“Guard!” He raised his voice, suddenly impatient. “I want Reece, and I want him here now.”
* * *
Reece lived on the other side of Charlotte. His arrival took time. When it finally happened, the same guard led him down the corridor. “Your appellate lawyer is here.”
X had no appellate lawyer—he’d never leave prison alive—but he did enjoy the small fictions. “Wait upstairs.”
The guard turned and left. Behind him, Reece appeared as he always had: narrow-shouldered and thin, with a wisp of beard on a face that could be forty-five or sixty-five. Deep lines cut the corners of his mouth, and his skin had a chalky cast that X associated with a great-grandfather he’d known as a boy. That’s where any impression of agedness ended. Reece was as vicious and quick as any predator X could imagine. Over seventeen years, he’d earned enough money from X to buy mansions and fund a dozen retirements. There was no affection between them, but X knew what Reece could do, the things he liked to do. Of every fixer X had on the outside, Reece was the one he trusted most. Even so, X could not hide his frustration. “It’s not like you to be late.”
“I was out when the call came in. I left as soon as I got the message.”
“What time is it now?”
“Three a.m. I’m sorry. I truly would have been here sooner.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been impatient.” X accepted the excuse, nodding. “Any problems out there that I should know about?”
“Smooth as glass.” Reece slid his palm across an imaginary pane. He meant payoffs, threats, the parolee whose car they’d burned as a reminder to keep his mouth shut. “What do you need from me now?”
X told Reece what he’d learned from Willamette: the prison bus, the car, the people in the car.
“You’re sure it was Jason French?”
“Willamette was convincing.”
“You want me to find him?”
“Finding Jason is only the start.” X explained what else he wanted. He offered specifics, and Reece took a few moments to play it out in his mind. “Why does Willamette care about this girl?”
“Why does anyone care?”
“She’s brunette?”
“Young. Attractive.”
“I’m glad you called me for this.”
“I thought of no one but you.” That was true. Reece had certain desires that made him predictable. Supporting those desires made him dependable in a way that money alone never could.
“How soon?” Reece asked.
“As soon as possible.”
Reece removed a pen and pad, all business. “Can you confirm the plate number for me?”
X gave him the number again. “Sixty-six Mustang, maroon with whitewall tires and minor rust on two fenders.”
Reece jotted down the license number. “Give me her full description.”
X described the brunette as Willamette had. Facial features. Skin tone. Height and build. “He puts her age at twenty-seven.”
“What about the blonde?”
“Just the brunette.”
Reece looked at his watch, and frowned. “The sun will be up in a few hours. Give me a couple days.”
“Today,” X said. “Today would be better.”
* * *
Reece found the car easily enough—with X’s resources at his disposal, there was never a question—but it didn’t belong to the girl. The kid who owned it was a good-looking kid, but that was no surprise, either. He looked like Jason French. Following him from one place to another made Reece sick to his stomach: the hair and the suntan, the strong arm, hooked in the open window. Reece had no illusions about his hatred of people like Jason and his little brother. The world came to people like that, and Reece had to take what he wanted. In high school, he’d heard every insult.
Hey, little man …
Hey, pencil-dick …
The pencil-dick thing had been tough.
Gym class, communal showers …
One girl, in particular, had teased Reece mercilessly. Jessica Bruce. She’d been his first.
The memory was fond enough to stir a host of others.
Jessica …
Allison …
That Asian girl at McDonald’s …
The cashier who’d rolled her eyes when Reece asked for her number …
It helped time pass, but the boy didn’t make Reece’s job any easier. He went to school, hung out with some other kid. He bought candy, played pinball, did normal stuff that did not involve a five-foot-three, pale-breasted brunette, aged approximately twenty-seven. A moment’s interest rose around dusk when the kid drove into the city, and parked where expensive condos met an immaculate street. Reece watched him approach a door, hesitate, and then leave before ringing the bell. The moment felt significant, but Reece wasn’t convinced until he followed the kid home, then returned alone. Nothing about the condo said teenage kid. Too much money. Too much style. Curtains were drawn inside, but Reece waited as people came home from work, and streetlights snapped on. For three hours, he watched the cars, the foot traffic, the condominium.
He smoked a cigarette.
He was used to waiting.
At midnight, a van rolled up, and a tall, broad-shouldered hippie got out on the other side, flipping long hair as he walked to the passenger door. Reece wanted to hurt him on principle, but what mattered was the girl who spilled out when the hippie opened her door. She stumbled, laughing. The hippie caught her, and held her against the van, kissing her with one hand on a breast and the other up her skirt. She pushed him away, but didn’t mean it. He kissed her again, and groped her again, then half-carried her up the steps, where they fumbled with keys and each other, but managed the door, and went inside. Reece frowned, but was happy.
The girl was five-three, brunette, and every bit of twenty-seven years.
She was also very pretty.
That was a bonus.
9
Tyra slept late, woke to the sound of rain, and used both hands to hold her skull together. Curtains made a gray square in the dimness, and she imagined cool, wet rain, the patter of it on her face. It didn’t help. Curling into a ball, Tyra tried to stitch together the pieces of her night. She’d argued with Sara—nothing new—then stormed out, angry. That was early. Then what? Happy hour at the Tiki Lounge? That seemed right. Then pizza at Shakey’s, down the block, and ladies’ night at some club downtown. She remembered an empty dance floor, a seriously hot bartender, and some old guy making a play from the stool beside her. She had visions of cab rides and other dance floors and other bars. Eventually, she remembered the dude.
“Oh shit, the dude…”
That’s what she’d called him. He had a name, but it was something vanilla like Alex or Winston or Brad. He’d introduced himself with a name and a drink, and she’d said, Thanks, dude. He’d been tall—she remembered that—a tall guy with Jesus hair, a silk shirt, and something like a bearskin rug on his chest. After four tequila shots, Tyra had run fingers through that rug, and said, Dude … Later, there’d been dancing and kissing, a blur of streetlights from a van with shag carpet on the dash. It was a dude’s van. She remembered saying it. Dude, this is a dude’s van. She’d said the same word when he pumped up Jimi Hendrix, and when he lit a joint, and when he ran off the road trying to make the turn for Dairy Queen. It seemed the word had been her language last night. She’d laughed it, and said it soft, and panted it twice when he went downtown, her fingers curled in all that hair. Dude, dude …