“Liar.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Yes, we will see, thought Bobby as he hung up his phone. They’d both see when he showed up at nine with the file and a gun and had his sweet way with her. And then, when it was all over, he’d give that young thing from the police department a call. She seemed interested enough in a Spangler. Maybe all along his problem was shooting too high. She was just low enough to be in his range. He’d wow her with his charm like he wowed her before. She wouldn’t know what hit her as he took her from behind. Yee-haw. But now it was just a matter of waiting until Kyle Byrne slipped out from the bar like the insect he was and then, shotgun at the ready, following the son of a bitch to his death.
The door opened, and there he was, Kyle Byrne, in a suit, with some fat little tattooed spark plug by his side. Bobby turned on the car engine and prepared to follow when something stopped him.
Who was that approaching Byrne? With that walk. It was her, the pretty detective, that Ramirez. She was grabbing Kyle Byrne’s arm, hard, like she knew him. She was grabbing his arm, like she knew him, like they were great friends, and she was looking around, and she was pulling him back into the bar.
What the hell? What was her connection with Byrne? Bobby thought it through, quickly, let the possibilities fall like dominoes one after the other in his consciousness. Maybe she was in on it all. Maybe they were a team. Maybe they were lovers. That two-timing bitch. Or wait. Something else, something far more disturbing.
Maybe he hadn’t played the scene in his apartment as well as he had thought. Maybe her suspicions hadn’t been quelled but instead ratcheted higher. Maybe her romantic interest was feigned. Maybe she had followed Bobby to the bar. Maybe she herself was waiting to see who came out. Which meant she saw Truscott. And then saw Byrne. And now was escorting that Kyle Byrne to safety. As if something were about to happen on the street. Which meant she wasn’t alone. Which meant—
He didn’t wait to figure out the rest. He grabbed the black bag, leaped out of the car, ran as fast as he could down the alley and away from the bar. He tripped as he heard the police cars slam to a halt in front of the alley, rose back to his feet amid shouts from behind him and sirens in the distance.
He cut through one alleyway and another, stopped, searched for refuge like a hunted animal, spied a Dumpster out behind a restaurant. He dashed to it, threw the bag in, pulled himself up and over, buried himself in a week’s worth of garbage—pizza boxes, newspapers, rotted vegetables, maggoty knuckles of meat, excrement leaking from those little blue doggie bags—buried himself until he was completely covered.
He waited for the police to arrive, which they did. He waited as they searched, waited as they left. He waited as the sirens in the distance died. He waited, and waited some more, he waited for hours, just to be sure, he waited, and every breath through the fetid garbage was a reminder of exactly what he had become.
And it was sweet as honey cake.
CHAPTER 49
AFTER DETECTIVE RAMIREZ yanked Kyle Byrne back into Bubba’s, she twisted the lock in the door and pushed him into a booth halfway down the bar. Then she stood with her back to him, facing the rest of the bar, and pulled out her badge and her revolver.
“Police,” shouted Ramirez.
“Hello there, Detective,” said Kyle. “Thirsty?”
“Just shut up, you. Now, I want everyone to get down. Something might be coming through that door, and if it does, it won’t be pretty.”
As the bar’s patrons scattered to the floor and started crawling behind the bar, the bartender, still standing, reached down and pulled out a shotgun. With a quick pump, he slid a cartridge into the chamber.
“What the hell are you doing?” said Ramirez.
“This was my father’s bar,” said the bartender. “You think I’m not going to defend it?”
She looked at him, a skinny black kid with raw hands and a mouth set like granite. The gun sat solid in his hands. “What’s your name?”
“Bubba.”
“Bubba? You’re kidding, right?”
“Bubba Jr.”
“Well, listen, Bubba Jr.,” said Ramirez. “You point the muzzle at the floor and don’t raise it an inch until I give the word. Understand?”
“I understand,” said the bartender.
“Something’s going down outside right about now, so it’s probably safer for all of you in here. But don’t be surprised if what comes through that door next is a car.”
Ramirez squatted down and faced the door with her gun, held in both hands, pointing right at it. She spoke softly enough so that only Kyle could hear. “Remember that number your girlfriend gave me?”
“She’s just a friend.”
“Really?”
“You sound pleased to hear it.”
“Shut the hell up.” Ramirez was angry at the lift she felt. She shook her head to bring herself back to business. “There was only one person other than you who called it. I traced the guy down and asked him some questions, and I got to tell you, he creeped me the hell out. Then I realized that his voice matched the voice on the 911 call that reported your break-in at your father’s old office. So as I called for backup and a warrant to search his place, I stayed outside his building to make sure he didn’t run. Next thing I knew, he was lugging a black satchel to his car. And I have to tell you, I don’t think the satchel was filled with underwear. I followed him to here, though I wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing until I saw you step out of the bar.”
“You think he’s here to kill me?”
“He’s here to something you, baby. Didn’t I tell you to stop stirring the pot?”
“The pot kept stirring me. So we’re just waiting here like sitting ducks for him to come and get me?”
“I called in the cavalry,” said Ramirez. She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here about—”
The squeal of brakes slipped through the door, and then shouting, and then sirens.
The short, fat kid who had left the bar with Kyle popped his head above the bar.
“Get down, you fool,” said Ramirez.
The kid’s head dropped below the bar again.
There was a knock. Ramirez put a finger to her lips and gestured at Bubba Jr., who pointed his shotgun at the door.
“It’s Henderson,” came the voice from the other side of the door.
“Henderson who?” said Ramirez.
“Henderson your mama. Open the hell up.”
Ramirez smiled as she stood and holstered her gun. “Put it away,” she said to Bubba Jr. while she twisted open the lock. “It’s one of the good guys. Or at least a reasonable facsimile.”