Hoben and Matlal this evening. Having Hoben out on the street was making me twitchy, as if I was in crosshairs all the time. I needed to bring Hoben down, and for that I needed Larry’s intel to be gold.
If he was on the level, I wanted somewhere safe for him, somewhere Hoben and Matlal wouldn’t think to look, and one without an obvious connection to me. And if he wasn’t, I didn’t want him to have access to anyone I cared about. At this short notice, the list of possibilities came down to two.
The first option I looked at was Mykayla’s apartment, just across the interstate from Yale station. She’d moved to Haven after the ZK attack, but the rent was likely paid up and it wouldn’t occur to anybody to look for Larry there. I drove around the back of the two-story building, into the dirt parking lot. The rusted pickups were in exactly the same place, but the ZK motorcycles were all gone of course. There had been blood in the dirt when I’d finished, but that was gone too.
The door to the stairs was still broken. It screeched loudly as I pushed it open. I’d last seen the stairs and landing full of ZK bikers, trying to break into Mykayla’s apartment and carry out the gang rape they’d threatened when she’d refused to tell them what little she knew about Bian and me. Tullah had barricaded the door and I’d arrived just in time.
The apartment door had been replaced. I guessed the landlord had been around, made the minimum repairs, and was probably trying to rent the place out. Mykayla certainly wasn’t coming back. The place didn’t feel right anyway; the neighbors were too close and there were limited ways in and out. I headed back out and drove to Aurora.
My next option was a real ‘hide in plain sight.’ The small house in Aurora had been owned by the truck driver that had headed up the ZK drug smuggling logistics, Guy Windler. He’d escaped when I’d busted the operation, but he’d died here when one of Matlal’s lieutenants decided Windler knew too much and tidied up the loose ends. By ripping his chest open and tearing his heart out.
The place still had yellow police tape around it, but they’d finished with it a long time ago. It was risky, but it had more ways in and out than Mykayla’s apartment, and no one immediately responsible for it. It’d probably not be looked at for six months or more, and Hoben wouldn’t think to come here. And the neighbors weren’t the curious kind, on this street.
It still stank of death, but Larry would just have to put up with that.
The Quinns lived on the fifth floor of an apartment building, a couple of blocks east of Cheesman Park. Niall Quinn had been a close friend of my dad, and for his sake, I’d help them any way I could.
I parked and looked up at the sage-colored building. It had a strange ridged front, like the corrugated panel of a shipping container. On the side, each apartment had a wide balcony with iron railings that made me think of prison bars.
I called the number and Niall answered. “Mr. Quinn, hi. It’s Amber Farrell.”
“Ah. Oh, yes. Hello, Amber.”
“Is this a bad time? I’m just across the road, but I can come back.”
He dithered. Clearly, this wasn’t the best time, but he invited me up anyway and buzzed me through the entrance.
It was a shock to see how he had aged since I’d last seen him, at Dad’s funeral. His pale hair had thinned to translucent wisps and his pink face was lined with worries. He had put on a sizeable belly as well, but worst of all was his movement. I remembered him as our softball coach, racing around the field, and now every step was careful, every motion slow and considered.
I refused a drink and managed to embarrass him by helping him into his seat in the living room. A couple of walking sticks rested against the wall nearby.
“Well, Mr. Quinn, how can I help?” I said, after we had the usual old family friend preliminaries out of the way.
“Niall, please,” he replied,
If he was on the level, I wanted somewhere safe for him, somewhere Hoben and Matlal wouldn’t think to look, and one without an obvious connection to me. And if he wasn’t, I didn’t want him to have access to anyone I cared about. At this short notice, the list of possibilities came down to two.
The first option I looked at was Mykayla’s apartment, just across the interstate from Yale station. She’d moved to Haven after the ZK attack, but the rent was likely paid up and it wouldn’t occur to anybody to look for Larry there. I drove around the back of the two-story building, into the dirt parking lot. The rusted pickups were in exactly the same place, but the ZK motorcycles were all gone of course. There had been blood in the dirt when I’d finished, but that was gone too.
The door to the stairs was still broken. It screeched loudly as I pushed it open. I’d last seen the stairs and landing full of ZK bikers, trying to break into Mykayla’s apartment and carry out the gang rape they’d threatened when she’d refused to tell them what little she knew about Bian and me. Tullah had barricaded the door and I’d arrived just in time.
The apartment door had been replaced. I guessed the landlord had been around, made the minimum repairs, and was probably trying to rent the place out. Mykayla certainly wasn’t coming back. The place didn’t feel right anyway; the neighbors were too close and there were limited ways in and out. I headed back out and drove to Aurora.
My next option was a real ‘hide in plain sight.’ The small house in Aurora had been owned by the truck driver that had headed up the ZK drug smuggling logistics, Guy Windler. He’d escaped when I’d busted the operation, but he’d died here when one of Matlal’s lieutenants decided Windler knew too much and tidied up the loose ends. By ripping his chest open and tearing his heart out.
The place still had yellow police tape around it, but they’d finished with it a long time ago. It was risky, but it had more ways in and out than Mykayla’s apartment, and no one immediately responsible for it. It’d probably not be looked at for six months or more, and Hoben wouldn’t think to come here. And the neighbors weren’t the curious kind, on this street.
It still stank of death, but Larry would just have to put up with that.
The Quinns lived on the fifth floor of an apartment building, a couple of blocks east of Cheesman Park. Niall Quinn had been a close friend of my dad, and for his sake, I’d help them any way I could.
I parked and looked up at the sage-colored building. It had a strange ridged front, like the corrugated panel of a shipping container. On the side, each apartment had a wide balcony with iron railings that made me think of prison bars.
I called the number and Niall answered. “Mr. Quinn, hi. It’s Amber Farrell.”
“Ah. Oh, yes. Hello, Amber.”
“Is this a bad time? I’m just across the road, but I can come back.”
He dithered. Clearly, this wasn’t the best time, but he invited me up anyway and buzzed me through the entrance.
It was a shock to see how he had aged since I’d last seen him, at Dad’s funeral. His pale hair had thinned to translucent wisps and his pink face was lined with worries. He had put on a sizeable belly as well, but worst of all was his movement. I remembered him as our softball coach, racing around the field, and now every step was careful, every motion slow and considered.
I refused a drink and managed to embarrass him by helping him into his seat in the living room. A couple of walking sticks rested against the wall nearby.
“Well, Mr. Quinn, how can I help?” I said, after we had the usual old family friend preliminaries out of the way.
“Niall, please,” he replied,
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