But he didn’t.
Instead, with his duffel still on his shoulder and Ellie’s little bag under his arm, he tugged her hand and led her out into the disordered maze of official vehicles, red and blue lights flashing, engines idling, exhaust plumes rising.
They passed the Toyota and Peter noted the plate number automatically. As they came to a big white forensics van, Ellie asked, “Where are we going?”
“Away from here,” Peter said.
“What about the police?” Her voice was small and quiet.
Peter reminded himself that she’d been through a lot. “Would you rather go with the social worker? I would understand if you did. It’s your choice. I can take you back.”
“No. Mom told me to stick with you. That’s what I want.”
“Then it’s decided,” Peter said. “Although maybe we should walk a little faster.”
He led her past the forensics van and lengthened his stride. At the narrow sidewalk, they turned and walked south into the relative darkness and calm of Aurora Avenue.
While they were waiting in the motel office, Lewis had texted Peter an address.
Right around the corner, parked under a rain-haloed streetlight, a midnight-blue Chevy Tahoe gleamed darkly in the rain.
The doors were unlocked and the keys were above the visor. There was a fresh roll of aluminum foil on the driver’s seat. Leather interior, all the bells and whistles. How Lewis had made this happen, Peter had no idea, but he was grateful as hell.
He threw their bags into the back seat, fired up the engine, made sure Ellie had her seat belt fastened, and got the hell out of there.
A mile away, he stopped, tore off a long sheet of tinfoil, and wrapped up all three phones into a single brick. The aluminum would cut off any attempt to track the signal.
Because he didn’t know who else might have the number to the phone from the Toyota.
And Durant had the number to Peter’s phone, and Ellie’s.
Peter wasn’t sure exactly which law he’d just broken by walking away with a minor who was a ward of the state, but he was pretty sure it was a big one.
13
He took narrow side streets, weaving north and west through Fremont and Phinney Ridge into the sleepy neighborhood of Ballard. Ellie leaned her seat back and looked out the window at the passing houses. The Tahoe was a boat, but more agile than Peter’s old pickup.
It was almost tenp.m. when they got to Stella Martinez’s sage-green bungalow on Twenty-Fifth NW. The front yard was a riot of plantings. Peter reversed the Tahoe into the side drive and eased it all the way to the rear of the lot beside the oversized garage, assessing his surroundings for security risks.
There were houses close on both sides, each with plenty of exterior lights brightening the night. Six-foot wooden fences kept the back yards private. Past the garage was a four-foot retaining wall with another six-foot fence on top, this one designed to be difficult to climb. Behind that was an apartment building with a gated sidewalk entrance. Any intruder would have to go through Stella’s front door orwalk up the driveway toward the back. So not bad, for a single-family house.
The key was exactly where Manny had said it would be. Peter had met Stella several times, but had never been to the house. In fact, it was his personal policy to stay as far from Stella Martinez as possible. She’d been a drill sergeant in the Army, teaching unarmed combat for ten years before leaving to supervise Manny’s office. Now she ran triathlons and hundred-mile ultramarathons to keep herself in shape. Her last serious boyfriend had been hospitalized for exhaustion. All Manny’s guys were scared of her. Peter was, too.
He unlocked the door, then went back for Ellie. She was asleep on her feet. With her overnight bag under his arm, he got her into the kitchen and up the stairs to the single bedroom. He kept the lights off, not wanting to alert the neighbors in case Stella had told them she was out of town. He drew the curtains, then pointed Ellie toward the bed. “Sit.”
She sat. He bent and untied her Doc Martens, slipped them off. Her socks were white with yellow smiley faces on them. “The bathroom is through that door. I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Okay?”
She nodded, her eyelids sinking. He stood and backed out of the room, closed the door silently behind him, and crept down the steep, narrow stairs.
What in hell was he going to do with a thirteen-year-old girl?
He couldn’t stop thinking about that letter made from cut-up magazine pages. It had just the right amount of goofball for a note from a crackpot. Reed had that vibe in person, for sure. But when you added a second shooter into the mix, someone a lot more capable, it felt like something else. Something bigger. A deliberate strategy. A calculation.
He wandered the darkened house, looking for a landline and finding nothing. He needed to talk with June but didn’t trust his celloutside the tinfoil. His hand itched for a weapon. He should have asked Lewis to arrange for one in the Tahoe.
He went back to the spare bedroom, set up as an office. With a slab-glass desktop over matching blue file cabinets and a crisp wall of bookshelves filled with exercise manuals and fitness guru memoirs, everything was extremely squared away.
Knowing Stella was right-handed, he opened the top right-hand file drawer. A nickel-plated 9-mil SIG Sauer automatic lay on an oil-stained dishtowel. An excellent weapon, fully loaded with a round in the chamber. He carried it into the living room and stretched out on the couch. He could have made a pot of coffee to keep him on watch for the night, but he knew he’d need rest to be useful tomorrow.
