“You need to shut the fuck up and go to this address.”
Quintero gave him an address on Spaulding, just over the river. Mason stayed off the highway, making his way down the dark, quiet streets. He crossed the river and spent a few minutes looking for the exact street and address. There was a huge storage warehouse and an asphalt yard locked up for the night. A half-dozen houses all boarded up, then at last another brick building with a large garage door being rolled up, a sudden bright rectangle spilling out onto the street. Mason turned into the opening. He saw Quintero standing there, his arms folded. The door was already rattling shut when Mason stopped the car and got out.
There were two other men in the garage. Dark-haired Latinos like Quintero, except these men both wore gray coveralls. Banks of fluorescent lighting hung from the high ceiling, the area above them seeming to disappear into the darkness. There were workbenches and a lift and heavy welding equipment. Mason knew what this place was. He’d seen his share of chop shops.
“Tell me why I just killed a cop,” Mason said.
Quintero didn’t move. He kept his arms folded in front of his chest and said something to the other two men in Spanish. The men laughed.
“Tell me why,” Mason said, “before I kick the shit out of you right here.”
Whatever trace of a smile had been on Quintero’s face disappeared in an instant. “Shut the fuck up, Mason. We got business to take care of. Take off your clothes.”
“Excuse me?”
“We gotta get rid of them. You smell like a slaughterhouse.”
Mason looked down at himself. It was his first good look in bright light. Even though his jacket and pants were black, he could see that they were soaked with blood. He took the towel from the motel bathroom out of his jacket. Then he took the gloves out of one pocket. Finally, he took the gun out of the other.
“Chingada Madre!” Quintero said. “The fuck is the matter with you? That gun is clean!”
“So what?”
“So you don’t bring it with you, you stupid pendejo. You leave it in the room.”
“Excuse the fuck out of me,” Mason said. “I never shot anybody before.”
Quintero took the gun from Mason as he said something else in Spanish to the other two men. They already had both car doors open and were working on the seats.
“What are they doing to the car?” Mason said.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Quintero said, taking the gloves and the towel. “Now take off your clothes. Unless you have any other surprises for me.”
Mason took off his clothes. Quintero took them from him and put them in a garbage bag. Then he led Mason to a shower in the corner of the warehouse. He handed him a bar of soap and a large scrub brush.
“Every inch,” he said. “No DNA, no fibers. We take no chances.”
Mason got to work scrubbing himself down. When he was done, he stepped out of the shower. He grabbed the towel that had been put on a nearby worktable. Next to it were a pair of jeans and a shirt, underwear, socks, and shoes. He put on the clothes and looked at the rough mirror someone had screwed to the wall over the sink. The scrape over his left eye was still raw, and his whole face needed an ice bag. But he wasn’t about to ask for one. He walked back to where the men were working on the engine of the Mustang. They already had the car seats out. Now they were pulling out the battery.
“You’re not going to chop this car,” Mason said.
They ignored him.
“They’re not going to chop it,” Quintero said from behind him. “They’re going to fucking obliterate it. They’re going to break it down to nothing like it never existed. That cop who saw the car? He saw a ghost.”
Quintero took the wet towel from Nick and added it to the bag of clothes.
“Over here,” Quintero said. He led him to the opposite side of the warehouse, where there was an incinerator. Quintero used a long pair of pliers with taped-up handles to open the door. Both men raised their arms against the sudden wave of heat. Quintero threw in the bag and it was instantly consumed by the flames. He nudged the door with the pliers until it was shut again.
“That camera at the motel,” Mason said to him. “I didn’t see it on my way to the room.”
“What do you think I do?” Quintero said, throwing the pliers on the bench. “Just drive around and watch you? You don’t think I had every angle at that motel taken care of? The feed on that camera was disabled. On all of the cameras, including the ones you didn’t see. I even rented out every other room.”
“What was his name?”
“Jameson. Sergeant Ray Jameson. Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, no big fucking deal.”