Chapter 22
I GOT BACK to my house around ten. I’d been up for forty-two straight hours, running on fumes, desperately in need of rest. The following day was shaping up to be a brute and I wanted to have my wits about me, rather than stumbling around foggy, maybe making a mistake that might cost six innocent people their lives.
Justine called while I was brushing my teeth after a well-deserved shower.
“I just got home,” she said.
“Join the club,” I said, and yawned.
“What was the emergency meeting about?”
“Can’t talk about it. Anything new up at the Harlows’?”
“Not at the ranch, no. Or at least nothing until Sci and Mo-bot can run tests on the samples they brought back. I don’t like Sanders and the other two.”
“I could tell. They’re playing us somehow.”
In the background I could hear dogs barking. “How’s the bulldog?”
“Better,” Justine said. “Settling in.”
“You took her with you?”
“You think I was going to let the dog be taken hostage by Camilla Bronson and locked in some hideaway along with the Harlows’ help?”
“Locked? That’s a little strong.”
“Is it?”
I knew better than to argue any further. “Listen, I’ve got to sleep.”
“One more thing,” she said. “When I went online, I saw a story the AP picked up from a newspaper in Guadalajara.”
I rubbed my head, which was pounding. “Okay?”
“It says that Thom and Jennifer Harlow were spotted stumbling around one of the more notorious sections of that city last night,” she said. “Witnesses claimed they looked past the point of drunkenness.”
“Guadalajara?”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my temples. “Looks like you’re going to Mexico in the morning. Take Cruz with you.”
“But the dogs …” she began.
A beep sounded. Call waiting. I looked, closed my eyes, and swore my head was being split in two. My dear brother, Tommy, was calling.
“You’re one of the most competent people I know,” I said to Justine. “Figure it out. Get to Guadalajara. Find the Harlows.”
I hit ANSWER, said, “Tommy?”
“Heh,” Tommy said, laughed.
He’d been drinking. My brother always laughs with a “heh” when he’s been drinking, another shitty trait Junior picked up from our late father. “Didn’t think you were gonna answer there, bro,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“What do you want?”
We hadn’t spoken in months, certainly not since Clay Harris died.
“My mouthpiece called a couple of hours ago,” Tommy said. “That son of a bitch Billy Blaze is indicting me.”
I flashed on District Attorney Blaze during the meeting in the mayor’s office. He hadn’t said a word to me about my brother. But then, why would he?
Tommy kept grumbling drunkenly. “Fucking murder one on circumstantial evidence. Can you believe that, Jack? They got no gun. No forensic evidence.”
“Other than the fact that you were picked up drunk and driving the dead man’s car.”
“No powder blast on my coat or hands,” Tommy said.
“You’ve always been clever,” I replied. “But anyway, sorry to hear you’re going to trial. I’m beat-up tired, heading to bed.”
“Heh,” Tommy said, laughed with more bitterness. “My liar says Billy Blaze will be there for the arraignment. Up for reelection next month, you know.”
“Tommy,” I began before my brother’s voice changed, became arch and knowing.
“I get to speak, Jack,” he said. “Did you know that? At the arraignment? I have the right to speak my piece, even against the advice of counsel and all. You should be there to hear what I have to say, brother. You really, really should.”
And then the line clicked dead.
A few minutes later, I lay in bed in the darkness, thinking, What is there to stop Tommy from bringing me down with him? Implicating me in a murder I was in no way part of just to see me fall into the void after him? Just to see me ruined at last?
Nothing, I thought as I plunged into sleep. Nothing at all.