The Second Life of Nick Mason (Nick Mason #1)(26)

Mason wanted to take his gloves off to wash his hands and to feel the cold water against his face. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew he had to get out of there and not leave a trace.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe and move.

And don’t make any stupid mistakes.

He took one of the towels and held it against his eye. Then he took a quick look around the room. He couldn’t quite figure out what was missing until it finally came to him. There was no luggage in the room. The man checked in and he was sitting here, watching the television, but he had no luggage.

He was waiting for someone, Mason thought. Someone who could be here at any moment.

Mason put the gun in his jacket pocket. He gave the room one more quick look and that’s when he saw the man’s billfold, sitting on the bed.

He saw the glint of silver.

He went closer. He looked down at the star. There was no need to pick it up. No need to touch it. It was already telling him everything he needed to know.

Nick Mason had just killed a cop.





13




Mason closed the door to Room 215, trying to reconcile that there was a dead man—a dead cop—on the other side.

The towel was spotted with blood, so he put it inside his jacket as he stepped out onto the balcony and back into the stairwell. He stopped dead when he saw the security camera. It was mounted on this side of the concrete header over the entrance to the stairs. On his way up, there had been no way to see it.

Mason kept going. Down the stairs, still lit pale orange by the exit sign. He got in the Mustang, started it, backed up, and then gunned it onto the street.

Slow down, he told himself. It’s time to be straight and correct.

He made himself bring the car to a stop as the traffic light went from yellow to red. He sat there idling for a moment, waiting for his heart rate to come down. Then he saw the flashing blue and red lights. The police car came around the corner, running silent and fast. The cop driving the car looked the Mustang up and down. Mason knew his face couldn’t be seen through the tinted glass, but the car itself was unmistakable. Mason poised his right foot on the accelerator, ready to see what this thing could do from a standing start. But the police car kept going.

Mason let out his breath. The light turned green. He pulled out slowly and drove down the street, looking in his rearview mirror. There was nobody behind him.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Quintero.

“There was a security camera,” he said as soon as Quintero answered. “I’m f*cked.”

“Relax,” Quintero said. “Get a grip on yourself.”

“I got spotted by a patrolman, too. If the guy knows cars, I’ll stick in his head. When he finds out what happened at the motel, he’ll remember he saw a 1968 Mustang one block away.”

“I’m going to give you an address.”

“That was a cop in the motel, by the way.”

“The place will look abandoned, but we’ll open up the door when you get there.”

“Did you hear me?” Mason said. “That guy was a cop.”

“You need to shut the f*ck up and go to this address.”

Quintero gave him an address on Spaulding, just over the river. Mason stayed off the highway, making his way down the dark, quiet streets. He crossed the river and spent a few minutes looking for the exact street and address. There was a huge storage warehouse and an asphalt yard locked up for the night. A half-dozen houses all boarded up, then at last another brick building with a large garage door being rolled up, a sudden bright rectangle spilling out onto the street. Mason turned into the opening. He saw Quintero standing there, his arms folded. The door was already rattling shut when Mason stopped the car and got out.

There were two other men in the garage. Dark-haired Latinos like Quintero, except these men both wore gray coveralls. Banks of fluorescent lighting hung from the high ceiling, the area above them seeming to disappear into the darkness. There were workbenches and a lift and heavy welding equipment. Mason knew what this place was. He’d seen his share of chop shops.

“Tell me why I just killed a cop,” Mason said.

Quintero didn’t move. He kept his arms folded in front of his chest and said something to the other two men in Spanish. The men laughed.

“Tell me why,” Mason said, “before I kick the shit out of you right here.”

Whatever trace of a smile had been on Quintero’s face disappeared in an instant. “Shut the f*ck up, Mason. We got business to take care of. Take off your clothes.”

“Excuse me?”

“We gotta get rid of them. You smell like a slaughterhouse.”

Mason looked down at himself. It was his first good look in bright light. Even though his jacket and pants were black, he could see that they were soaked with blood. He took the towel from the motel bathroom out of his jacket. Then he took the gloves out of one pocket. Finally, he took the gun out of the other.

“Chingada Madre!” Quintero said. “The f*ck is the matter with you? That gun is clean!”

“So what?”

“So you don’t bring it with you, you stupid pendejo. You leave it in the room.”

“Excuse the f*ck out of me,” Mason said. “I never shot anybody before.”

Quintero took the gun from Mason as he said something else in Spanish to the other two men. They already had both car doors open and were working on the seats.