The Unwilling(39)

“Ken. Buddy…”

I missed the rest, but they looked nothing like buddies. For five full minutes they argued, and when it ended, it did so badly, Burklow’s voice rising as he towered over my father. “I don’t care about that. You should have told me at the scene. And don’t tell me I’d do the same thing, because I wouldn’t, not on a case like this.”

“You say that now—”

“Don’t. No.”

“You don’t have kids. You can’t understand.”

Burklow turned away, and I lost what came next. I stepped off the porch to hear better, and my father noticed without actually looking my way. He raised a finger, stopping me where I stood. He said something else to Burklow, who said, “No. Hell no.”

“Another day, twelve hours…”

But Burklow was done talking. He got in the car, slammed the door, and left rubber on the driveway. My father stared after him for a long time, then came to me, looking utterly worn. “Did you hear that?”

“Some of it. Not much.”

“Whatever you heard, forget it.”

“Was that about me? I heard him talk about your son. I saw how Martinez was acting.”

“It’s not about you. Don’t worry about Martinez.”

“It’s hard not to.”

He nodded once, but bleakly. “I need to speak with Jason.”

“That’s what this is about?”

“He may have information I need.”

“About Tyra?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

“Martinez and Smith are homicide cops.”

“Son…”

“Is she dead?”

“I told you, son. I can’t talk about that!”

The explosion pushed me back. The look in his eyes. The lines in his face. It was easy to forget that he hunted men for a living, but I saw it now, like he could chew me up, spit me out, and not taste a thing. I stepped back on instinct, and it was a bad moment between us, his hands rising once before dropping like leaves. I had nothing else to say, and neither did he; and when he turned for his car, there was a drag in his step. I watched his taillights fade, then took my hand from my pocket, considering the scrap of paper I’d carried there since the quarry.

On it was a phone number.

It was local.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet, so I went alone to the kitchen, and lifted the phone from its cradle on the wall. The cord was long enough to reach the pantry, so I shut myself inside, and dialed. On the other end, the phone rang nine times before someone answered. I heard laughter, loud music.

I asked for my brother.

Eventually, he came.



* * *



It took forty minutes to find the area Jason described, and again it felt like a scene from a movie, a grim night in some larger city. I cruised one side street and then another. When I found the right building, I knew it by the motorcycles and the women and the noise.

Lots of chrome and plenty of skin …

Just like Jason said.

I found a place to park, and backtracked two blocks to where a row of motorcycles angled in at the curb. I was out of place there, and everyone knew it. Bikers gave me the dead-eye or blocked my path or streamed smoke in my face. A crowd milled near the door, and as I squeezed into it, women crowded me back, and touched me and laughed.

Hey, sugar …

Hey, baby boy …

One hung on my shoulder and cupped me between the legs.

“Excuse me,” I said, and she laughed again.

At the door, a biker stopped me. Muttonchops. Long hair streaked with white. “Members and ladies,” he said.

“I’m looking for Jason French.” Nothing moved on his face. A beer bottle went up and down. “He’s waiting for me, I promise.”

“Well, if you promise…”

His voice rose on the last word, lips twisting. Problem was, I wanted inside, and he wanted me to try. It was a tense moment until Jason appeared behind him, and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Darius. He’s with me. Come on, little brother.”

I followed Jason into a dark room, then through another crowd to a metal staircase at the back wall. Upstairs, Jason led me into a square room with brick walls, sparse furnishings, and a massive safe that looked as if it had been there forever. Jason saw my reaction to it. “Diebold cash safe—1905, I think.”

I smoothed a hand across the steel door, the enormous hinges. “It must weigh tons.”

“Three or four, at least. This place was built with steel beams in the floor to carry the weight. You can see them from a storage room downstairs.”

“What’s it for?”

“Originally? Payroll, I’d guess. Records, maybe.”

I sat at the table, and he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “What’s in it now?” I asked.

“What makes you think I know?”

“There are a million rooms in this city, but you’re in this one. Plus, you said originally. That implies that the safe, now, has some other purpose.” I rolled my shoulders. “Words matter.”

Jason looked at me strangely after that. He didn’t answer my question, but poured whiskey into shot glasses. “You’re a sharp kid, Gibby. Let’s drink to that.”