Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 16 - Poison Blonde by Loren D. Estleman
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Ads: Link
annihilation. Redundant terms in this case.”
“If there was an escape,” I said.
He looked up. “This is pretty Spy vs. Spy for a domestic gumshoe who prefers his steak smothered in onions.” He’d noticed I hadn’t cleaned my plate.
“The medallions were okay. That grilled cheese I had two hours ago could hold up an overpass.” I poured down the rest of my wine to break it up. “Try entering ‘The Lincoln Question.’”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe the Net knows.”
The Lincoln Question was the trick with the red-hot penny Gilia had told me about, the one that had blinded the prisoner she said she’d helped smuggle out of the country the night the Suerto woman was killed.
He typed it in, waited. “No matches. Could be the equipment. I’ll try it again on the desktop later.”
“There might not be anything. It sounded pretty gaudy to me when I heard it.”
“What happens to the case if there isn’t?”
“The case stays the same. It may go pretty hard on the detective.”
I spotted my brown shadow eight blocks from the restaurant.
He was driving a three-year-old Chevy Corsica in dusty gold, the nearest thing to a plain paper sack on wheels, and I could tell it was breaking his heart because he was hunched behind the wheel like a teenage kid hoping his friends wouldn’t see him out with his mother.
I might not have noticed him at all except he was following all the rules of maintaining a close tail in the city: hanging back a block, observing the limit without becoming a fanatic about it, laying off the horn even when a woman carrying a Jacobson’s bag stepped off the curb right in front of him on Northwestern. He was being so unobtrusive he stank.
I wanted a better look. I found a residential street, swung into it without signaling, and stopped in the middle of the lane. I counted two beats, then he turned in behind me. His brake lights winked on when he saw the Cutlass, but by that time it was too
late. He accelerated and went around me. Neither he nor his partner on the passenger’s side looked right or left as they passed within arm’s reach. They were cruiser class, columnar necks sloping into football shoulders, wearing dark suits as invisible as the car. The driver was Hispanic, thick black hair cut short, Anglo fashion, conspicuously without a moustache. His companion was black, but tipped out of the same double-wide mold. They continued at the same pace to the end of the block, then a volume of thick exhaust spilled out of the tailpipe and they scooted around the corner with a bubble of rising tachs.
I wondered how long it would take them to circle the block.
The license number didn’t mean anything and I only committed it to memory out of habit. It would just trace back to whatever rental company they’d used, and I knew whose name would be on the order. The pair in the car had been among the men I’d seen in Hector Matador’s suite at the Hyatt in Dearborn. The black one, the former U.S. Marshal, would have the legs for the job in case I found a parking space and they didn’t and I took off on foot. It was a professional arrangement.
I gave them a moment to get back into position, then turned around in a driveway and went back the way I’d come.
I picked them up again when I passed a picture-framing shop with a turnaround in front. This time they didn’t bother to try to blend with the scenery. They’d be with me until a cellular call to Fearless Leader could alert the relief team.
EIGHT
I n my travels I’ve managed to assemble an impressive collection of road maps, no two folded the same way and all of them taking up space in the glove compartment that would otherwise go to waste on registration and proof of insurance. Some of them go back to when they gave them out free in service stations, back when there were service stations; and those are strictly of historical interest. Others are more up-to-date, and each one tells the story of a routine local tail job
“If there was an escape,” I said.
He looked up. “This is pretty Spy vs. Spy for a domestic gumshoe who prefers his steak smothered in onions.” He’d noticed I hadn’t cleaned my plate.
“The medallions were okay. That grilled cheese I had two hours ago could hold up an overpass.” I poured down the rest of my wine to break it up. “Try entering ‘The Lincoln Question.’”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe the Net knows.”
The Lincoln Question was the trick with the red-hot penny Gilia had told me about, the one that had blinded the prisoner she said she’d helped smuggle out of the country the night the Suerto woman was killed.
He typed it in, waited. “No matches. Could be the equipment. I’ll try it again on the desktop later.”
“There might not be anything. It sounded pretty gaudy to me when I heard it.”
“What happens to the case if there isn’t?”
“The case stays the same. It may go pretty hard on the detective.”
I spotted my brown shadow eight blocks from the restaurant.
He was driving a three-year-old Chevy Corsica in dusty gold, the nearest thing to a plain paper sack on wheels, and I could tell it was breaking his heart because he was hunched behind the wheel like a teenage kid hoping his friends wouldn’t see him out with his mother.
I might not have noticed him at all except he was following all the rules of maintaining a close tail in the city: hanging back a block, observing the limit without becoming a fanatic about it, laying off the horn even when a woman carrying a Jacobson’s bag stepped off the curb right in front of him on Northwestern. He was being so unobtrusive he stank.
I wanted a better look. I found a residential street, swung into it without signaling, and stopped in the middle of the lane. I counted two beats, then he turned in behind me. His brake lights winked on when he saw the Cutlass, but by that time it was too
late. He accelerated and went around me. Neither he nor his partner on the passenger’s side looked right or left as they passed within arm’s reach. They were cruiser class, columnar necks sloping into football shoulders, wearing dark suits as invisible as the car. The driver was Hispanic, thick black hair cut short, Anglo fashion, conspicuously without a moustache. His companion was black, but tipped out of the same double-wide mold. They continued at the same pace to the end of the block, then a volume of thick exhaust spilled out of the tailpipe and they scooted around the corner with a bubble of rising tachs.
I wondered how long it would take them to circle the block.
The license number didn’t mean anything and I only committed it to memory out of habit. It would just trace back to whatever rental company they’d used, and I knew whose name would be on the order. The pair in the car had been among the men I’d seen in Hector Matador’s suite at the Hyatt in Dearborn. The black one, the former U.S. Marshal, would have the legs for the job in case I found a parking space and they didn’t and I took off on foot. It was a professional arrangement.
I gave them a moment to get back into position, then turned around in a driveway and went back the way I’d come.
I picked them up again when I passed a picture-framing shop with a turnaround in front. This time they didn’t bother to try to blend with the scenery. They’d be with me until a cellular call to Fearless Leader could alert the relief team.
EIGHT
I n my travels I’ve managed to assemble an impressive collection of road maps, no two folded the same way and all of them taking up space in the glove compartment that would otherwise go to waste on registration and proof of insurance. Some of them go back to when they gave them out free in service stations, back when there were service stations; and those are strictly of historical interest. Others are more up-to-date, and each one tells the story of a routine local tail job
Similar Books
