Angels (Nevada James #3) (Nevada James Mysteries) (4 page)

“I know
about a murder,” she finally said. “Three murders, really, but it’s the last
one. The last one was the wrong one, Nevada. Can you believe that shit? It was
the wrong fucking one.”

I shook
my head, and then took a minute to feel like an idiot because I’d wanted her to
see that and of course she couldn’t. “What does that even mean?”

“That’s
all you get,” she said. “Three murders. Come see me and bring money.” She
rattled off an address I recognized as being in a particularly bad part of the
city.

“No,” I
said.

She
screeched again. “I’m telling the truth!”

“I
believe you,” I said. “At least I believe you’ve got
something
worth
hearing. But I’ve got a bad ankle and I’m not going out tonight. Certainly not
to
that
shithole block.”

“Come
tomorrow, then.”

I
sighed. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll come tomorrow and listen to what you have to say.
Listen, Krystal, I always liked you, but you really need to not be wasting my
time here.”

“I’m
not.” She sounded both relieved and even more frantic now. I didn’t know how
that was possible. Really good drugs, maybe.

“At the
least I’ll get you a bus ticket out of the city,” I said. “Or…don’t take my
head off for suggesting this, but I can get you into a rehab.” Her breathing
stopped. “I’ll pay for it. I have the money. You get in a car with me and I’ll
drive you up to Hope Springs. It’s a clinic in Anza-Borrego. The admin up there
owes me a favor. If he hasn’t got a bed, he’ll know someone who does.”

She didn’t
say anything, but I could hear her breathing again so I knew she hadn’t hung up
on me. “You’d do that for me?”

“Yes.”

She made
a small sound that might have been a chuckle, but I wasn’t sure. “You really
are an angel, Nevada.”

“I can
guarantee you’re the only person on Earth who thinks so,” I said. “Will you go
with me?”

I
already knew the answer, but I pretended I didn’t while she deliberated
silently. “I…I don’t think so,” she said. “If I get out of here, maybe I can
get clean on my own. I want to, Nevada. I really do. I just have to get out of
here.”

I wasn’t
going to push it. Rehab had been a longshot. And it wasn’t like I’d ever gone
to one. It wouldn’t have worked for me. Some people swore by it, though. “Will
you at least talk to me about it tomorrow?” I asked. “I won’t force you to go.
If you decide not to, I’ll drive you to the Greyhound station instead.”

“Okay,”
she said. “It’s a deal. Bring money, though. Is…is a thousand bucks okay?”

That
wasn’t the most I’d ever paid a confidential informant for information, but it
was close. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the money, though. “I can do that,” I
said. “If you tell me something interesting, anyway. I really want to believe
you’re not wasting my time, or…” I stopped. I’d nearly said
setting me up
to be robbed
. I wanted to believe Krystal would never do that, but I
wouldn’t have put it past her. “Anyway, I just don’t know.”

“I’m not
wasting your time,” Krystal said. “I promise. Angel Nevada, I promise.”

That
kind of talk was getting old in a hurry. “2:00 pm tomorrow,” I said. I’d never
been a fan of getting up early.

“Okay.
I’ll be here.”

“No,” I
said. “I don’t want to go to your place.” I couldn’t ignore the possibility
that this was a robbery plot that was both desperate and imaginative. I thought
about it. “There’s a McDonald’s about five blocks south of there. Across from a
laundromat. They’ve got a big sign with a happy washing machine or something.
You know it?”

“Yeah. I
know it.”

“Meet me
there at 2:00. I’ll buy you a hamburger.”

“Okay,”
she said. She hesitated. “Um…that’s on top of the thousand, right?”

“The
burger’s on me,” I said. “We good?”

“Yeah.”

“See you
then.” I hung up and looked at the burner phone. I had a habit of throwing
these away after one use, but that call hadn’t been anything that was going to
come back and haunt me later. I had every right to call Krystal. Dan Evans had
given me the number himself.

