The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(69)

She said she kept tracking his phone, but it was still in the same place on Jackson Street, even though she’d called the restaurant and Billy had left a couple of hours ago.

Cantor paid the check and said he’d drive me and worry about coming back for my car later.

“Not sure this is a police matter. At least not yet.”

“Think of me as a concerned Wolves fan,” Cantor said, “one who might be able to help out a little more than most in a situation like this.”

I called Ryan back when we were in Cantor’s car and put him on speaker.

“We had a deal, Billy and me,” Ryan said, “one I didn’t tell you about. He had to call me every night at nine o’clock, and then at eleven, whether he was at home with Amanda or not. If he was out, he had to tell me where he was and who he was with.”

“Makes you sound like a parole officer,” Cantor said.

“Wait,” Ryan said. “Who’s with you, Jenny?”

“Detective Ben Cantor. San Francisco Police Department.”

“Oh, right,” Ryan said over the speaker. “You’re the cop.”

I saw Cantor grin.

“Well, I’m a cop.”

“So Billy didn’t call tonight when he was supposed to,” I said.

“Nope. I gave myself half an hour or so, hoping he just forgot, before I called Amanda.”

Ryan sighed audibly.

“I called the restaurant myself. They told me what they told Amanda—that he was long gone and that nobody had found a phone he might have left behind.”

“If he got lucky and found a parking space out front,” Cantor said, “maybe he left the phone in the car.”

“Had Billy ever missed one of his nightly calls?” I said to Ryan.

“Not one time since we signed him.”

“When was the last time you spoke to the wife?” Cantor said.

“Right after I called Jenny.”

I told Ryan we’d see him when we got there. About a minute later, my phone rang again. I didn’t even look at the screen this time, just assumed it was Ryan calling back.

“This is Jenny,” I said.

There was silence at the other end, until I finally heard a muffled voice say, “This is Money.”

I immediately put the call on speaker.

“Billy, are you all right?”

“No,” he said before the line went dead.





Eighty-Two



CANTOR DROVE VERY FAST.

He said driving this way through the streets of San Francisco was one of the perks of his job, along with being able to badge his way into Wolves games any time he wanted to.

“Wait—you did that even before you met me?”

“Only if it was a particularly big game.”

Ryan was waiting for us in front of the restaurant. Cantor parked next to a hydrant.

“Billy just called me,” I said.

“Where is he?” Ryan said.

“He didn’t say.”

“How did he sound?”

“Not good.”

Ryan said, “We’ve got a game in thirty-six hours.”

“I’m aware.”

Cantor said, “Let’s find him first and then worry about that.”

“I’m a coach,” Ryan said.

“I’m aware,” Cantor said.

“Maybe the whole thing was too good to be true,” Ryan said.

Another incoming call.

“Billy?” I said.

His voice sounded weaker than before.

“Sorry…I got a little sick while I was talking to you.”

“Try to figure out where you are, and Coach and I will come get you.”

“Still Chinatown…pretty sure.”

“Where in Chinatown? Can you get to a window and look outside and give us some kind of landmark?”

Another silence. I was afraid the phone had gone dead again.

“’Kay,” he said.

He’d put my number in his phone the day I met him. I’d done the same with his. I never thought he’d need it like this. Or maybe I did.

I had him on speaker. We all stood there staring at my phone.

“Money,” Ryan yelled. “Where the hell are you?”

We all waited.

“Across from where I ate,” Billy McGee said finally.

Ryan said, “Are you at a window right now?”

“Yeah…but feel like I might be sick again.”

I said, “When you look outside, what do you see?”

A long pause. I thought he had gone off to be sick again.

“You guys,” he said.

We finally spotted him in a third-floor window across the street, waving feebly at us with one hand, the other to his face, shirtless, his chest and arms covered with all his tattoos, before he disappeared.

The three of us ran across Jackson and through an open door into an ancient brownstone, up the stairs to the third floor, yelling Billy’s name when we got up there.

Nothing at first.

Then: “Here.”

His voice was coming from 3F, a few feet up the hallway on our right.

I went in first, Ryan and Cantor right behind me. We all stopped when we had eyes on Billy McGee.