Chapter Twenty-Six

 

There wasn't a worse time imaginable not to have a gun than when a bunch of thugs come busting through the front door. Not in the world God damn world. So it's with a unique sense of irony that Josh Meadows watches all of this unfold.

He'd left the backup in the car. Didn't want to freak her out. So he'd left the gun in the car. It had caused all of a thirty second delay, and everything. One that he'd been more than a little embarrassed by.

Josh curses and put his hands up. A big mother-fucker with a mask over his face points a big gun in his face. It would do the job, all right. No problem making it so his head wasn't where it used to be.

But something in his gut told him that they were big for a reason, and not for the reasons that might make sense. They'd brought them for show—which didn't mean that they weren't planning to use them if things got hairy.

It does, more or less, suggest that they might not plan on using them if things didn't get hairy. Which is just one of the several reasons that Josh doesn't try to pull out some crazy karate moves.

Another stand-out being that he doesn't have anything to pull out, so he'd be making things up as he goes. History, recent history in particular, has shown that making things up hasn't worked out for him.

"Sit your ass down," the guy growls. His voice is uncomfortably nasally. Like he's got a bad cold. But in the middle of September, most people wouldn't.

The detective might go so far as to guess that only a couple dozen people in the city might have a cold. That, by itself, would be an identifying factor if he had a damn cold. Just find out who's been sneezing a lot lately, and there you go. You got your guy.

He figures it's just another part of the disguise. To disguise his voice. Which means that there's more behind the mask than just someone they could identify later. It's someone that, if they wanted to, they could identify right god damn now.

Josh sits where they tell him to. Nobody wants to get their head blown off for no reason. Then, his hands still above his shoulders, he tries to start getting them back out of this mess.

"What do you want?"

"We want the fuckin' money."

Josh does his absolute best not to look over at Anna. He can imagine the look of sheer confusion on her face, though. It probably looks a lot like his own.

"What money?"

"The money you didn't fuckin' pay us. We know the bitch has it, now where the fuck is it?"

This time Josh can't resist. "A dozen different cops I know and trust can tell you, we paid the money. It's gone. She only had it for about 45 minutes on Tuesday afternoon."

"Stop fuckin' lying to me, asshole." The big god damn gun is in Josh's face again. He closes his eyes and tries to slow his heartbeat by holding off on taking another breath.

"I don't know what to tell you then, man."

Two of the guys in masks look at each other, for all the good it'll do them. They don't speak. Maybe they haven't figured out the nose-hole-plugging trick, or maybe they're pretty sure that we'd figure it out anyways.

Maybe the other guy should have been worried about that, too. It's hard to say. Josh doesn't know anyone who sounds like that, but then again he's got a long list of acquaintances, and few of them have memorable voices. Hard to tell one from the other.

Anna Witt, with only a handful of people she's close enough to to remember their names, she might recognize something. But if she's smart, she's not going to just blurt it the hell out.

"I don't know what to tell you. The instructions we got were, wait at the park. A black, late model four-door sedan comes to get the money. Anna Witt comes alone, delivers it. Cash. The late-model black four-door drives away, and then the call comes in.

"Black, 2013 Subaru Impreza drives up with the plates covered up. Very convenient, very smart, and it didn't matter in the end because the car was left smoking on the side of the interstate.

"They call to Anna, by name, she goes to the car. Instructed to put the money on the front seat. She does so. Car drives away. Like I said—side of the interstate a few hours later, and it's a towering inferno. No bag, no money, nothing in the front seat.

"So we paid."

"Then someone fucked us."

"That's not my problem."

"I can make it a big fuckin' problem for you," the guy says. He pulls the hammer back for effect, and grinds the barrel into my forehead, as if I hadn't gotten what he meant. The oil it leaves behind makes my head itch, but I'm not in a position to scratch it.

"I just don't know what you're expecting us to do. There's not a whole hell of a lot we can do from here, is there?"

"Yeah, so fuckin' what?"

"So, I don't know what you're expecting. You want a million dollars? It's not going to happen. First, you three are easily the most wanted sons of bitches on the face of the planet. A congressman? Really?

"Second, even if we wanted to pay you, neither of us have anything like that kind of money. You thought Miss Witt had it, you'd have just left a note with the kid. I don't think her parents have it. If they sold the whole apartment complex, maybe. But that takes six months, they're out of a place to live… Use your head, man."

Josh can't see his expression behind the mask, so it's impossible to know for sure that he hasn't just pissed off a guy with a lead-thrower that, at this range, could blow his head clean off.

But based on a whole lot of nothing at all, he looks like he's not so sure about what he's doing any more. He looks like he's questioning the logic of his decisions. And that's about all that Josh Meadows can ask for.

He takes a step back.

"So if you paid someone…"

"And we did," Josh adds.

"Then who the fuck got the money?"

"I don't know, but that's a good question. You guys should look into that. I think you got a problem."

The big guy lowers the gun to his waist. Josh keeps his hands over his head. "This ain't over, cop. I got my eye on you."