I threw
the phone away, anyway.

Chapter 4

I woke up
late the next morning, which was as per usual. There were advantages to not
having a real job. I could sleep as late as I wanted. My ankle was still sore,
but not bad enough that I’d probably have trouble getting around. I popped two
Advil anyway and washed them down with a Diet Coke. I’d never been big on
eating breakfast. My stomach had never tolerated food early in the morning back
in my drinking days, and my appetite had never really recovered from that.

After an
hour of screwing around on the Internet I went into my bedroom and opened the
closet. I had two suitcases in there. Both were full of cash. Some had come
from working for the gangster I’d done a job for last year. Unsurprisingly, he
hadn’t wanted to pay me with a check. The rest had come from Anita Collins, my
client on the last “job” I’d had. That had been an unmitigated disaster. Anita
had screwed me over, killing a man she’d paid me to find for her. She’d
promised me when I’d taken the job that she’d let the legal system take its
course, but she’d been lying and I’d fallen for it. She’d tried to make up for it
with money, but I was still angry about it. Anita was currently under house
arrest, her murder trial having been stalled with every legal trick her
high-priced lawyers had been able to engineer. She’d probably walk, in the end.
I didn’t have much faith left in the justice system. The money came in handy,
though. I’d never have to work again, so long as I didn’t lose my mind and start
buying myself fancy cars. Or maybe a private jet or two.

A
thousand dollars meant next to nothing to me. I counted ten hundred-dollar
bills into an envelope and stuck it in the pocket of my damaged leather jacket.
If Krystal actually let me get her into a rehab I’d need more, but that was
fine. I’d been making small deposits into a bank account I kept for nearly a
year now. They were never big enough to raise questions with the IRS, but they
gave me a way to deal with larger expenditures. Most places didn’t want to
accept an envelope full of cash as payment, but a wire transfer would do just
fine.

I waited
until 1:30 and then left the house, arming the security system behind me. My
Glock was in its holster under my arm. Each time I left the house I took a
moment to scan the cars outside. I’d memorized the make, model, and license
plate of every vehicle owned within a two-block radius. Those I expected to
see. Anything else I took note of. Strange cars in the neighborhood weren’t
anything I worried about, unless I saw them more than once. Then I wanted to
know who was in them. The Laughing Man had staked out my house before. Admittedly,
one time that had actually saved my life. I’d have to be sure to thank him for
that, right before I put a bullet in his head.

I drove
an old Mustang Cobra that was in need of a good washing, if not an entirely new
paint job. One of these days I’d get around to doing that. I might also get the
engine souped up a little. I didn’t need to drive the fastest thing on the
freeway, but if the day came that that ever changed, it wouldn’t hurt to be
ready. I’d already taken a precision driving course six months ago, just so I’d
have the skills to handle myself if the Laughing Man ever showed up and tried
to run me off the road. I didn’t expect he ever would, but then again, it
seemed like he never did what I expected him to.

Krystal’s
neighborhood was in the southeastern part of the city, in an area where things
tended to be a little…dicey. That was putting it mildly. There seemed to be a
liquor store with bars on the windows on every corner, and gang-related
graffiti was everywhere. There were places in San Diego where people felt fine
walking around without shoes on. Around here doing that would probably give you
tetanus. And that was if you didn’t manage to stab yourself with a discarded
needle. Who knew what you might pick up then?

I found
the McDonald’s I was looking for and noted that the laundromat with the smiling
washing machine sign I’d described to Krystal was still there. That was useful.
I didn’t know if there was another McDonald’s nearby; most big cities had a
huge number of them, but realistically, how many could be right next to such an
unusually happy laundromat?

At 1:55
I got out of the Mustang, fed a couple quarters into a parking meter, and
headed inside. My ankle was starting to complain a bit, but it wasn’t that bad.
I was limping, but not enough that people were likely to stop me and ask if I
was okay. But then again, in this neighborhood, what were the odds of anyone
doing
that
?

