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‘Do I know you?’ I asked.
She laughed bitterly. ‘You know who I am. Where’s Christopher?’ she said, barging past me into the apartment. I followed her in, closing the door warily behind me.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she asked John, who was sitting at the dining table. He had one hand under the table, and I was ninety-nine percent sure he was aiming a gun at Allie, waiting for her to make one wrong move.
Great. I didn’t need another dead DEA agent in my apartment. I’d just gotten rid of the last one.
‘I could ask the same of you,’ John snapped, resting one palm on the table.
She looked from me to John, disgusted. ‘I’m looking for my partner,’ she said, scanning the place casually. ‘DEA Agent Chris Murphy. Have you seen him?’
I shrugged. ‘He was here for maybe ten minutes last night. He needed a favour.’
Her eyes lit up at that. ‘Oh, he did, did he?’
‘Yeah,’ I said slowly. ‘And then he left.’
She looked dubious. ‘What kind of favour?’ she pressed.
I shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘You’re not even a real accountant.’
‘She is, actually,’ John interjected. ‘Four years at night school. So client confidentiality stands, and it’s something we take very seriously.’
I looked back at him, surprised. He was pulling this out of his ass. I’d never be allowed to go to something like night school. What point was there in official certification when, on paper, I’d died nine years ago in the Californian desert and been buried for my family to find?
‘We? As in the Il Sangue Cartel? I see you’re wearing a Gypsy Brothers patch. Maybe I should bring you down to the station for questioning.’
‘I’m sure that would be really helpful for your partner,’ John replied coolly.
‘Allie, we haven’t seen him,’ I repeated, going back to the front door and holding it open for her. Get the fuck out of my house, you corrupt bitch.
She glared at both of us one last time before storming out. Before I could close the door, she stuck her hand out.
‘I’ll be watching you, Mariana,’ she said. ‘One false move and your ass is mine.’
I slammed the door in her face so hard it echoed, staring at it for a long while before I made my way back to the dining table. John was looking at me expectantly, waiting for some sort of explanation.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
I filled him in on her last visit, and on the things Murphy had said to me before I killed him.
John whistled. ‘So, they were about to take off together, huh? And take Emilio down in the process?’
‘Something like that,’ I confirmed. ‘He didn’t really give me anything specific to go on. Just wanted me to transfer a lot of Emilio’s offshore cash into an account for him. And the way they were acting, she was in on it, too.’
John rubbed his hand against the stubble on his chin, seemingly agitated. ‘She’s a liability,’ he mused. ‘She’ll keep coming back to you until she finds him. And he’s in little pieces in the bottom of a crematorium somewhere, so we need to deal with her before she gets the DEA officially sniffing around.’
‘Huh,’ I said, an idea forming in my mind. ‘How hard do you think it’d be to get her bank account details?’
* * *
We drove in silence to the strip club. In less than twenty-four hours, I’d gone from being a numbers girl to a part of the action. Blood and bullets, all in a day’s work.
John had what I needed within an hour. I didn’t ask him how. He was the president of the Gypsy Brothers, a motorcycle club controlled by the most powerful drug cartel along the west coast. He could pretty much get whatever he wanted.
‘We doing this now?’ he asked.
