Moco almost hit his head on the roof of his S-10 pickup when his mobile phone began to buzz in the front pocket of his jeans. He nearly ran a fat woman in a green minivan off the road. She flipped him off, which would have normally caused him to chase her down, if only to scare her for disrespecting him. Instead, he took a deep breath and imagined the woman’s head sitting on a fence post. Maybe later. That calmed him down some. The phone buzzed again, but Moco let it. He was terrified that it might be Zambrano, checking on the status of the hit. The sicario had felt like he was about to throw up ever since Gusano wasted the wrong dude. Not because he felt any remorse at Aaron Bennet’s death, but because he knew that Zambrano would very literally set him on fire if they didn’t kill the FBI bitch today. This Callahan puta had her federal fingers all over the boss’s North Texas operation—and Zambrano had made it clear. He wanted those fingers floating in a jar of tequila on his mantel by the time he went to bed—pretty nail polish and all.
The danger of being stopped with the guns inside the plastic gas jug post-shooting scared the shit out of Moco. He’d never wanted a joint so bad in his life. Gusano just sat in the passenger seat of the S-10 and listened to his playlist. Nothing ever bothered him. Stupid bastard.
Special Agent Kelsey Callahan lived alone, but Moco fully expected her to be armed. She was sure to put up a fight, so he couldn’t very well get rid of all the guns if he wanted to get the job done. Still, he left the kid watching her house and did a quick run over to Lake Lavon to dump the TEC-9 so there wouldn’t be any ballistics to match the bullets in Aaron Bennet’s chest. There was a metric shit-ton of work to do if they were going to find their way around Gusano’s mistake. Moco had started saying it that way in his head right after the shooting, throwing the blame to the Worm by calling it “Gusano’s mistake.” Maybe the boss would believe it if he said it enough times.
Moco leaned back from the steering wheel to dig out the phone in the middle of the fourth ring. It was Chueco, the kid who was sitting on Callahan’s house.
“Some guy just drove up and went to her door,” Chueco said. “Tall, dark beard. Looks like a tough dude. She let him in, so I guess she knows him.”
Moco mulled over this new information. A new guy would add a wrinkle to the problem, but it might even help. If he was a boyfriend, maybe his presence would mess with Callahan’s mind, make her easier to take. He had a sudden thought.
“Is this guy a cop?”
“I don’t know about him,” Chueco said. “But about five minutes after he got here, a bunch of cops showed up on the next street over. There must be a dozen marked cars. Must be something bad.”
The kid had no idea.
“Sit tight,” Moco said. “We’ll be parked at the 7-Eleven up the street. Let us know when the cops clear out—or if Callahan leaves.”
“She left already,” Chueco said.
Moco stomped on the gas. There was always the risk of getting pulled over, but he figured every cop within fifteen miles was already at Buttermilk Place.
“What do you mean gone? Did the guy go with her?”
“He did,” the kid said. “They got in her car and followed another cop over to the commotion on the next street. Want me to get closer and see what’s going on?”
“No!” Moco snapped, maybe a little too quickly.
Gusano looked over at him, wires hanging from his ears, head bobbing to his tunes.
“Just stay where you can see her car,” Moco said. “Call me when she moves again.”
“’Tá bueno, bye.” Chueco ended the call now that he had his assignment.
Moco eased off the accelerator, feeling an unseen hand tighten around his gut. This was all coming down too fast for him to process. Damn, he really needed some weed.
? ? ?
Special Agent Kelsey Callahan stood over the body of the man she’d never met and clenched her fists until she was afraid her nails might tear through the blue nitrile gloves. Two crime scene technicians from the Garland, Texas, police department busied themselves placing yellow plastic markers on the floor, enumerating the location of three spent shell casings and several boot prints on the polished slate floor around the entry. A uniformed officer photographed the interior of the house while a handful of other officers combed the yard and interviewed the neighbors for any clue as to who had murdered Aaron Bennet.
One of the uniforms, a sergeant named Morris, had served on the Crimes Against Children Task Force for a couple years and knew Callahan lived nearby. He’d snapped to the similar address and taken it upon himself to inform her of the homicide—much to the chagrin of Detective Fran Little, who made it extremely clear that she didn’t want the Feeble Eyes getting their Fed gunk on her homicide case.
Detective Little hitched up the thighs of her 5.11 khakis and squatted on the other side of the body with a digital camera. “You know this guy?” she asked without looking up.
“Never met him,” Callahan said. “It’s obvious what happened, though.”
The detective stood, pushing a lock of straw-colored hair off her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. “And how’s that?”
Callahan bit her tongue to keep from saying what she really wanted to say. “I guess there’s a chance this guy has gambling debts or a jilted lover, but there’s a more obvious answer. This is 2348 Buttermilk Place. I live at 2348 Buttermilk Circle.”
Detective Little raised both eyebrows, like Callahan was some kid she was trying to humor. “I’d rather look at the evidence in total, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m pointing out all the evidence,” Callahan said. “If you don’t—”
“Better check yourself,” Detective Little said. “It sounds like you’re about to give me an ultimatum, and I don’t respond well to those.”
Callahan closed her eyes and took a slow breath. “I was going to say, ‘If you don’t see it, I can spell it out for you.’”
Detective Little scoffed. “Well, ain’t that just downright neighborly of you. Makes me feel a lot better.”
“The only motive to kill Aaron Bennet is that he happens to live at an address similar to mine.”
Caruso touched Callahan on the elbow to guide her gently away. The shrinks at Quantico taught that this was one of the most unthreatening places to touch most people, but apparently Callahan was not most people. She jerked away and glared as though she might punch him in the face.