The
interior of the McDonald’s itself was surprisingly clean and tidy, which seemed
odd given the neighborhood it happened to be located in. It looked like any of
the other of the franchise’s billion other restaurants, save for the presence
of a large, uniformed security guard stationed just inside the front door. He
had a shaved head, tattoos that suggested he’d done prison time, and an
expression that said if you did anything out of line, he was going to take you
out back and introduce you to Grimace. You didn’t want to meet Grimace. Nobody
wanted to meet Grimace. What the hell
was
Grimace, anyway? He looked
like a pile of grapes that had been involved in a chemical accident and grown
arms.

Krystal
wasn’t in the restaurant, but it was still a little early. Meth addicts weren’t
known for their punctuality, anyway. It occurred to me that I had no idea what
kind of shape Krystal was in or what she might look like. If it was bad enough,
the security guard might stop her at the door and turn her around. I could
intervene, of course, but there was no need to make a scene. Krystal might get
upset about it, and things could go downhill quickly. There was a seating area
outside, well in view of the door she’d have to use. I ordered two combo meals
and took them out there when they were ready. I’d gotten regular cheeseburgers
for Krystal. I doubted she’d care what she ate, but if she didn’t want
cheeseburgers I’d get her something else.

At 2:05
there was still no sign of her. I wasn’t in a hurry. Dan had been right about
what he’d said earlier. I really didn’t have anything to do.

By 2:15
I was starting to get annoyed. Had I gotten the distance from here to her
address wrong? Maybe she was further away than I’d thought. I pulled out my
phone and mapped it. No, I’d been fairly close. She should be here by now. I’d
probably have to buy more food when she got here. McDonald’s burgers didn’t
take terribly long to go from palatable to not.

A second
security guard I hadn’t noticed before came over and asked me if everything was
all right. The question surprised me at first. Did I look like a vagrant? Then
I remembered I hadn’t taken a shower or brushed my hair today. I didn’t do
those things nearly as often as I should, but it was still better than when I’d
been drinking. Plus, I’d ordered food and wasn’t eating. On top of that, my
face still had stitches in it, so I’d have had to admit I might look a little
suspicious. Once I’d assured him I wasn’t mentally ill or about to freak out on
everyone nearby he went on his way.

2:30
came and went. I got up and threw the uneaten food I’d bought in the nearest
trash can. Where the hell was Krystal? I’d refused to meet her at her place on
the off chance she was setting me up for a robbery, but I hadn’t really thought
that’s what was going on. She’d agreed to meet me here without protesting. But
she could just as have easily come here, made up some story about the murders
she supposedly had information about, and I would have paid her, anyway. I’d
probably have paid her even if I wasn’t sure she was telling the truth, and if
I felt like an idiot about it later, that was just the cost of doing business.
But Krystal had never burned me in the past. Admittedly, she might be a great
deal more desperate these days then she had been when I’d known her, but it was
hard to believe she’d have come up with
this
cockamamie plan. Call my
old office number and claim to have a tip for me? That just seemed…farfetched.

Her
house wasn’t that far from here. It would be an easy walk, but I didn’t want to
tax my ankle. I got in the Mustang and headed up the street I expected she’d be
walking on if she was heading to meet me. If I didn’t spot her on the way
there, I could at least see if she was at home.

Krystal
was nowhere on the sidewalk. When I reached the address she’d given me, I could
see that the house she’d apparently been living in had been otherwise abandoned
for some time. One side looked like somebody had crashed a truck into it and
then just left the scene. If this was her real address, she was definitely
squatting here. There was no way she had a lease. The place had probably been
condemned and was just waiting for someone to tear it down.

I parked
on the street and got out of the car, stopping for a moment to look around. My
fingertips found the handle of my Glock under my jacket. Of course it was still
there. It was
always
there. That knowledge didn’t stop me from checking
twenty times a day.

