Page 9 of Daybreak

When he got to the parking lot, he unlocked the door to Garza’s car, left the keys in the ignition and the door ajar, and drove away. It wouldn’t take long for someone to heist the car. The more confusion to a crime scene, the better.

His next stop was to steal a vehicle to do the hit and run. He knew Wilson Trainer by name, and knew where the shelter was. As he was driving, his phone dinged. When he stopped for a red light, he opened the message. It was two words. Yankee Dan. And a photo. The boss was nothing if not thorough. Now he had a face to go with the name, but he had his own crime scene to scrub first.

He went home, stripped and bagged up the clothes he’d been wearing, stowed them in his closet, and went to shower. Afterward, he removed the tags from new clothes he kept on hand for days like this, then dressed and left his apartment.

Next stop was to heist a car, and he drove straight to a convention center and began cruising the massive parking lot filled with vehicles belonging to the current attendees. He found a big newer model black Dodge truck with tinted windows parked at the far end of one lot and grabbed his Slim Jim and a paintball gun as he got out. He shot black paint balls at the nearest security cameras, then tossed the paint gun in the back of the truck and popped the lock.

A set of car keys fell into his lap as he pulled down the visor. Score. He wouldn’t even have to hot-wire this one, he thought, and drove out of the lot. With the tinted windows for cover, he didn’t have to worry about being seen. And if they did, they would assume it was the owner, which was even better. If they ever tied the truck to a hit and run, the owner would take the fall. It was time to head to the other side of the city, to Wilson Trainer’s homeless shelter.

* * *

For the first time in years, Yankee Dan had taken a hot shower, shampooed his hair and beard, and been given clean clothes. He had food in his belly, his foot had been treated and dressed again, and the day wasn’t over. The money Detective Kingston gave him was burning a hole in his pocket. Get a shave and a haircut, the detective said, and by God, he was going to go do it while he was still full of resolve. This was a new chance. Not his second chance, or even his third, but it was a new chance.

He stopped by the front desk to ask where the nearest barber shop was located, then signed out and left the building.

It was nearing dusk. The people who lived on the streets were already sheltering in place. Most of the storefronts in the area were vacant, so once it began to get dark, the streets cleared of heavy traffic.

According to the information Dan had been given, the shop wouldn’t close for another two hours. He had plenty of time to get it done and get back before the shelter locked up for the night.

He patted his pocket as he walked out the door to reassure himself that he had the money with him and headed down the street. According to the guy at the desk, it was four blocks north, then two blocks east. All he had to do was watch for the old-fashioned barber pole at the door.

After the intermittent rain they’d had the past few days, and the midday heat they’d had earlier, the night air was still thick and muggy. The back of his neck was sweaty by the time he got to the intersection to walk east.

Dan was curious as to what he looked like now. He hadn’t been clean-shaven in at least ten years, and the gray interspersed within his hair and beard had to be hiding age-related wrinkles as well. Except for the occasional car full of gang members driving by, car traffic was almost nonexistent in this part of the city, and he was still at the corner, waiting for the light to change.

Finally, the lights turned red, and the signal for foot traffic lit up. He stepped off the curb, barely wincing at the sore on his heel, and was halfway through the crosswalk when he heard the roar of an engine coming out of an alley behind him.

In the few seconds it took for Dan to realize what was happening, he’d missed his chance to run. The oversize truck hit him from behind, breaking every bone, every rib, turning the shattered shards inside his body into shrapnel and deploying a force that caused instant internal decapitation.

The impact threw Dan’s body a good twenty feet across the pavement, but he never felt the pain. His last chance to start over had been a short one.

A few moments later, a woman came out of a nearby bodega with her shopping bag full of purchases, saw the body lying in the street beneath a spreading pool of blood, and started screaming.

Cop cars soon descended upon the scene, and people were coming out of surrounding buildings to see the aftermath. Officers began taking control of the gathering crowd and stringing crime scene tape around the area.

And in the distance, the high-pitched shriek of an ambulance’s approach somehow seemed less urgent to the onlookers, considering the old man’s body didn’t have enough unbroken bones left to hold it together.

* * *

Whistler was back across town in the convention center parking lot. The space where he’d stolen the car had been taken, but there was another one close by. He put the keys back behind the visor, got his Slim Jim from the seat, and locked the door from inside before getting out. He couldn’t do anything about the dent in the truck grille, or the blood splatters on the hood, but he left the paintball gun in the back of the truck. A little added evidence against the actual owner. Explaining it away was not his problem.

After a quick glance around, he got back into his truck, drove out of the lot, and returned home without incident.

He removed the clothes he’d been wearing, bagged them up with the other clothes he’d left in the closet, then dumped all of his kitchen and bathroom garbage in the bag on top of the clothes and carried it outside to the dumpster. The timing was good. Trash pickup was tomorrow.

He went back inside and sent Dixon a text.

Boss. I’m feeling better. Do you want me back tonight, or come tomorrow as usual?

It was code for “the job is done.”

Within a couple of minutes, Dixon replied.

Tomorrow is fine. Get some rest.

“Damn straight,” Whistler muttered, then ordered a pizza via DoorDash, grabbed a beer, turned on the TV, and settled down to wait for the food to arrive.

* * *