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He kept silent. Quietly waited to see where she was going with it.
“What are you here for?” she demanded, voice rising. “What is my husband mixed up in?”
Now that she was closer, he saw the lines of strain on her face. The shadows under her eyes, cleverly concealed with makeup. Her excessive thinness. She wasn’t a stupid woman. She was catching a strong whiff of rot, and she didn’t like it.
Well, she shouldn’t. He slowly shook his head.
“Tell me!” She was almost yelling at him. “What is he involved in?”
He blew out a breath to buy him a second to decide whether or not this was a mistake. Too late now. He saw Diana’s bugged-out eyes.
“Nothing good, ma’am,” he said quietly.
She crossed the distance between them with a lunge and grabbed his arm. “I have two children,” she said sharply. “Two young girls.”
He looked down at the manicured white and pink claw that shook with strain as it dug into his arm. “I’ve got a piece of advice for you, then,” he said. “Take your girls, put them on a plane, and get them the hell away from here.”
She stumbled back, and put her hand to her throat.
“I say this as a friend,” he added.
“You’re not his friend,” she hissed. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“Not his,” he admitted. “But I’ve got nothing against your girls.”
Her throat worked. She looked older when her mouth was pursed up. “I am not involved with it, whatever it is,” she said stiffly.
He looked around and a mean laugh jerked his chest. “Get real, lady,” he said. “You’re living in it. You’re driving it.” He gestured at the double-strand pearl necklace held together with diamond baguettes that gleamed in the vee of her silk blouse. “You’re wearing it.”
She jerked back as if she’d been burned. “Get out,” she said. “Get off my property, before I call the police.”
Typical. Concerned for her girls’ safety, sure, but don’t fuck with the diamonds. He turned, and got the hell out of there. He could feel the unfriendly pressure of that woman’s eyes against his back.
Well, shit. Chances were good that she would tell her husband what she had seen, and the guy would make whatever he liked of it. But even so, Richard Mathes didn’t seem to care about letting the women who were close to him die at Zhoglo’s hands.
He guessed that was the real reason he’d come here. Fuckup or no fuckup, after seeing Diana Evans’s body lying on the floor, he was glad he’d given that woman a heads-up. He hoped she was smart enough to take it and run with it. Before Zhoglo ate her kids for lunch.
He got into his truck and took off with a roar of the engine, but when he turned the first corner, he had a weird, déjà vu zing to his brain. He’d noticed it before when driving around that particular block.
He swung around the loop again to see if he could pin it down.
This time he saw it with his conscious mind. That car. He’d noticed it out of the corner of his eye before, but he hadn’t put it together. A shiny black SUV. Becca said that Diana drove one of those. He pulled in ahead of it, and checked the plates, just in case.
Holy shit. It really was the woman’s car. Parked right there.
He got out and went to take a look. It was a mess inside. A long beige raincoat was crumpled in the back seat, as though she’d slept on it. The passenger seat was littered with junk. Too many people driving by on the busy avenue for him to be comfortable with jimmying the lock, but he remembered Becca’s experience, and tried the door handle. Just for the hell of it.
It opened. He got into the driver’s side, and was hit with the heady stench of whiskey. A short search revealed an uncapped flask of what smelled like scotch. The liquor had drained out onto the floor.
The glove box had nothing but the registration and a fistful of maps. He went through all the garbage on the seats; crumpled tissues stained with makeup, receipts, paper coffee cups with bright red lipstick marks, medical journals, a silk scarf, breath mints and chewing gum to hide her alcohol breath, not that it ever worked. The packaging for the old digital voice recorder Becca had noticed. A couple of mismatched earrings. They looked expensive.
The center console yielded more garbage, more mints, and a stash of quarters for tolls.
He checked out the back seat and hit pay dirt with the beige raincoat. There was a small, hard object in the depths of one of her coat pockets. Just what he’d been hoping for, ever since Becca’s tale, and the picture of the blood and urine samples.
He fished out the digital dictation recorder and stared at it, then pushed its ‘on’ button. Nothing happened. Nothing lit up.
The phone rang. He pulled it out, hoping it was Becca, but the display informed him that it was Davy. He pocketed the recorder, let out a flat sigh of disappointment, and hit talk. “Yeah?”
