‘I’ll make up a good story.’ Tears in her eyes, she tiptoed up and kissed his cheek. Then she opened the door, announced to Cinco and the ladies that they were closing immediately, nicely shepherded the two women out of the door, told Cinco to go home.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cinco demanded.
‘Get your mother home,’ Miles said. ‘Now.’
‘Would you please tell me why we’re all panicking?’ Cinco asked.
‘Michael, let us give you a ride…’
‘No. Go, Joy, please.’
Joy squeezed his hand and then she hurried Cinco to her car. They drove off in a peal of tire.
The shooter knew his name. Andy, seated on Cinco’s desk, said, ‘Game’s over, Miles.’
Miles ignored him, grabbed a University of New Mexico Lobos baseball cap from Cinco’s desk, pulled it low on his face, and then ran around to the back of the building. He needed to get back to his hotel. The gallery next door was owned by three potters – and he remembered that one always biked to work. He’d call her and tell her where the bike was later. He still had his lockpicks in his pocket and he worked the bike lock open in ten seconds.
‘Reduced to being a bicycle thief,’ Andy said. ‘Shame on you.’
Miles jumped on the bicycle, awkwardly – he hadn’t ridden one in ten years – found his rhythm, then sped around the building’s corner, out onto the lot, onto Canyon Road.
And saw the shooter behind the wheel of a car, heading back up Canyon, veering straight toward him in a scream of rubber.
EIGHTEEN
The buzz instead of a ring. It was a setting on office phones. The call Cinco took when Groote first walked in gave off a ring; Joy’d gotten a buzz for that second call, but she’d pretended it was an outside call. His instincts told him the woman had been lying. The idea of Michael Raymond coming back at six was just to get him out of the gallery.
So he veered hard, ignoring the horns laid down around him as he narrowly missed clipping a truck, vroomed back down Paseo de Peralta, and took the hard right onto Canyon.
And right ahead of him, an idiot on a bike, a baseball cap practically covering his eyes, riding and balancing awkwardly in the middle of the street. Groote just missed him as he steered the car hard into the parking lot for the collection of galleries.
Groote saw the CLOSED sign hanging crooked in the Garrison Gallery’s door. He ran up to the door, tested the knob. Locked. He broke the pane of glass closest to the knob; an alarm wailed. He opened the door, drew his gun, ran through the gallery, upstairs and down. No sign of anyone.
The police would arrive within minutes. He tucked his gun into his holster under his jacket, went out the back, saw a woman standing with hands on hips, frowning at the noise.
‘I’m a friend of Joy and Cinco’s,’ he said to her before she could speak. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘My bike’s gone.’ She gestured toward the gallery door, the shrieking whine. ‘Is it a break-in or a false alarm?’
The guy on the bike. Outmaneuvered by an art hippie lady and a guy on a fricking bike. He ran past the woman and hurried to his car.
Groote bolted onto Canyon, then Paseo de Peralta. Had to choose and took a hard right. He drove two minutes, running red lights, looking for the guy on the bike. Wheeled hard around and went the other way, cursing. He backtracked, tore up side roads at eighty miles an hour. His heart caught in his throat, he pounded the steering wheel in fury.
I was this close to him. To finding Frost.
No bike on the street. No bike anywhere. Michael Raymond was gone.
NINETEEN
Miles carried the stolen bike up to the hotel room with him, washed his face. The cache of money and equipment he kept at the bus station in case he ever needed to flee town on his own – now was the time to go fetch it. But if the shooter was prowling the roads of central Santa Fe, riding the bike was a risk; he couldn’t outrun a car.
A fist pounded his door. DeShawn, ordering him to open up.
He answered and DeShawn pushed in, frantic-faced, slamming the door behind him. ‘We’re moving you to a new city, getting you a new identity. Right now. Grab your bag.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve been disclosed, Miles. Your cover’s blown. The police found a laptop in Allison’s car trunk. It contained a scanned copy of your entire psychiatric file from Allison. Including the fact that you’re a federal witness and your real name.’ He shook his head. ‘It omitted the fact that you lied to me, of course.’
DeShawn’s urgency had nothing to do with the shooter’s appearing at the gallery.
‘I-’
‘You’re done in Santa Fe. Let’s go.’
Miles rocked on his feet, the news a punch in his gut. ‘How would Allison know my real name?’
‘You sure you didn’t tell her?’
‘No. I never did.’
‘I don’t believe you. You told me you didn’t even tell her you were a witness!’ DeShawn’s voice was cold. ‘You lied to me, Miles. She knew your name, she knew where you were from, she knew what you were, and now she’s dead.’
‘I never told her.’ The confession – signed with his real name – was still in his pants pocket. ‘You said a scanned file? Like a paper file scanned for a computer?’
‘Yes.’
Sorenson, opening and closing the file cabinet yesterday afternoon. He’d taken something. Miles’s file. But it had apparently been full of information he’d never given Allison. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ Miles said.
‘You done lying, Miles? Your face. You weren’t in a fight. You were close to her office when it exploded.’
‘No.’
‘You tried to call her pager right after the explosion – I got the records. Explain that timing.’
‘She wanted to talk to me…’
‘You were supposed to be there when the office blew, Miles, weren’t you. You were supposed to die with her, don’t you see it?’
‘No.’
‘You told her who you were. And then she started digging into your past, to understand you, to help you, and she tipped off the Barradas. Maybe by accident. But if you’d kept your mouth shut that you were Miles Kendrick, she’d be alive right now.’
Miles shook his head. ‘I never told her my real name! And even if I did, why kill her? Why hurt her?’
‘You dumb shit!’ DeShawn yelled. ‘Do you know how many people want you dead? The Barradas, sure. Then all the crime rings you screwed over spying for the Barradas, they want your ass: the Razor Boys, the Duartes, the GHJ ring… Miles, she knew and she died and she left behind a record of your old name. That’s all that matters. You’re compromised. Welcome to your next exciting new life.’
Miles went and picked up his bag. His mind raced. No, he couldn’t leave now, he couldn’t get on that plane. ‘What if I say no to relocating?’
DeShawn’s voice went cold. ‘Now I speak as your inspector. WITSEC’s voluntary, Miles. You can walk away from our protection anytime you want. But as your friend, you’re dead meat if you stay. The press will get hold of this, eventually, her death is too big a story here. As your friend, I’m worried you’re not thinking straight, that you remain mentally unbalanced and unable to make a cogent decision, and I will knock your ass out and put you on a plane to save your life. That’s all off the record, of course.’
‘Of course. I-’
‘Nothing to keep you here,’ Andy said from the corner. ‘She’s dead and gone. Quit being helpful, Miles. People get killed.’
‘What’s the matter?’ DeShawn said.
‘Nauseous.’ Miles went to the sink, jetted water into a glass.
‘First you fail her, now you run,’ Andy said. ‘You’re an A-one piece of work, Miles.’
Miles drank his water, ignored DeShawn and Andy both. No. He wasn’t going anywhere, not until he knew the truth about Allison’s death. She needed him. He had failed to help her in time, he had failed to be the man she needed him to be. What had living a lie gotten him? Nothing. He’d lost this new life as easily as he’d lost his last one. The decision was clear and strong in his head, crowding out his fear, silencing Andy’s murmurs.