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Wonder how fast the missing van will be reported and the cops will come along?
And did a neighbor see my fight with The Basher and report that to the cops already?
Meanwhile, this whole breathing thing is nice. Oxygen helps.
The hand not holding the gun is covered in blood, so as The Basher’s breath turns agonal and he stops moving, I look at the shelving in here. The poor schmuck who happened to be unlucky this morning was an organized guy, shelves with secured containers lining both sides of the van. I find T-shirts with logos for the business on them and use one to wipe my hand and put another on. No blood on my sweatpants or shoes, so I’m lucky there.
If I’m going to pretend to be the trainer to get access to Paigelynn, I need a good cover story. They’re obviously expecting this guy, who is currently dead in the back of the van.
Which means I need to know his name.
Climbing back, I feel for The Basher’s pulse.
Gone.
I find the dead driver and search his pants for a wallet. Flipping it open, I see the California driver’s license, ignoring a picture of two adorable toddlers from one of those mall photography places.
Simon Milagros, his license says.
Poor guy. No miracles here.
Up front, in the console between the bucket seats, there’s a pack of baby wipes. I use the whole damn thing on my hands and face, then catch myself in the rear-view mirror.
I look like a Jackson Pollack painting, burst red blood vessels all over my face from being strangled.
“Food poisoning. Puking last night,” I mutter, internalizing the excuse. “Bad sushi.”
The Basher starts making weird noses, like an engine backfiring, but they wind down slowly, until ten seconds pass and nothing.
Silence.
A sound outside makes me look at Paigelynn’s front door.
One of her guards is stepping out, looking at the van.
Shit.
I click into Dog Obedience Trainer mode.
And remember I have no bullets left.
I climb out the front of the van, pretending I’ve just been driving, and go around the engine before the guard even steps off the porch.
“Hey there! I’m your trainer.”
Beefy, dressed in a white business shirt, black pants, and wearing sunglasses, he doesn’t blend in anywhere. Bald, but with some facial hair in a goatee, I see gray, which puts him in his early fifties, given the wrinkles on his neck.
I wave. He frowns.
“Come on in.”
As I walk up the sidewalk, he slowly removes the eyeglasses. On his belt, there’s a holster and a gun. Playing dumb, I point.
“Are you a cop?”
“If I was, is that a problem?”
“No, sir,” I say. “My grandfather was in law enforcement. Sheriff in Ohio.”
