Moco leaned back from the steering wheel to dig out the phone in the middle of the fourth ring. It was Chueco, the kid who was sitting on Callahan’s house.
“Some guy just drove up and went to her door,” Chueco said. “Tall, dark beard. Looks like a tough dude. She let him in, so I guess she knows him.”
Moco mulled over this new information. A new guy would add a wrinkle to the problem, but it might even help. If he was a boyfriend, maybe his presence would mess with Callahan’s mind, make her easier to take. He had a sudden thought.
“Is this guy a cop?”
“I don’t know about him,” Chueco said. “But about five minutes after he got here, a bunch of cops showed up on the next street over. There must be a dozen marked cars. Must be something bad.”
The kid had no idea.
“Sit tight,” Moco said. “We’ll be parked at the 7-Eleven up the street. Let us know when the cops clear out — or if Callahan leaves.”
“She left already,” Chueco said.
Moco stomped on the gas. There was always the risk of getting pulled over, but he figured every cop within fifteen miles was already at Buttermilk Place.
“What do you mean gone? Did the guy go with her?”
“He did,” the kid said. “They got in her car and followed another cop over to the commotion on the next street. Want me to get closer and see what’s going on?”
“No!” Moco snapped, maybe a little too quickly.
Gusano looked over at him, wires hanging from his ears, head bobbing to his tunes.
“Just stay where you can see her car,” Moco said. “Call me when she moves again.”
“’Tá bueno, bye.” Chueco ended the call now that he had his assignment.
Moco eased off the accelerator, feeling an unseen hand tighten around his gut. This was all coming down too fast for him to process. Damn, he really needed some weed.
Special Agent Kelsey Callahan stood over the body of the man she’d never met and clenched her fists until she was afraid her nails might tear through the blue nitrile gloves. Two crime scene technicians from the Garland, Texas, police department busied themselves placing yellow plastic markers on the floor, enumerating the location of three spent shell casings and several boot prints on the polished slate floor around the entry. A uniformed officer photographed the interior of the house while a handful of other officers combed the yard and interviewed the neighbors for any clue as to who had murdered Aaron Bennet.
One of the uniforms, a sergeant named Morris, had served on the Crimes Against Children Task Force for a couple years and knew Callahan lived nearby. He’d snapped to the similar address and taken it upon himself to inform her of the homicide — much to the chagrin of Detective Fran Little, who made it extremely clear that she didn’t want the Feeble Eyes getting their Fed gunk on her homicide case.
Detective Little hitched up the thighs of her 5.11 khakis and squatted on the other side of the body with a digital camera. “You know this guy?” she asked without looking up.
“Never met him,” Callahan said. “It’s obvious what happened, though.”
The detective stood, pushing a lock of straw-colored hair off her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. “And how’s that?”
Callahan bit her tongue to keep from saying what she really wanted to say. “I guess there’s a chance this guy has gambling debts or a jilted lover, but there’s a more obvious answer. This is 2348 Buttermilk Place. I live at 2348 Buttermilk Circle.”
Detective Little raised both eyebrows, like Callahan was some kid she was trying to humor. “I’d rather look at the evidence in total, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m pointing out all the evidence,” Callahan said. “If you don’t—”
“Better check yourself,” Detective Little said. “It sounds like you’re about to give me an ultimatum, and I don’t respond well to those.”
Callahan closed her eyes and took a slow breath. “I was going to say, ‘If you don’t see it, I can spell it out for you.’”
Detective Little scoffed. “Well, ain’t that just downright neighborly of you. Makes me feel a lot better.”
“The only motive to kill Aaron Bennet is that he happens to live at an address similar to mine.”
Caruso touched Callahan on the elbow to guide her gently away. The shrinks at Quantico taught that this was one of the most unthreatening places to touch most people, but apparently Callahan was not most people. She jerked away and glared as though she might punch him in the face.
“Look,” Detective Little said. “We will get around to checking with any people who want you dead. I can imagine that list will be a long one. But if I’m not doin’ my job in the order you deem fit, well, I got plenty of more important things to do than stand around here and argue. Be my guest if you want to take over. I’ll have my guys out of here so fast your head will spin, lady.”
Callahan turned as if to walk away, then wheeled. “You listen, Fran. I’m not trying to piss on your leg. I’m merely pointing out that the person who killed this guy was really after me. When you snap to that fact, give me a call.”
Moco needed weed so bad. But he couldn’t chance it with so many cops swarming all over the place. Luckily, there was enough hash oil hidden in the door panel of his truck for two dabs. Making the hash oil was tricky business, requiring him to boil off the liquid butane he used to extract it from the buds. High heat and butane didn’t go well together, so the process took forever. When he was finished, he had an amber, honeylike substance packed with THC.
Moco liked to put a little dab of the sticky stuff on the end of a nail and smoke it. The buzz helped him think straight. Problem was, that would be almost as noticeable as smoking a joint — and he didn’t want to go there. Dabs tasted like shit if you ate them straight, but he had a plan. A lighter, a metal spoon, and a little bit of coconut oil he kept in the glovebox would help the dab slide down quickly — even if it didn’t do much about the taste.
He wedged the spoon in the crack of the center console to hold it, and then added a dab — about the size of a Tic Tac — with a half-teaspoon of coconut oil. He was just in the middle of mixing the concoction with the point of his pocketknife when his phone began to vibrate again.
“Hold this,” he said, passing the mixture of dab and coconut oil to Gusano, who took his earbuds out and blinked stupidly. “Don’t spill it.”
Gusano promptly stuck the spoon in his mouth and slurped down the whole thing.
Moco wanted to stab the idiot, and would have had he not needed help. He punched him in the shoulder instead.
“What?” the Worm said. “I thought you gave it to me.”
Moco shook his head and answered the phone.
It was Chueco again. “She’s coming your way,” the kid said. “That tough-looking dude with the beard is with her.”
“Follow her,” Moco said. He hung up and then looked across the seat at Gusano, still fuming over the stolen hash oil. He spoke through clenched teeth, hardly able to sit still. “You son of a bitch.”
Gusano nodded at the crumpled piece of plastic wrap in Moco’s lap. “What? You got another one. I’ll help you make some more after we kill the FBI lady.”
“You better,” Moco said, still glaring. He peeled back the plastic and bit off the rest of the hash oil, clenching his teeth at the bitterness. Eating it straight wouldn’t give him nearly as good a high as when it was mixed with oil, but it would have to be enough.