“Well, that just opens up a load of new questions, doesn’t it?’ Clay said as he leaned down and grabbed the back of TJ’s shirt. He dragged TJ’s limp body behind him as he headed for the fire doors. “Let’s get some answers.”
Chapter Seven
Grade winced asClay smashed the side window of the van with a rock. At this point, it would probably be cheaper to pull out the customizations and get a new van rather than fix it. It still stung. His savings were going to be stripped back to pennies at this rate.
At least that was one thing he wouldn’t have to worry about if he ended up as bait in a net.
Clay reached an arm into the van and popped the lock. He stepped back as the door swung open to let Grade have first crack at the mess. The glove box had been cracked open and emptied out, the first aid box upended and coins scattered over the floor. Someone had taken a box cutter to the seats and pulled out handfuls of sponge. The carpets had been pulled up too, and the metal underneath was grooved with deep, raw scrapes from a claw hammer.
A Russian drug dealer up in Frisco had a fondness for thoseanda bad aim. Grade had spackled over the marks he’d left in the walls of his apartment often enough.
The steering column had been cracked open too, and the radio ripped out.
“What were they looking for?” Grade asked.
“Maybe they thought you had money,” Clay suggested.
Grade gave him an annoyed look. “If I had money, why would I still be here?” he asked.
Clay crossed his arms and leaned against the front of the van. He tilted his head to the side and pulled a thoughtful face.
“Maybe they thought you were an asshole.”
That was more likely, but…
“In that case, they’d have pissed in it,” Grade said.
He found his phone down the side of the driver’s seat, jammed into the tracks. The screen came on when he tapped it, but it was locked. From the greasy fingerprints all over the screen, it looked like they’d tried to unlock it and guessed his code wrong enough times to brick the account. Grade stuck it into his back pocket—he could reset it later—and twisted around between the seats to crawl through the hatch into the back.
After this many years, it took a lot to make him retch. The smell in the back did. It wasn’t the blood someone had tipped over the back like slurry, tacky under the soles of his shoes, but the pile of ripe puke in the corner. It smelled like rancid cheese. Grade grimaced and wished he’d grabbed the pot of wintergreen back out of the drinks holder.
He pressed the back of his hand to his nose and took a second to take stock. Once that was done, he made his way gingerly—just in case blood and bleach weren’t all that was underfoot—to the back doors. The lock had been mangled with something, but he steadied himself against the sides of the van and gave it a kick. First time did nothing. The second time—hard enough that he felt the impact in his knee—it popped open.
Clay caught the doors before they could fly all the way back. He glanced past Grade into the back of the van.
“Anything out of place?” he deadpanned.
Grade rolled his eyes. “Ha, ha,” he said. “Give me a hand?”
He stuck his out. Clay hesitated for a second and then took it, fingers tangled together and warm as Grade jumped down onto the gravel that covered the lot. For a second, he was very close to Clay, and he could smell sweat, blood, and cordite layered over whiskey. It caught in the back of Grade’s throat and tickled under his skin. He thought about hanging onto Clay’s hand, just to see what happened. He let go instead.
“Body’s gone,” he said as he stepped away. In the back of his head, he made a mental note to trash the shoes before he went back home. “Most of it.”
Clay had started to say something. He stopped and gave Grade a dubious look.
“Most of it?”
Fair enough, Grade supposed. Sweeny wasn’t his professional stomping grounds after all. There was no reason Clay would know the process.
“Fingers and teeth,” he said. “I removed them back at The Slap. I learned that on day one. You don’t want to be stuck at the dumpsite in the middle of the night doing impromptu dental work on a corpse. They didn’t realize and left them behind.”
Or have to drive back there because you forgot, but that wasn’t something any of Grade’s professional associates needed to know. Besides, everyone had a first day on the job. It wasn’t like he’d not learned his lesson.
“Do you keep them?” Clay asked.
“Of course not,” Grade said. A hint of mild offense sharpened his voice. “I’m not a serial killer. I burn them.”
“Oh well, that’s OK then.” Clay climbed up onto the bumper of the van, arms slung over the doors for balance, and craned his neck to get a good look at the mess. “Any chance that the remains they got would be unidentifiable?”
