“You keep promising to cook, this has yet to happen.”
“I kill in the kitchen,” I bragged. “I’ll make my egg and bacon sandwiches on cheesy buttermilk biscuits. We tell D I’m making them, he’ll be his normal half-asleep, and he’ll still get in his rental to go get the ingredients if we don’t have them.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I smiled, pressed close, brushed his skin with my lips, then turned in his hold so he was spooning me.
He gave me some weight at the back, tucked my hips tighter into curve of his and buried his face in my hair.
Oh so totally awesome with the spoon.
I was almost back to sleep, Rush’s breath had evened, when a low, ragged groan split the air.
Diesel.
My eyes popped open. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Rush’s arm got tight and he chuckled into my hair.
“I’m gonna kill them,” I announced.
“Just chill.”
“You need your sleep.”
Rush said nothing. There was silence. No bed pounding. No grunting.
Okay, maybe D was just making really loud sleep noises.
“Yeah, bud, that’s it. Love that draw. Suck me,” Diesel could be heard encouraging.
“For fuck’s sake,” I snapped, lifting up my head, seizing my pillow, dropping my head to the mattress and slamming the pillow over me.
Rush’s body rocked into mine with his laughter.
My “Men!” was muted too.
Rush’s body kept rocking into mine.
Whatever.
The pillow worked.
And around about the time Rush relaxed into me, I fell asleep.
Chew
Four forty-five that morning . . .
Dragging the bags up the stairs, Chew checked the numbers on the doors as he went down the outside walkway until he saw fourteen.
He used the key with the big, diamond-shaped, plastic medallion that had the same number imprinted on it, let himself in, dragging the bags behind him.
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Went to the curtains hanging at the front window.
He slapped them closed.
Only then did he feel his way to the light on the nightstand and turn it on.
He went back to the three plastic bags, heaved them across the room and up on the bed.
Then he stood there, staring down at them, feeling his whole body shaking.
How?
How did they know?
How did they find him?
Going home after his work of the night, feeling good, feeling fucking awesome he hadn’t lost his touch.
A little time staking shit out. A little more time watching.
Two liquor stores and a convenience store.
This time, he didn’t leave them dead since they didn’t even see the tire iron before it slammed into the backs of their skulls.
They’d have headaches when they woke up, and Chew had some mild concern that last guy was bleeding more than he should.
But whatever.
He got their cash bags.
Their daily takes.
And thank fuck he kept his stash in his car. If he didn’t, now he’d be screwed.
Fuck.
How had the cops found him? All over his safe house when he got home. Lights flashing. That fucking do-good fuckwad Mitch Lawson and that fucking asshole ex-DEA fuck Brock Lucas standing at the front of his safe house chatting.
Tack’s friends.
Tack’s buddies.
Chew did not give one single fuck those men were at Tack’s side when they took the house where Tack’s old lady was inside, stuck to shit, bleeding out.
They were fucking cops.
Tack was an outlaw.
What the fuck?
More importantly . . .
How had they fucking fuck fucking found him?
He stared at the bags.
Grew still.
“Digger,” he whispered.
The only motherfucker alive, now that Harrietta and Cammy were dead, who knew where his safe house was.
He turned, about ready to grab the TV and throw it across the room.
Instead he skulked to it, snatched up the remote, turned that fucker on low so if he had neighbors in this shithole, he didn’t wake them so they’d complain.
He found a local channel, turned back to the bed and yanked open the bags.
One bag: fives, tens, twenties, some fifties, a few hundreds, even some ones.
One hundred and seventy-seven thousand dollars and some change.
What was left from his score from the glory days of Chaos.
The second bag: Cammy’s jewelry Valenzuela gave her, same thing from Harrietta not given to her by Benito but by her ex (not that there was much of that), Harrietta’s grandmother’s silver, Chew’s dad’s watch, the Rolex one of Chaos’s whores stole from a john that Chew claimed as his, and three guns, a .38, a .22 and a 9mm.
