She paused, tapping the pen cap against her chin.
Alternate, less-paranoid solution. Wendt was cheating on his wife. Who’s the mystery woman? Was she married, too? Arthur Wendt wouldn’t be the first man to get shot by a jealous husband.
The salsa opened her sinuses like a fire hydrant. She wadded up a paper napkin, dabbed at her nose, and took out her phone. A minute later she had the Houston comptroller’s office on the line.
“Hi, it’s Nell Bluth with the Brooklyn Standard. We spoke yesterday. I wanted to check on Mr. Meyer. Has he been released from the hospital?”
“I’m…sorry,” the receptionist said. Her voice was ragged from crying, with the tremor of a woman just barely holding it together. “He passed this morning.”
The steam grate outside the window billowed, fogging the glass, blurring the world. People became hollow shadows, trucks turning to lumbering, growling beasts in the mist.
“Passed?” Nell said. “I’m sorry. I thought he was going to be fine, though—”
“Just…one of those things, the doctors said. He was up and talking, but they needed to keep him overnight for observation, and…I guess they missed something. Internal bleeding, they said.”
Nell’s first instinct was to pepper her with questions, getting every last detail on the record. She had just enough social grace to know better. She offered her condolences and got off the phone.
That made three. Three thorns in the Weaver Group’s side, plucked. Nell prided herself on being rational and down-to-earth. There came a point, she had to confess, when “down-to-earth” started to look a lot like “stubborn.” Her next call was to Tyler. He told her what his hacker contact could do for her and how much it would cost.
“Do it,” she said. “I’ll Venmo you the money.”
“Are you sure? You know the paper won’t reimburse you for this, right? Considering this is both highly unethical and highly illegal.”
“Do it,” she said.
She was already thinking about the bite this would take out of her checking account—and how rent was due on Friday—but she pushed her hesitations aside.
“You okay?” Tyler said. “You sound a little intense right now.”
“Let’s say some of your conspiracy theories might be rubbing off on me,” she told him. “And there’s a chance—I’m not ready to say I entirely believe it, but there’s a chance—that Arthur Wendt’s mystery lover is in serious danger.”
“She saw a murder, Nell. Of course she’s in danger. The guy’s not going to want a witness running around.”
“Not just because of that.”
Tyler was silent for a moment.
“You think he’s after the phone,” he said. “Which means you think the shooter is working for the Weaver Group.”
“What I think isn’t what matters. What matters is what I can prove.” She tilted her phone’s screen, pulling up an app. “I’m sending the money over. Let’s find that phone—and our witness—before he does. I’m not sure how much time we’ve got.”
* * *
Ducky leaned back, still shirtless, baking in the summer heat. The kitchenette trapped the muggy weather and turned the air into a polluted swamp. He puffed his blunt and tapped it onto his empty breakfast dish, where the ashes pooled along a glistening yellow river of congealed egg yolk. His free hand ran down his chest, catching trickles of sweat.
He figured he should get up and open a window. He also figured he had some absolute quality pot here, head and shoulders over the usual ditch weed he dealt to the college kids, and he really didn’t feel like moving. Maybe later.
“Someone want to open a window?” he called out.
Amber’s voice was muffled behind a door. “In the bathroom!”
“Dee?” he said.
Dee was a puddle of jelly on the sofa. The televangelist marathon was over and now she was watching a Bible-study show for kids, with the story of Adam and Eve reenacted by finger puppets. The puppets had googly eyes and shocked wire-bristle hair, and Ducky vaguely suspected they were up to no good.
“Change the channel,” he said, his words riding a plume of gray smoke. “This show creeps me out.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Dee said.
“That puppet is giving me attitude.” He paused. “Wait. Where’d you learn the word ‘blaspheme’?”
Three quick, firm knocks sounded at the apartment door.
“Amber?” Ducky called out.
“Bathroom,” she shouted back.
Right. His head rolled on his neck, facing the general direction of the sofa. “Dee? Get the door.”
“You get it,” she mumbled. “I’m in church.”
“Swear to God, Dee. Either you make yourself useful around here or you can score your shit somewhere else. And no more discounts.”
The threat of exile was enough to move her. Red-eyed and wobbly, she shambled her way to the door.
“Yeah,” she said as she yanked it open, “what do ya—”
The sound suppressor sounded like a backfiring car. A bullet punched into her forehead. She stumbled backward, wide-eyed and blinking, and dark blood began to gutter from the torn crater in her skull. The red river poured down, curling around her nose, painting her lips while she tried to say something. It sounded like a confused question—wuh, wuh—and then she fell down and stopped moving.
Survival instinct kicked Ducky into action. He scrambled up from the table, knocking the chair back, and lurched for the kitchen cabinets. Amber kept a gun there, a shitty little just-in-case .32 with a taped grip.
The missionary strode across the threshold, the tail of his black raincoat flaring out behind him, and time slowed to a molasses crawl. He stepped over Dee’s body, footfalls echoing like cannons. Ducky ripped through the cabinet, tossing half-empty boxes of cereal over his shoulder. Froot Loops and cornflakes rained down on the filthy linoleum.
He had the gun. Janky in his hand, the revolver’s wheel loose, but he spun and opened fire. His first shot blasted yellowed plaster from the ceiling. The second went wide as the missionary advanced on him, a heat-seeking missile in the shape of a man. The television screen blew out in a shower of sparks and shattered glass.
The missionary took his time lining up his shot. He didn’t miss. His first round caught Ducky in the chest, a second one following right behind. Ducky fell back, feet slipping out from under him and his shoulders slamming the cluttered counter. The third bullet hit him right between the eyes. He slumped to the floor, legs spread, head bowed, a puppet with its strings cut.
The bathroom door flung open. Amber’s scream followed her as she charged across the apartment. Trying to escape at first, but the gaunt man with the gun in her path changed her mind. She ducked low, cupping her arms over her head, and dove into the bedroom.
The bedroom door slammed. A lock let out a faint, flimsy click.
The missionary stood there for a moment, head tilted, studying the carnage.
He approached the bedroom door, standing carefully to one side. “Hello?” he said. “Miss?”
No response.
“I would like to speak with you,” he said, his accent crisp and courteous, “about your friend. A young woman, freckles, dark hair, glasses? I have a photograph. It’s not a very good one, but if you’d be so kind as to take a look—”