin and frail next to Jenkins’ beefy form, but he towered over Kyra. “He never reacts that way to other animals. Only people. Time for you to explain, Girlie. And it had better be good.”

  “I…” Kyra struggled to breathe while also keeping her head. “…N-needed a place to sleep. Don’t have…anywhere else to—”

  “And yet you waited until night to come out. You have a clear view of the warehouse from there, and now you’re headed toward it.” He flipped her around, slamming her face first against the brick and pressing his body weight up against her. At first, she thought he would do something sexual, but he simply anchored her against the brick so he could tie her hands behind her back. The side of her face that smashed into the brick was numb. Something warm oozed down her cheek.

  “What…you doing?” she managed.

  “You want to know something about that warehouse? I’ll show you first hand.” He got her hands tied, then ran his hand down her side, over her hip. “You, my dear, are prime, top-choice product.” His hands slipped downward, headed toward her thighs. She didn’t let him get that far. Employing the only move she’d retained her from childhood karate classes, she spun on her toe, twisting her knee inward and slammed her hip into him. He was off balance leaning against her and the hip thrust knocked him backward. His hands went out to the sides like would-be chicken wings and he flapped them, trying to keep his balance. It didn’t work. The next second sat down hard on his butt on the pavement.

  On the other side of the alley, the brick stuck out sharply, in broken, jagged pieces. She couldn’t see what he’d tied her hands with, but it didn’t feel like rope. Or zip tie. She thought it might be some kind of twine. It was too strong for her to break on her own, but it wouldn’t stand up to anything sharp. As soon as she wiggled free of Dorner, she lunged toward the jagged brick, whipped around, and rubbed her tied wrists furiously against it, hoping the twine would simply snap. It didn’t. She rubbed against the sharp brick again and again, scratching the hell out of her wrists.

  Dorner, meanwhile, had gotten to his feet. He clutched something dark and heavy-looking in his hand. It might have been a gun, except he didn’t point it at her. As he stalked toward her, depraved anger in his thin face, he hefted it like a stone to be heaved. Kyra rubbed her wrists harder. He pulled his arm behind him, winding up. He was going to smash her head in with whatever he held.

  When his hand was less than a foot from her face, the twine snapped.

  Kyra let her legs give out, landing on her backside while not six inches overhead, Dorner’s club connected with the
brick. Shrapnel rained down on her. Kyra hesitated only an instant before lunging onto all fours and scurrying out from under him. Three yards away, she fought to her feet. He tackled her. The pavement bit into her palms and forearms as she skidded forward. She stopped struggling long enough to pull her gun from its holster under her arm.

  When he flipped her onto her back, she pointed the gun at his chest and fired. At the last second he lunged to the left. The bullet tore through the meaty part of his arm. Cursing, his weight fell to the left, as though the weight of the wound dragged him to the ground. Kyra kicked and wiggled madly, eventually fighting her way out from under him. Thick fingers dug into her back, grabbing a handful of her shirt. She dug her feet into the hard pavement, running in place, but got nowhere. Slamming down onto all fours, she pivoted onto one knee and kicked hard, connecting solidly with something. She didn’t see what. Dorner cried out. More importantly, he let go. Kyra lunged to her feet and ran, though her right ankle twinged each time she put weight on it, causing her to limp. Her arms and right thigh and face all felt fiery.

  Gunfire did follow her, then. Bullets ricocheted off bricks beside her as she ran. Keep running, Kyra. Don’t let them catch you. Just keep running. So much for her promise to Gabe to stay out of trouble.

  Chapter 16

  Gabe slammed his front door harder than strictly necessary. It made him feel marginally better. His shift had been busy. Despite working as fast as he could all night, he felt like he’d gotten exactly zilch accomplished. At least it was over.

  He needed to call Kyra to tell her what he’d learned about the warehouse in the Carmichael district. He would do that later tonight after he’d slept. Depositing his keys and the mail he’d snatched moodily from his box onto the table, he headed for his bedroom. He glanced down the hall before striding through his bedroom door, and froze. Stepping back and putting his weight on his back foot, he starred down the hall toward the back door.