Why?
I chase the thoughts away for right now as I pull onto Massachusetts. McEvoy’s place is at the corner of 21st Street, a swanky, three-floor Queen Anne–style mansion in the heart of Dupont Circle. I parallel park his car outside his lush, overgrown gardens out front. By the time I cut the engine, McEvoy’s full-out snoring in the front seat. I never wake him. I leave him in his shiny Duesenberg, put the keys into his lap like always, and then I walk the long trek home.
*
The next morning I hit the streets early, determined to claim a little bit of the day for myself before McEvoy comes calling, and before I dial the latest into Agent Frain. So I throw on my coat, scarf, and cap and head for the pharmacy around the corner for a paper and coffee. It’s so quiet that I can hear the rustle of a tin can skitter across the blacktop.
But as I round the corner of the nearby alley, between Vermont Avenue and R Street, a car rips up beside me and stops with a screech. Before I can run, or even think, the door cracks open a few inches. Agent Frain leans across the front seat, with one hand on the door. He keeps his motor running.
“Get in.”
On seeing that it’s him, I relax, but my heart still pounds from residual fear. I settle next to him quickly, pull the passenger door closed with a whap.
“You shouldn’t be picking me up on the street. The deal was that I reach out to you,” I say. “This is blocks from Shaw territory. Next time, leave a note, tell me where to meet . . . out in the woods or something. Someone easily could have seen me.”
“Don’t worry, it’s early—but of course I scouted around,” Frain says. “It’s all right. We’ll be out of the city soon.” He eases his car back onto Vermont Avenue. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I crouch low and rest my head against his cracked leather passenger seat. We make a left onto 14th Street, ride it over the Highway Bridge and out of town.
“Right off here should be fine.” Frain steers his car off the next highway exit and follows the road until it winds through a smattering of farms. He finally pulls us onto a stretch of hay--colored grass, cuts the engine, and turns to face me. “You okay?”
It’s a simple question, but a complicated answer. I’m exhausted, without a doubt, and most days feel like I’m owned by the devil. And yet, the more I see of this underworld, the more I believe in what I’m doing—and the more I think this dark world needs to come crashing down. “Guess it’s been a long few months, sir.”
“But you’re doing well. Better than well,” Frain says. “By the way, that Irish ship you tagged for us a while back, the Emerald Jane? We have the coast guard tracking it. Helped us learn the identities of two dozen fae dust sweepers up and down the coast. Honestly, Alex, you’ve managed to do more in these past few months than some of our entire Unit teams put together.”
His words warm me, validate everything I’ve been through, guide me forward like a compass. Just focus on why you’re doing this, and the rush of being good at it. Leave McEvoy’s darkness behind for now.
“I’ve got more,” I say, as I lean toward him. “Apparently there was a mix-up at the racetrack. Some Shaw sorcerer forecast a horse winner that was either wrong or got lost in translation. Some of McEvoy’s bigwig contacts had a lot of money riding on it, whole thing was a mess. The sorcerer and the Shaws’ gambling underboss, Sam Sullivan, both blamed the bookie—but the bookie swore he was just following orders.”
“More mistakes,” Frain says slowly.
I nod. “The Baltimore mix-up was the same sort of thing—the racketeering manpower that Boss McEvoy promised Baltimore fell short, and the Boss was left having to deal with the aftermath.” I shake my head. “I haven’t seen anything happen to Kerrigan, the responsible underboss, for it. Don’t think McEvoy’s going after Sullivan about the racetrack mishap, either—instead he took out the bookie.”
“Both Kerrigan and Sullivan are underbosses, Alex,” Frain says evenly. “They’re higher-ups. McEvoy takes them down, and he’s got a lot of people to answer to.”
“But even some other punishment,” I press, “something to mark his turf, show the Shaws that he rules them with an iron fist, that these kinds of mistakes won’t be tolerated.” Then I think back to what McEvoy mumbled in the car, about something being wrong, as I feel Frain’s eyes on me.
And then a possibility slowly starts to crystallize. “Unless McEvoy’s losing his iron fist,” I finish.
Agent Frain gives a slight nod, shifts in his seat, and looks up at me. His face says everything.