The only
person in sight was a bearded homeless man half a block away wearing what
looked to be pieces of two different bathrobes that had been sewn together. He
was currently engaged in a heated argument with a shopping cart. Nothing around
here seemed particularly out of place. Decrepit and sad, yes, but there was no
sign of trouble.

Krystal’s
house had bars on its windows. The front door was closed. I went up the walkway
and pressed the doorbell, but I didn’t hear anything chime from inside. Odds
were this place didn’t have any electricity. I knocked as heavily as I thought
would be audible inside but not also sound like someone who was coming to evict
her. “Krystal!” I called out, putting my mouth near the door. “It’s Nevada
James. Are you in there?”

There
was no reply from inside. I waited for a moment and then knocked again.
“Nobody’s home,” a voice called from behind me. I turned and saw the homeless
man I’d noticed before. He seemed to have made up with his shopping cart and
was now watching me from the street. “Lady left a while ago,” he said.

“Krystal?”

“Don’t
know her name.” He shrugged.

“Did she
look like…” I stopped and tried to think of a good way to phrase my question.
“Did she look like she was going out to get a fix?” Did people still say
fix
?
I didn’t know.

“Nah,”
the man said. “She was a business lady. Dressed nice.”

That
couldn’t possibly have been Krystal. Someone from social services? Someone
coming to serve eviction papers? Either of those things would explain why
Krystal wasn’t answering the door. “Do you know if there’s anyone else in
there?” I asked. “Another woman? She’d be in rough shape, probably.”

The
homeless man shook his head. “Never saw one. I heard a noise.”

“Just
now?”

“No.
Before the lady came out.”

“Okay.”
I shook my head. “Do you know what kind of noise it was? People talking, maybe?
Arguing?”

“.32
caliber. Two shots.” He nodded. “Back in the war I…” but I wasn’t listening
anymore. I spun around, turned the door’s handle, and was in the process of
trying to bash it open with my shoulder when I realized it wasn’t locked. The
door swung wide. My Glock was out an instant later, pointed into the darkness.

“Glock
19, nine millimeter,” the homeless man said from behind me. I ignored him. At
the moment I was too busy trying not to gag. The smell wafting out of the house
was worse than anything I could remember having experienced before. It was like
a chemical spill had met a city dumpster and they’d had children together. This
place probably hadn’t been cleaned in years, and I wouldn’t have been surprised
if it had been a drug lab at some point. I had no idea what a drug lab actually
smelled like, but people always said it was bad.

I took a
step forward and detected another smell. Gun smoke. Someone had fired a pistol
in here in the very recent past. So the homeless guy hadn’t been wrong about
that. “Stay there,” I called to him.

“Sure
thing,” he said. Then he started pushing his shopping cart away.

“God
damn
it,” I said. I started to go after him but stopped myself. I could catch up
with him later if I needed to. Odds were his cart would start mouthing off
again and need a firm talking-to. And if Krystal was somehow still alive in
here, I didn’t have the time to waste.

From
outside I was looking into what I assumed was the house’s living room. It
didn’t have any furniture, and as I’d suspected would be the case, the nearest
light switch didn’t do anything when I flipped it. The only light to see by was
that which was coming in through the windows and door. All I could see from
here was garbage, and quite possibly more of that than I’d ever seen before in
one place and at one time. Most of it was in bags stacked against the walls
three-high, but there was plenty that hadn’t made it into bags in the first
place. It was hard to blame Krystal; there was no chance this house had trash
service coming every week, and it wasn’t like she could drive to the nearest
landfill.

“Krystal?”
I called out. Nobody answered. I thought I saw cockroaches scuttling around in the
shadows and decided to try to ignore it.

I made
my way through the living room as cautiously as I could, Glock at the ready. It
was quiet in here and I doubted anyone would be able to sneak up on me through
the sea of trash I was wading through, but better safe than sorry. Meth heads
often lived with other meth heads; it wasn’t inconceivable that she had
roommates. If that was even the right word for when you were squatting in an
abandoned house with your drug fiend friends, anyway.