Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(91)

“Keep your phone by your ear. I’ve got eyes on the outside.” There’s a pause and then he asks, “What does your gut say? Do you think he’s going to spill?”

“Too soon to tell. Right now he needs some space.” I make sure my tone leaves no room for persuasion.

“Okay. Be ready. Once the shock wears off, these guys tend to do stupid things, and fast.”

Not Luke. That’s just not him. But I don’t say that to Warner because he wouldn’t understand.

I make sure every deadbolt is latched in place and then, drawing the blinds, I set my purse on the ground for easy access to my gun. Just in case. Peeling back layers until I’m left in nothing but my tank top and panties, my fingers graze the dragonfly pendant. Desperate for the day I no longer need to wear it. I know that day is coming soon. I just hope I’m strong enough to handle the aftermath.

I set it on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch, trying to catch an hour or two of sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come to me, though.

My eyes are fixed to that closed door, and the eerie silence behind it. The shower stopped running long ago.

And then I hear it. The first sob.

It seizes my heart in an instant. I don’t know if the microphone will pick that up. It’s pretty far away. But I grab the remote and throw on one of the music channels, just loud enough to kill any possibility. He has the right to suffer in private. I think Warner would understand that, and if he doesn’t . . . f*ck all of them.

What none of them would understand is me tiptoeing from the living room to the closed door. Trying the handle, I find it unlocked. I slink in quickly, making sure not to make a sound as I shut it behind me. Daylight squeezes through the edges of the closed blinds in slits. Between that and the muted TV flashing in the corner, there’s enough light for me to see Luke’s towel-clad body lying on his bed, his back to me, one arm curled under his pillow.

Without a word, I crawl into bed, until my chest is pressed against his back and my arm is wrapped around his waist and my hand is curled within his. And I listen to him cry softly, his tears rolling down his cheeks to slide over my fingers.

Not until he quiets do I offer, “I’m so sorry, Luke. Really, I am.”

A deep, ragged breath lifts and drops his chest. “Vlad killed him. Or someone for Vlad.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s all over the news. They found him in a stolen black Mercedes SUV. That’s what we were lifting for Aref to ship overseas. He has a buyer in Africa who specifically wants black SUVs.”

“That’s what this illegal thing that you’re into is? Stolen cars?” It’s the first time he’s ever said it so blatantly.

“Yeah. Mainly chopped cars, but some high end. Rust has an organization through Portland, Seattle, San Francisco . . . basically the Western seaboard. He rounds them up on this side and Vlad sells them to buyers overseas. We ship them in Aref’s cargo ships and we split the profits. But Vlad started dicking Rust around, claiming higher payoffs to get people to look the other way. Rust was sure he was ripping him off. Then Aref stepped in, wanting to get in on some of the money. He had a buyer lined up in Africa. So, I convinced Rust to do a separate deal with him. That’s what that was about the other night. Vlad was pissed.”

“At you?”

“Rust told him that the deal was all on him and that I had nothing to do with making it. To protect me, I think.”

This, in a nutshell, is everything that we’ve been waiting to hear Luke admit.

I hold his body tighter.

“But what good would killing Rust do for Vlad? Don’t they need Rust for this deal you were talking about?” I have to remember to choose my words carefully, so I don’t sound like I actually know what I’m talking about.

He rolls onto his back, and I get my first look at his tear-stained face. “That’s what I can’t figure out. Rust was the only one who knew all the levels and players and how everything worked—all the fences and wheelmen, who was lifting the cars, who was chopping them, how they were moving from location to location. I don’t see how either delivery is going to happen now that Rust is gone.”

“Unless Vlad figured things out on his own . . .” I say, more to myself, as the mess of clues starts to make sense. A plan was in place, Elmira had said. Was that the plan? Was Vlad honing in on Rust’s protected network? Based on what Luke just told me, they were splitting half the profits. But if they removed Rust . . . “Vlad could take over and not split profits, right?” But how does Aref fit into all of this?

I can see the wheels churning inside his head. “Yeah . . . I guess. But I don’t know how they’d figure that out. I mean, I know two of the fences, and Miller knows two, but aside from dropping an order that Rust gives us and paying the fences for delivery to the warehouse, we don’t see anything but a wad of money at the end of it.”

My ears perk up. That big, burly garage manager is a part of this too?

“It’s not that easy to figure out. I mean, if the cops can’t do it . . .”

Unless someone’s been doing their own surveillance on Rust. One that doesn’t require following laws and respecting privacy. I can only imagine how much easier it would be to get things done when we aren’t held back by warrants and civil rights. I mean, look at the kind of information I’ve gathered through dishonest means!