Third bag: the envelope with his take from the whores last night (thirty-two hundred measly dollars and some jewelry that wouldn’t bring much), the three cash bags from tonight (seventeen thousand and some change) and fucking seven fucking pairs of Cammy’s designer shoes and five designer handbags, which Benito bought her.
He’d been reduced to shoes and handbags.
But fuck, those bastards were worth a mint.
He’d have to find a fence. One who wouldn’t dial the cops or Chaos the minute he got a whiff of Chew.
Which meant he’d have to leave town for a while.
His take from Digger was out. He knew that sick asshole had whacked Chantilly. Now the cops knew, so he couldn’t blackmail his ass.
Chantilly. Total waste. Even high and used to shit, that bitch was tight.
And since they caught his ass, Chew couldn’t go and steal his bike.
His bike.
Chew’s bike was at his safe house.
The motherfucking cops would seize his bike.
Chew sat on the edge of the bed, his face falling in his hands.
“Jesus, shit, my baby,” he whispered.
It was then he thought of his other babies.
His tarantulas.
All eighteen of them.
He felt his throat get thick.
What would they do with his babies?
What if those pig cops opened the door, and they got out? They’d been born in captivity. He’d had some of them for fifteen, twenty years.
Without him, how would they eat?
“Early this morning, Denver police arrested Wayne Benson . . .”
His head shot up and his eyes went to the TV.
“ . . . a suspect in the murder of Diane Ragowski, a twenty-eight-year-old Denver resident, found murdered in her home last January.”
Denver resident.
Unh-hunh.
Porn fucking snatch.
Guess your sins got washed away, some asshole ends you.
“After the arrest, police found stashes of illicit drugs and a variety of child pornography in Mr. Benson’s home.”
A chill spread through Chew, making him shiver.
“Police report that Mr. Benson has been charged with one count of first degree murder, three counts of possession of controlled substances with the intent to distribute and multiple counts of sexual exploitation of children. He’s been remanded into custody and will await a bail hearing on Monday.”
“That sick fucking fuck,” Chew muttered.
Christ.
Well, his time in prison would be fun.
Chew found the remote, punched the TV off then tugged the bags off the bed, reached in and got the .38. He checked it’s load and set it on the nightstand.
He turned out the light and stretched out on top of the covers.
He closed his eyes.
He was almost asleep when they popped open.
Digger was talking.
Digger led them to him.
Digger was a sick fucking fuck tied to Chew.
“Shit,” he whispered, his mind turning, turning so fast, he started getting a headache.
He needed to find a fence.
He needed to find a goddamned fence.
And he needed insurance.
He stared through the dark before dawn at the ceiling.
His mind stilled when it hit him.
And when it hit him, his lips curved in a smile.
Well then, he guessed he was going to Vegas.
And after that, heading to Boulder.
Tack
Eight oh five that morning . . .
“Police report that security video shows the man who murdered the owner of a liquor store in the early hours of the morning, as well as the man suspected in two other attacks that left another liquor store owner and a night manager of a convenience store in the hospital, is one Arthur Lannigan.”
Tack sat at the bottom edge of his and Red’s bed, elbows to his knees, staring at the TV.
“Arthur Lannigan is the same man suspected in the deaths of Natalie Harbinger, twenty-six, and Camilla Turnbull, twenty-seven. Both women’s bodies were found on the same night in different locations in Englewood earlier this summer. Mr. Lannigan is also the man suspected of a rash of murders Friday night, when five prostitutes were found dead in motels throughout Denver. They’d been robbed.”
The door opened and even though Tack knew with the swift way it closed that it was his wife, he didn’t take his eyes off the TV.
“Police raided Mr. Lannigan’s residence in Littleton early this morning to find he had already fled.”
“He hadn’t fled. Spooked him,” Tack grunted. “Slim told them not to go in fuckin’ hot.”