“Christ. Tell me you’re not stalking a victim.”
Why did everybody keep saying that? “No, I’m stalking the guy who’s stalking the victim.”
“Okay, fine. How about we don’t tell my husband I did this.”
“Deal.”
There were a lot of rapid-fire keystrokes, a few curses, and an excessively loud sip of something, probably an energy drink. Nicky only drank them at the office where Cy couldn’t see him.
“Uh, he’s pinging at a bar calledRosie’s Last Chance.Sending you the address.”
Javier checked to make sure it was there before he disconnected. Now, he just had to hope this piece of shit was as predictable as Javier thought he was. He parked down the street, removing the gun from his bag and concealing it beneath his sweatshirt.
Bowie had done a great job. The place was busy, the area sketchy, and the parking lot only had a single working light at the far corner of the lot. Javier kept to the shadows, scanning the lot until he saw it. The town car. The engine was running, but the headlights were off.
Javier had to take out the driver first. He stepped in front of the vehicle, raising the weapon. The driver had just enough time to look up from his phone and give Javier a smug smile. There was no sound as the bullets pinged against the glass. The third round pierced through the tempered windshield, putting a bullet between the driver’s eyes.
Javier moved to the left passenger side window, firing blindly into the back of the vehicle, watching as the bullets punctured tiny little holes in the glass. He wrenched the door handle, surprised when it opened. A body slumped out of the vehicle. The man, Bowie’s assailant. Javier checked for a pulse. Dead.
Javier’s breath left his body in a whoosh, and he found himself looking up at the night sky as he forced air back into his lungs. Somebody had hit him. Somebody was still alive in the back. Javier crawled back to his feet, emptying the clip into the back.
“Hey!”
Javier couldn’t make out where the drunken shout came from in the darkened parking lot, leaving him with no choice but to run. Maybe the other guy was dead, maybe he wasn’t. The only thing that mattered was that Bowie’s attacker was dealt with.
Javier, once more, concealed the weapon and pulled the hood back into place before making his way to the stolen car. He threw the gun into the seat next to him and slowly drove away. He didn’t need to draw any more attention to himself. He drove a few blocks before pulling into a deserted parking garage. He drove to the top floor, changing his clothes and dismantling the gun. He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, ditching the pieces of the weapon as he walked before peeling off the gloves and sticking them in his back pocket. He’d get rid of those later.
He walked to the bus station. He was early. He used his real ID to buy a bus ticket to San Diego with no intention of boarding the bus. When he exited the bus depot, a vehicle was idling in the lot. He recognized the man behind the wheel.
“Hola, Jorge? How’s it hanging?” he asked as he jumped into the passenger seat.
“You realize you put yourtioin a shit mood, right?”
“Just wait until tomorrow,” Javier said with a grin. “We leave tonight, right?”
“Yeah, there’s a cargo plane taking off in an hour. You’ll be on it.”
Javier pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, staring at the number scrawled across it.
Heading out of town for a family emergency. I have some friends keeping an eye on you. Don’t be scared. See ya soon, angel.
Bowie couldn’t believe he was back in the police station, back in another interview room. He wasn’t alone this time. Odette sat beside him, her arm looped through his, her head resting on his shoulder. It was late. Odette should have been sleeping by now; she had dance in the morning. He did, too, technically, but that mattered less and less. His life was now forever entwined with this man, even in death.
Bowie felt cold in his core. He didn’t know why they kept these places so cold, but he was certain it was on purpose. He wore jeans and a green button down, and he could only imagine how Odette was doing in her sparkly blue micro-mini and crop top. She had managed to fish her hoodie out of the car at least before they’d approached the officers.
How could this seriously be happening? He knew Javier had done this, had known, on some level, that he was intimating that this would happen. Part of him hadn’t believed it…still didn’t believe his assailant was dead or that Javier had done it. It just didn’t seem real. Bowie wasn’t worth murder. Except, Javier thought he was. He wasn’t sure if he was horrified, grateful, or turned on. The man who attacked him—Giancarlo Giordano—was dead. He was dead and everything just felt…numb.
Odette and Bowie both jumped when the door squeaked on its hinges as a large man in jeans and a polo shirt entered, his badge swinging from a lanyard around his neck. Beside him was Detective Hewitt. Did he also work homicide? Was there a lot of crossover between sex crimes and murder? Probably.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Bowie. Can I call you Bowie?”
Bowie nodded. “Sure,” he said, voice raw even to his own ears.
“There are just some things we need to clear up,” the stranger said. “My name is Detective Parsons, and you know Detective Hewitt. I pulled your case file from a few weeks ago. And John was nice enough to catch me up to speed on the status of your case.”
Bowie stared flatly at John. “What case? There is no case. Remember?”
Hewitt shot a look at Parsons, the kind of I-told-you-so look that made Bowie want to punch them both. He’d been raped and yet, somehow, he was the problem for being angry that the man who did it had walked without so much as a slap on the wrist. Except, now, he hadn’t. Giordano would never walk anywhere again.
