The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(81)

Caitlin looked to Pixie. “They’re smart enough not to make Jennifer bleed, but they very much want to interrogate her. To that end, Chicago is loaning them a torture specialist.”

“How much time do we have?” Pixie asked her.

“Precious little.”

“We’ve got two jobs,” I said. “First, track down Cesar Gallegos and make him give Jennifer back. Second, find the Chicago delegation and take them out.”

Bentley raised a frail finger.

“Dealing with one problem,” he said, “will easily solve the other. If Cesar is already planning to meet with these outsiders, he’ll know where they’re going to be. An ambush would be simple enough.”

I nodded. “Agreed, so let’s focus on Gallegos.”

“Gabriel would know where to find him, right?” Pixie asked. “I mean, if we went and told him that his right-hand man’s a traitor, wouldn’t he help us?”

“The problem there,” I said, “is we don’t know who else in the Calles is dirty. Jen converted an entire tenement by the airport into an urban fortress. If we walk in there, we might not walk out again if we say the wrong thing to the wrong person. And no matter what, word would get back to Cesar that the jig is up. He might kill Jennifer before we can get to him.”

“Could we catch Gabriel alone somewhere and talk to him in private?”

“The guy runs one of the biggest street gangs in Las Vegas. I guarantee he’s never alone. And if his number-two man’s turned traitor on him, it’s possible his bodyguards have turned too.” I paused, a thought occurring to me. I snapped my fingers. “But I think I know someone, someone outside the Calles, who might be able to tell us where Cesar hangs out. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“And in the meantime?” Corman asked.

“Just sit tight for now. I need to see this guy alone. He’s going to be hard to deal with.” I paused, looking around the room, suddenly sheepish. “And, uh, could I borrow somebody’s car? Mine’s impounded and I can’t reclaim it because I’m kinda legally dead right now.”

“Take a taxi.” Caitlin handed me a couple of twenty-dollar bills. “No driving until the doctor says otherwise.”

Pixie followed me to the door, keeping a safe distance. She didn’t speak up until we were both out on the sidewalk, wrapped in a cool night breeze.

“Hey,” she said.

I paused and looked back at her.

“Hey yourself.”

“I was really mad at you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at the sidewalk. “When you wouldn’t let me help, going after Damien Ecko. I mean I was really, really mad.”

“You had every right to be.”

She looked up at me, frowning.

“That was some patronizing bullshit, you know that? I’m a grown woman. I don’t need to be protected from the consequences of my own decisions.”

I shrugged. “True.”

Pixie stubbed the toe of her sneaker against the sidewalk. She sighed.

“Then, on the flight home, I kept thinking about what you said to me. About not getting blood on my hands if I didn’t have to. About how once you go down that road, you can’t come back. And…I think you’re right. I don’t want to be like you. I don’t ever want it to be easy to hurt somebody.”

I didn’t answer. She needed to talk. I just needed to listen.

“I left town for a few days. Went to the coast, just to get my head clear. I sat on the beach. Thought about staying there, just…never coming back. But I kept thinking about Coop. Margaux said you took down Stanwyck, but Ecko got away.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “we did our best. We didn’t figure he had a warehouse filled with living mummies in crates. In retrospect, probably should have seen that coming. But look, Pix, nobody’s giving up. Ecko’s the most wanted man in the western United States right now. When he pokes his head out of hiding—and he will, eventually—I’m going after him with everything I’ve got.”

“And that’s why I came back,” Pixie said.

“For Damien Ecko?”

“For Coop. Because he was my friend, and until Ecko pays for what he—what he did to him, I can’t rest. I’m not asking to be in on the kill, Faust. You’re right, I don’t need blood on my hands. I don’t want it. But when it comes to the hunt? You call me.”

I gave her a tired smile.

“I wouldn’t call anybody else.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Now let’s get Jennifer back, huh?”

“On it,” I told her. “I just have to pay a visit to an old friend.”

*

“Friend” was probably the wrong choice of words. At least that’d be my guess given the look on his face when Gary Kemper, Las Vegas Metro detective, walked through the door of his studio apartment and found me sitting on his couch.

“No,” he said, clutching the grocery bags in his arms, “no, no, no. This can’t be f*cking happening.”

His backup piece, a .22 I’d found hidden in his nightstand, dangled easy in my hand. I didn’t point it at him; it was just there to keep the conversation civil.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It’s happening.”