Candy stepped up to the police cordon at the Phoenix parking structure. The cops had loosened up the crime scene by degrees, CSI coming and going.
An officer stopped her. “Are you parked inside, ma’am?”
“Yeah, I work at the PT office across the plaza, and—Oh my God, what happened?”
“We can’t disclose that, ma’am. Please claim your vehicle and exit immediately.”
She nodded nervously and stepped inside, scanning the cars on the ground level. Van Sciver had kept satellite monitoring on the garage all day, and there’d been no sign of a black Nissan Altima exiting.
The ramp was still blocked off, cops dispersed through the parking structure. Candy strode toward the elevators, taking in the remaining cars. No black Altima.
The car hadn’t left the building. And it wasn’t in the parking spot where Lyle Green’s last text indicated.
Which made for the kind of locked-room mystery she wasn’t in the mood for.
Her gaze pulled to the trash can beside the handicapped spaces. It was stuffed with what looked like black tarp. She drew closer.
She said, “Fuck.”
She twisted the lid off the concrete trash container and looked down at the heap of stripped-off carbon-fiber wrap. Digging through the detritus, she pulled out the pieces, checking each one for distinguishing marks. Midway through the stack, she found a tiny copyright logo at the edge of a band of stiff carbon fiber: ©FULL AUTO WRAPATTACK.
She took a picture with her cell phone and texted the image to Van Sciver. As she shoved the material back into the trash, she noted the ditched license plates in the bottom of the container.
She exited the structure through a side door, slipped past a break in the cordon, walked across the plaza, and got into the backseat of one of two Chevy Tahoes waiting at metered spots. They were heavily armored, just like the one in Richmond.
Van Sciver and Thornhill occupied the seats in front of her.
Thornhill held up his phone with a location pin-dropped on Google Maps. “Full Auto WrapAttack,” he said, “At 1019B South Figueroa. Los Angeles. One shop, they custom-make their own materials on site. What do you think?”
Van Sciver weighed this a moment. “It’s not a sure thing,” he said. “But it’s the best bet. Let’s move headquarters.”
Thornhill said, “Good thing we’re mobile.”
Candy turned to look into the Tahoe parked one spot behind them. Through the tinted rear window, she could barely make out the outlines of the eight freelancers crammed into the bench seats. “Which one’s the pilot?” she asked.
“Guy in the passenger seat,” Van Sciver said. “I have a Black Hawk on standby. We’ll set up downtown, striking distance to most points in the city. The minute X eats or drinks something, we’ll have ten minutes to scramble to his location and put him and the girl down.”
“You think the girl’s worth killing?” Candy said.
“Why take the chance?” Thornhill said.
Candy said, “You pay him extra to answer for you?”
Van Sciver met Candy’s stare in the rearview.
She knew she had overstepped her bounds, and she had no idea what might happen next.
Van Sciver said, “Step out of the car, Thornhill.”
Thornhill obeyed.
Candy could feel the pulse beating in the side of her neck. “Let’s skip the part where you beat your chest and I back down,” she said. “Consider me backed down. Why don’t we think about this. And by ‘we’ I mean you and I—the ones with brains. Thornhill’s a blank space. A good body and a nice set of teeth. There’s nothing there.”
She pictured Van Sciver wheeling around in the driver’s seat, his hand clamping her larynx, squeezing the air passage shut. But no, he remained where he was, a large immovable force, his eyes drilling her in the mirror.
“He’s an extension of me,” Van Sciver said. “He’s a scope.”
“And scopes have their use,” she said. “But we’re talking strategy. It’s a surgical operation. We want clean margins. What is unnecessary brings with it unnecessary complications. We X out Evan, we leave no trace. We kill a sixteen-year-old girl, that makes a bigger ripple in the pond. Which means unforeseen ramifications. Then who do we have to kill to take care of those?”
That blown pupil in the rearview seemed to pull her in. She found herself leaning back to avoid tumbling down the rabbit hole.
“I don’t care,” Van Sciver said.
“But the man in charge might.”
For the first time, Van Sciver looked away. His trapezius muscles tensed, flanking the neck. She was certain he was going to explode, but instead he gave a little nod. Then he gestured at Thornhill, who was waiting patiently at the curb. Thornhill climbed back in, started up the nav on his phone, and both Tahoes pulled out in unison.
The two-SUV convoy headed for Los Angeles.