Page 54 of Faded Gray Lines
“Fuck!”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Muffling my screams against the comforter, I pounded my fists against the mattress until I eventually collapsed.
This was why alcohol was bad for you. Nine shots of vodka and a snap decision may have very well tipped the first domino in my destruction.
My phone wasn’t here because it was in the pocket of Swenson’s trench coat, which currently lay crumpled in the floorboard of Mateo’s Tahoe.
Nineteen
Mateo
Fucking red lipstick.
Committing the address my informant had given to me to memory, I balled up the napkin and flung it across the Tahoe. All I needed was a pen and she gave me lipstick. How the hell was I supposed to concentrate on torturing information out of some asshole when all I could think about was her perfect red lips wrapped around my dick?
The image conjured a thought that had consumed me for over twelve hours now. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I replayed the overwhelming memory of feeling her again in that parking lot. She’d screamed, and the minute her muscles clenched around my throbbing cock, I knew she was still mine. Luis may have tainted her, but he hadn’t changed her. They didn’t have what we had. If they had, it wouldn’t have felt like coming home.
Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I cursed and dialed. Thinking of Leighton had already put me on edge, so I was amped up to an eleven by the time he answered.
“You on your way?”
“What do you think?”
“Someone’s grumpy today.”
“Fuck you.” Making the left onto Turner Street, a row of two-story plain brick buildings sat in front of me. Hector Diaz’s neighborhood reminded me of the shithole Luis lived in back in San Marcos.
Fuck, how bad did theseidiotassuck at selling?
My informant found out the identity of one of the numbers on Luis’s phone. Hector Diaz. I made some calls and discovered Diaz was a low-level Carrera seller, trying to work his way up the ranks. Since he’d been with us for six years and he was still working the streets, the chances of that happening were about the same as Luis rising from the dead.
“Well, enjoy your time with Diaz,” he huffed. “I’m still working on the other number. Either it’s not one of ours or no one’s talking.”
“You have twelve hours.”
“You’re welcome, asshole,” he growled right before hanging up.
After parking the car, I walked toward the back of the cluster of buildings, the scene not getting much better. Air units were tucked into most of the open windows, and laundry was strung along wires tied between poles. An old man sat on the stoop of building 3, blocking the stairs, and of course, Diaz lived in 3C.
This fucking day.
“Estoy aquí para ver a Héctor. Soy un viejo amigo.” I’m here to see Hector. I’m an old friend.
The old man scraped his chair a few inches to the left and laughed. “Good luck,” he answered in our native language. “No one has seen that asshole in three days.”
His words stopped me on the first step. “Three days?”
He nodded. “Can’t say I’m sorry. I live right under him in 3A. People are always comin’ and goin’ at all hours of the night. It’s been nice to get some sleep for a change. I don’t care if he ever comes back.”
Shit.
I started up the steps then turned around and slipped a hundred-dollar bill in his hand. He may have been old, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how things worked, and if Hector had lived here for any substantial amount of time, he’d seen things. Money went a long way toward making even the sharpest of memories hazy when it came to recalling faces during police questioning.
Hector’s door was locked—no surprise there. I had a feeling I could get away with shooting the lock off the door and no one would bat an eye in a neighborhood like this, but I didn’t chance it. Besides, a lock didn’t exist I couldn’t pick. My knife popped it in seconds.
Trading my knife for my gun, I used the door as a shield and entered. Once inside, if I had any question as to Hector’s whereabouts, I quickly found the answer when the stench hit my nose. I didn’t care how many times I’d smelled it—I never got used to the first pungent hit of death.
