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By the time he got back, his fries had disappeared. It was weird.
“So, what about her?” I asked.
“Marika,” he said, scooting into the booth. “That’s the sticky condition.”
I leaned in and did my best Italian accent. “You want I should off her?” I slid my index finger across my throat in the universal gesture for murder.
“Not exactly.”
“Wait!” I said, holding up my hand before he continued. “What’s your number? I’ll keep watch for you so your food doesn’t get cold.”
He checked the receipt. “Fifty-four.”
“Got it. Okay, hit me with the sticky.”
“I need you to get samples of both Marika’s and the boy’s DNA.”
I took a long moment to stare in disbelief. He stared back, but his stare was more matter-of-fact.
“Are you insane?” I asked him at last, considering it a real possibility. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to get DNA samples from them?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Not my problem.”
Making a mental note to ask my therapist how I got myself into these situations and accuse her of sucking at her job because I was clearly not getting better, I said, “Have you put any thought into how it could be done?”
“Not really. Why do you need a wingman?”
“I have to go talk to a notorious crime lord and accuse him of sending men after me and trying to put a hit out on his ex-girlfriend, who is the only witness to a murder he committed.”
“Do I have time to finish my burger?”
“I guess. But why are they called crime lords? Why not crime douche bags? Or crime asswipes? Why do they have to sound so cool?” I glanced up at the marquee. “Oh, your number’s up.”
He scooted out of the booth again. It was kind of charming.
“And hurry up before your food gets cold.”
He turned the corner and flipped me off at the same time. See? Men could multitask. I was so proud of him. Since I sat there with nothing better to do than watch the man in the next booth argue with his ketchup, I summoned Angel. I told him about my latest dilemma, gave him some rather explicit orders, then listened to him curse in Spanish before he asked if he could see me naked. When I said, “Only if you can navigate time and watch my perilous journey through my mother’s birth canal,” he vanished to do my bidding.
“Why me?” Garrett asked when he sat back down with his food.
I took a bite of his burrito. “Wow,” I said, rolling my eyes in ecstasy, “excellent choice. And why you what?”
“Why not get your boyfriend to be your wingman?”
“He’s cooking this afternoon. Sammy had to go get his cast off.” The regular cook had broken his leg trying to ski off his roof. Tequila often gave people the desire to tackle the impossible. It did not, however, make the impossible possible.
“Who’s the crime lord?”
“Phillip Brinkman.”
“The car salesman? He’s a crime lord?”
“Apparently.” I stopped and gaped at him. “Did you just take a bite of your sweet roll?”
“I paid for it.”
“And?” I took the plate and slid it out of his reach. Not really, though, because he had a ridiculous reach, which he demonstrated when he stole another bite with effortless ease. Thankfully, their sweet rolls were big enough to feed a small country.
“If Mr. Car Salesman of the Year was going to send men to my apartment carrying suppressed Glocks, the least he can do is offer me a discount on a new Porsche.”
“Should we, I don’t know, devise a plan?”
“Do you think that’s wise? I’ve always just kind of winged it.”
“No,” he said, his faux surprise chafing.
* * *
I strolled into the dealership wearing the wire Garrett had pi
I took a seat across from his desk. He looked up from his paperwork, a little startled. No, that was fear in his eyes. A lot startled. He’d either had too much coffee or he was expecting someone else.
He sca
“You may. If you’re going to send men in black masks to my apartment and have them point a gun at my head so I’ll find your girlfriend, I suggest you pick better men.”
I’d confused him. The fear was still there, but I’d definitely confused him. Damn it. He had no idea what I was talking about.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Back to square one. Then again, this guy was up for murder. And the men in masks wanted the whereabouts of the woman set to testify against him. That was a little more than a thin co
I frowned at him. Maybe if the cops had a body, it would help their case.
I leaned forward, and a wave of fear washed through him. His poker face was worse than mine. His too-large eyes rounded exponentially. “Where’s the body, Brinkman?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Depends. Would you be more likely to tell me where the body was if I were?”
“No.”
“Nope. I am not a cop. Not even a little. Now, where’s the body?”
“They’re looking for Emily?”
“Depends. Who’s Emily?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Oh! Right, then yes they are.” Fear and something painfully close to a full-on panic attack rolled out of him in waves. “Are you go
“Why would they go to you?” he said, interrupting. Dang it, and I had a really good threat pla
I crossed my legs. “I don’t know. Maybe because I have a sign on my head that says ‘aim here.’ Or it could be because I have access to information through different sources. They must think I can get her address. But it’s WITSEC we’re talking about here. It doesn’t matter who I know, I am not getting that kind of info. You need to tell them that.”
He rubbed his mouth and kept his hand there a long moment. Sweat ran down his temples, and his stomach churned in protest to the stress.
“Look, Phillip,” I said, changing my tactics, “you made a mistake. It happens. Trying to kill your girlfriend will not rectify anything.”
He nodded. “You got one thing right,” he said absently, “I made a mistake. Lots of them, but Emily was not one of them. Is she—is she okay?”
He was genuinely concerned about her. Clearly, he had no involvement in the attempt to locate or, most likely, kill her.
“As far as I know, she’s fine, but she won’t be for much longer. If you’ll just tell me what happened, where to find the body, I can help you, Phillip.”
He grew wary. “I thought you weren’t a cop. How can you help me? Did he send you? Is this a setup?”
The word
setup
seemed to be appearing a lot lately. I shook my head. “No setup. I’m just trying to help put you away so your girlfriend can get on with her life and not have to worry about those goons trying to kill her.”
He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and took a hardy swig. Hardy as in half the bottle. Because he might be more inclined to help me if he were drunk, I didn’t stop him.
“But you seem genuinely concerned about her. If you didn’t send those men, who did?”
After another swig, he wiped a shaking hand over his mouth. “You need to leave,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Oh, I get it. Watch your own back but no one else’s. Am I in any real danger?”
He scoffed. “Let’s just say you do not want to be on their naughty list.”
“What happens if I get on it?”