Down to the Liar(24)

There might be a mark somewhere out there impervious to the fresh Oaxaca cheese and garden-grown papalo, but if there is, I have yet to meet him. The spit-roasted pork, the chorizo and carne asada, the chile guajillo…No one says no to tacos. At least, not these tacos. Which is why they are my secret weapon on my toughest cases.

Holding a bag of taco heaven, I knock on the back door of our very own windowless 1996 Chevy van and wait for Murphy to let me in. Murphy opens the door, the cord of his headphones stretched to its limit. He doesn’t bother looking at me until he smells the tacos.

“You brought me dinner?” he says, eyes lighting up.

“Mitts off, Murph. These are for the mark.”

Murphy grumbles something under his breath.

“Well, if you’d get out of the van and actually, you know, work, the tacos could have been for you.”

“The van is an extension of me. I do not leave the van. The van does not leave me.”

J.D. Investigations, which is the name Murphy and I finally settled on for our PI firm, purchased the van in March for all of the company’s creeper spying needs. Murphy practically drooled on the bumper when he saw the extended wheelbase. I liked the monstrosity for its diesel engine, the price of gas being what it is. But what sealed it for us was the 1-800-TAXDRMY hand-painted on the side. I’d like to see the curious bystander brave enough to peek in that windshield.

“How does Bryn feel about that?” I can already tell you how Bryn, Murphy’s girlfriend for the past seven months, feels about that. Her queen-bee social status tanks any time she gets within a five-foot radius of the van. A type A personality, she is constantly appalled at the grease spots the van leaves wherever Murphy parks it. And her nerd-limit is obliterated every time he brags about the latest gizmo he’s added to it. Or maybe that’s just me.

“Bryn loves Bessie almost as much as I do.” Murphy pets the periscope controls on the surveillance dash he spent six weeks installing. It drove me crazy that it took him that long to get the van operational, but he insisted. His love of geek gadgetry is even deeper than Sam’s is. Was. Is.

Anyway, tomorrow is the start of the last week of the school year and the van’s been used on only one other job. Which means we’re still working out the kinks.

I hop into the back of the van, setting the tacos down on the dash. “A, I seriously doubt that. B, for the last time, we’re not calling it Bessie.”

Murphy opens his mouth to argue, but I redirect the conversation before we can go down that road. Again.

“Any movement?” I whip off my frayed hoodie and slip a brick-colored polo shirt over my black tank.

“Not a blip.” Murphy adjusts a knob. “Maybe this guy’s legit.”

“Maybe. But we’ll find out soon enough.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Tacos.”

Murphy snorts. “An insurance scammer pretending to be paralyzed is not going to get out of bed for tacos.”

“Well, it’s either that or set his house on fire.”

Murphy ponders this. “We could set his house on fire.”

“We are not setting his house on fire, Murphy.”

I miss Sam. He was more than just my hacker. More than just my partner, even. He was my best friend—the person I relied on to keep me from going off the rails. He should be the one arguing that we’re not setting anyone’s house on fire. It shouldn’t be my job to reel myself in.

“Besides.” I slide the temples of my fake glasses over my ears and don a Cemitas Puebla visor I conned the cashier out of. “Tacos always work.”

“If you say so,” Murphy says, tapping something on the tablet he’d had custom-built into the dash. “Camera’s aimed at the front door in case you’re right.”

“I’m always right.” Well, almost always.

I slip out into the dying light, goose bumps prickling my arms in the slight chill of a Windy City evening. Even in May the wind finds a way to make its presence felt. Live here long enough and you start taking the wind for granted. That’s what Tyler used to say. And if anyone had known what the wind was capable of, Tyler had. I shiver thinking of him, of the night he died in front of me. Ghosts don’t haunt people. Guilt does. And on Thursday, I’ll turn all pruny marinating in my guilt when St. Agatha’s hosts a memorial vigil for him.

I stuff thoughts of Tyler into the box in my brain marked Do Not Open and walk up to the one-story bungalow with drooping carport where the alleged insurance scammer lives. If I can prove he’s faking, I get a nice, fat check from the insurance investigator who contracted me.