Page 87 of The Grave Artist
“Yep.”
“Describe him.”
“Bald vampire.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You’ll get it.”
“We’re also after whoever hired Sweeney. You know who took out the contract?”
The big question. Who had wanted their father dead?
But Judd said, “No clue. You’d have to ask Sweeney that.”
“Okay, Judd. I’ll make the calls for you.”
“Thanks, Detective. Hey, lot of assholes in your business. You’re not one of ’em. Oh, and one more thing? About pros like me? We don’t give a shit about anything. This Sweeney? He’d just as soon dust you as look at you.”
“Weapon of choice?”
“If it can be used to fuck somebody up,that’shis weapon of choice. Glock with a Yankee Hill suppressor or a Home Depot screwdriver. Watch your back. And front and sides.”
As he disconnected, Selina thought: one crazy life. She’d just seen two men haggling over stone-cold murderers as if they were on a car lot settling on a price for a used Volvo.
She asked, “We heading out?”
“Not yet. I’ve got to get to the office.”
“Then I’ll go home to change.” She grabbed her purse, kissed him goodbye and then walked out to her car.
She climbed in and started the engine. Before pulling into the street, though, she checked her surroundings.
No sign of any black Ford SUVs.
She committed herself to stay alert on the drive home, keeping an eye out for the Ford, and any other cars that seemed to be tailing her.
Now that she knew the sort of people she was dealing with—Judd and Sweeney and whoever had hired him—she’d have to be extra vigilant.
The last thing she wanted was to lead anyone to her apartment in Functional Fullerton, her enclave, her sanctuary in this Wild West city.
Chapter 42
Carmen sat down at a table in the coffee shop.
Heron joined her a moment later with two steaming mugs.
The place was not a chain and seemed to date to the pre-Starbucks era. Mismatched tables and chairs, faded posters of coffee estates in Central or South America, a bulletin board that customers used to post cards for guitar lessons, house painting, math tutoring.
This was the place where Ms. Person of Interest disappeared after the funeral at Cedar Hills and never returned. Shortly after arriving, they’d learned there was a back door to a parking area and, better yet, a working camera aimed outward into that part of the lot. According to the barista, many people used that exit.
With luck, they might score Ms. POI’s tag number.
They’d have to wait to find out, though. The manager was not there, and only she could give them access to the security system. She would be in soon.
They sipped their coffee—filtered brew, nothing fancy. Heron claimed it was quite good. She knew that hackers may avoid liquor but were connoisseurs of all things caffeine. He would recognize superior java when he tasted it.
He put his mug down and checked his tablet. “Nothing from Switzerland.”
