Redemption Alley

Chapter Sixteen

The blue Chevy Caprice smelled of sourness. It was clean enough, despite the bottle of bourbon shoved under the passenger’s seat and the funk of burned and mashed cigars. It was hot, but the heat was bleeding away as the sun retreated and shade fell over the parking lot.

He parks out here because it’s the only time he gets alone. The insight was unwelcome. I lay in the back seat, still and quiet as a stone. Of course I was pretty much in plain sight, except for the thin thread of sorcery ru

It makes them good prey. Even cops, who notice more than most.

Dappled shade from a tall anemic pine tree clinging to life at the edge of the lot fell over the car, yet another reason for him to park here.

I waited.

Shift change swirled through the lot, snatches of conversation, car doors slamming, engines rousing. My quarry opened the driver’s door and dropped in, pushing his battered briefcase carefully over into the passenger’s side. I waited until he buckled his seatbelt and sighed, reaching over for the bottle tucked under the folded newspaper in the passenger-side footwell.

I curled up into a sitting position, glad for the liquid shadows. I clapped a hand over Montaigne’s mouth and poked the gun into his ribs. “Drive. Take your usual route home.”

I was sorry about the gun. But I had to make sure. Completely sure.

His eyes got really, really wide. But he didn’t question me—just twisted the key to grind the starter, got the Caprice ru

Monty kept quiet, but sweat dewed the back of his neck. His tie was loosened and his jacket rumpled. He was still chewing a mouthful of Tums, a chalky undernote to his tang of heavy maleness, not at all clean and musky like a Were’s smell.

We hit Balanciaga Avenue from the lot, and he began to work his way toward the residential section. He still didn’t ask any questions.

I decided it was time. “Someone’s been trying to kill me, Monty. Someone not on the nightside, someone who doesn’t know you need special bullets and a lot of luck to take me down. A real execution-style hit uptown, and then just today a whole bunch of gangbangers took exception to me and started talking about cops wanting kill verification on my sweet little behind.” I kept the gun steady. “You want to tell me why you wanted me to look into Marv’s death so much?”

“Jesus.” He was still sweating, and it smelled sour. “Put that thing away, Jill.”

I wish I could, Monty. “Not a chance, not yet.” I paused as his eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, then cut longingly over at the passenger side. “Bourbon in the car, Montaigne? What the hell is going on with you?” Leather creaked now as I shifted my weight, he was keeping nicely to the speed limit.

Drinking in the front seat on the way home from work is a Very Bad Sign.

Score one for him, he sounded dry and academic. “It’s the stress of putting up with you, goddammit. Your car was reported firebombed in the fucking barrio. They’re whispering you’re dead. Everyone’s nervous.”

“Well, as far as the Santa Luz PD is concerned, I’m going to stay dead. You’re not going to tell anyone you saw me. But before I go deep and silent to flush this one out, Monty, you’re going to level with me.” I took a deep breath. “You knew Kutchner was dirty.”

More sweat beaded up on Monty’s neck. He leaned forward—slowly, slowly—and flipped a switch. Hot wind blasted into the interior—the engine hadn’t been on long enough for the air conditioning to do much. “It didn’t feel right. I just suspected something, I didn’t know what. Goddammit, he was my partner.”

You must have done a lot more than suspected, Montaigne. What, you think I’m stupid? “His widow’s dead and so is Winchell. And so is Pedro Ayala. How many other cops are dead, Monty? Was I supposed to end up one of them?”

“Ayala? What the fuck?” Monty sounded baffled. But he was sweating.

But it was hot as hell in the car. What precisely did I suspect?

Not much. Except who else would know where I was likely to be, if not my primary contact on the force?

And the whole betting pool, who would be tracking hunter sightings. I didn’t bother hiding from the police; they were my allies.

Or at least, most of them were. It looked like not all of them felt the same way. “Ayala over in Vice. Got himself taken down a bit ago, shot on gang territory—but it wasn’t a gang hit, it was because he uncovered something.” I slid the gun into its holster, he wasn’t going to do anything silly now. “Listen to me, Monty. You need to keep your head down and stay away from all of this. I don’t want you catching any flak. Who did you tell?”

“Tell?”

“That you’d called me in on the Kutchner case. Who did you tell? Anyone?”

He took a hard right on Seventeenth, still driving like a prissy old maid. “Not a fucking soul, Kismet. Jesus, you think I’m stupid?” His eyes flicked up to mine in the rearview, returned to the road. Traffic was light. “How big is this?”

“You’ve got some suspicions, don’t you. You did from the start. Goddammit, Monty, you should have told me. I don’t like to go into something like this with my ass hanging out.”

He looked just the same—an aging fat man, with haunted eyes and a stained tie. “So Marv was dirty? How dirty?”

When I didn’t answer, he stared at the road. After a few tense seconds he slammed his palm on the steering wheel and let out a string of curses, finishing with, “And I didn’t have a fucking clue, Jill. I woulda told you, for fuck’s sweet fucking sake!”

Christ. Monty had never held back on me before, I didn’t think he had it in him. Still, I had to be sure. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s someone supposedly on my side sitting on the information I need to pursue a case. I still hadn’t forgiven Father Gui over at Sacred Grace for that episode with the wendigo and the firestrike spear, and I wasn’t sure I ever would.

I wasn’t sure I should, either.

“I know. But something here stinks.” Who would guess you’d ask me to look into the Kutchner suicide? Or was it showing up at the widow’s house that did it, I wonder? Jesus, twenty people must have seen me there. I stared thoughtfully through the windshield as cold air spilled through the vents. The car rapidly became more comfortable, but didn’t smell any better. “You can go ahead and smoke if you want to.”

“Gee, thanks.” But he pulled a Swisher Sweet from his breast pocket and champed, lighting it while he steered with one hand. I glanced away from the flash of the lighter, a star in the darkness. Orange streetlight bounced off the road’s hard paleness. He rolled his window down a little and exhaled oddly scented smoke.

I suddenly, completely, missed Saul like there was a hole in my chest. Again. It was like missing a hand, or a leg. I’d grown so used to working with him, having his quiet presence clear up any mess in my head.

“So you think I should leave this alone?” Monty sounded uncharacteristically uncertain.

No shit, Batman. “Let me put it this way. I don’t want to avenge you too. I like you breathing.”

“That bad?”

I let the silence answer him.

“How dirty was he?” He braked, we were fast approaching a stop sign at Tewberry and Twenty-Eighth. I coiled myself for action.