The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(84)

“You have a concussion.”

I couldn’t quite parse that.

“And?”

“And,” she said, gently pushing me onto my back, “the doctor’s orders were quite clear. No unnecessary physical exertion.”

“He didn’t mean sex.”

“I’m quite certain he did.”

“He could not possibly,” I said, “have meant sex.”

She rolled onto her side, facing me, and flipped her hair back with a toss of her head.

“Daniel,” she said. “Are you claiming that having sex with me is not physically exerting?”

She had me there.

“I’ve been in prison,” I said, trying a different tack. “All those long, lonely nights. I have needs, you know.”

“You were in prison for two weeks, not two years, and I need you to not die. In ten days, once the doctor says you’re in the clear, we will have a very lovely—and vigorous—evening. Now get some sleep.”

Somehow, I managed. For a fleeting handful of hours, anyway, before the alarm clock flipped to 6:00 a.m. and a shrill electronic whine hit me like a mustang kick to the skull. Aching, coasting on a wave of nausea, I trudged to the bathroom and tried to make myself pass for a functional human being.

Back at the Scrivener’s Nook, Pixie was ready for action and lugging a hard black plastic case about the size of a bowling-ball bag. As I walked in, she passed me a slim Samsung phone.

“Here,” she said, “figured you’d need a fresh burner.”

I did. The first number I called was the one on Detective Kemper’s business card. Gary picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” I said. “Any word?”

“My guys are canvassing the streets. This a good number?”

“Good for now,” I told him.

He hung up. We weren’t waiting for long. Maybe fifteen minutes later, the phone buzzed and lit up in my hand.

“Got him,” Gary said. “You know the taqueria on South Decatur? He’s at a table in the back with some of his homeboys. What now?”

“We’re on our way. Hang back, okay? We don’t want to spook him.”

He let out a disgusted-sounding snort. “I’m not leaving, if that’s what you want. If you break your word and start shooting up the place, I’ll be on you in two seconds flat.”

I hung up the phone. A minute later he sent me a grainy photo, snapped from under a nearby table in the restaurant. Five guys hung out at a corner booth, laughing, openly flashing Calles ink on their arms and rocking yellow and brown bandannas. “Gallegos is the skinny one, second from the left,” read a follow-up text.

“All right,” I said, “we need to keep a low profile for this. Pix, it’s you and me. Everybody else, stay by your phones and be ready to move fast.”

*

Caitlin lent us the keys to her Audi. Well, she lent Pixie the keys, pointedly telling her not to let me drive.

“He’s had a head injury,” she said.

Pixie gave me a sidelong glance. “That explains so much.”

Even with Pixie at the wheel, we broke speed records getting across town. The taqueria was styled like an old Spanish mission on the outside, with white stucco walls and clay shingles the color of fresh salmon. As we cruised by, I spotted Cesar and his boys in the back booth. Spotted Gary Kemper, too, passing for a casual diner with a low-slung ball cap and keeping a sharp eye on the place.

“What’d you bring?” My hands rested on the black case on my lap. “A microphone?”

“Even better,” she said.

Pixie pulled the car around the side of the restaurant, squinted, then kept going. We ended up around back, pulling in next to an overstuffed Dumpster.

“Getting a little close there, aren’t you?” I said as the front bumper nearly brushed dirty stucco. “This is Caitlin’s car, remember.”

“Limited range. We need to be within ten meters. I think this is just about right.”

I handed her the case. She clicked open the plastic hasps. Inside, another black box rested on a fuzzy felt tray. It was about the size of a claymore mine, and she handled it just as gingerly as she closed the case, set the box upright on the lid, and swiveled up a stubby antenna. A red light flickered on the side, then turned blue.

“Hold this,” she said, handing me the box, “and keep it steady.” Then she reached into the backseat and grabbed her laptop, booting it up.

“What is it?”

“That,” she said as a waterfall of luminous blue text flooded her screen, “is called a femtocell. It’s basically a miniature cell phone tower in a box. Short range but very, very nifty. Hand me that burner I gave you.”

She studied my phone for a minute, keying in digits with her right hand while she typed on the laptop with her left.

“Cell phones are designed to connect to the closest tower,” she explained. “Which, for every phone within ten meters, is now this one. There’s no permission request, no warning. You can’t even tell it’s happening. Which is fine, assuming the femtocell hasn’t been, say, compromised by a creative hacker.”

“And this one has?” I asked.

By way of response, she handed the phone back to me and tapped on the screen. I had a text message waiting. Well, I didn’t.