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As we watch, a bald man with wide shoulders strides into the main room of the abandoned Docks on Markee.
“Good haul,” the man says. His hands are in the pockets of his jacket, leaving only his face and neck visible. “Multiple shipments. Nice job, gentlemen.”
He bends at the waist to scrutinize said multiple shipments, nodding at whatever he inspects.
He’s not one of our guys, that’s for sure. Broderick would have mentioned it if he’d decided to put Docks on Markee back in business. I grab the binoculars for a closer look. The shipping crates have no labels. None of the men are familiar to me…which leads me to believe it isn’t Broderick at all.
Which means someone else has commandeered the space.
I know a drug exchange when I see one. Those familiar square parcels are organized into several stacks. I tug on the back of Layla’s jacket to get her to move back a bit before someone glances toward the window and sees two shadows that don’t belong.
We leave slowly, back out the way we came.
Black creeps along the edges of my vision and it takes me a beat to realize that I haven’t drawn in a breath in much too long. The bald guy…he has one of those faces I can’t place, which isn’t good.
His face seems familiar but not one I immediately identify, and no bells of recognition are ringing in my head.
I’m racking my brain to place the guy.
What’s his name?
What are his associations?
He’s someone important. A major player. I can tell from the way he carries himself. Broderick won’t be happy when I deliver this new information.
“I don’t understand,” Layla’s saying from in front of me. She marches along like she has better places to be. Now she’s making enough noise to wake the dead. “What does a drug deal at a defunct warehouse that used to be run by Broderick Stevens have to do with our dead hookers? Candy was clearly killed in a style that mimics yours.”
“Very clear strokes from a left-handed grip. And a token lighter. Although they took great pains not to slice through the birthmark on her hip,” I finish.
Layla stops dead in the center of the pavement. “How did you know she has a birthmark on her hip?” Her gaze accuses me of knowing more about the case than she’s told me, and her suspicion is clear.
“I have my sources,” I tell her coldly.
“You know, with all your talk of trusting each other, I really thought…” She shakes her head. “Delusional, that’s what I am. You’re nothing but a liar. I have no idea why I let myself believe otherwise.” She stalks ahead.
I’m about to follow after her when my phone buzzes. I whip it out of my pocket and stare at the screen. It’s a number I know better than to ignore.
“Where are you with the case?”
The boss.
“I’m working on it.”
I hang up and catch up to Layla, heart racing. “The less you know, the better. Now get in the car. We have to go.”
“Fine,” she grinds out. “Let’s get out of here.”
EIGHTEEN
layla
The longer Ithink about it, the more logically I understand there’s no reason to fight with Gabriel because it won’t get me anywhere. Fighting with him is easy. It’s a cop-out because I would rather have him yell at me than deal with the seething emotions inside of me.
Not cool.
My therapist would call itprojecting.
There are three things I do well in this world: fuck, close cases, and project.
