The Granite Moth (22 page)

I moved along to the final drawer, which was less organized. An assortment of random papers, binder clips, and rubber bands. None of the contents looked promising, but I swept my hands through it anyway, pausing when I got to a familiar-looking piece of stationary—silver paper, crimson font, and a tiny black noose. My palms started sweating in anticipation, the nauseating thrill of concrete evidence. It was another funeral invitation, this one made out to eight rather than seven Pink Parrot employees. Taylor Soto had gotten a promotion, a bonafide A-lister, at least according to this group. He hadn't lived long enough to enjoy—or regret—his newfound notoriety. They must have known that he'd be marching in the parade, but how?

Before I could speculate on possible informants, a gunshot reverberated throughout the building, letting me know that I definitely wasn't alone anymore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A
voice repeated “in for a dollar” in my head, but it was less confident this time, more like a question, and I stuffed the invitation into my bag. If anyone saw me sneaking around, they probably wouldn't believe my cover story, but I wasn't about to let someone shoot me without at least trying. The only way out that I knew was back the way I came, and I tiptoed through the meeting room and into the storage space. Another gunshot rang out, and I ducked behind a row of films as the pigeons squawked from the rafters. If I peeked between the shelves, I could make out the silhouette of Leader Holt, his Winchester pointed up and away from his body. I couldn't tell what was happening until another shot was fired, followed by the thud of a bird hitting the concrete floor. Cronos Holt crouched down over it, and for a moment, it looked like he might caress the smashed head. Instead, he lifted the creature by its feet and flung it toward a far wall where it joined two of its brethren.

“‘I hate that mann like the very Gates of Deeeath / who says one thing but hides another in his hearttt,'” Leader Holt said,
enunciating each word slowly. I didn't remember that passage from my hasty reading of
The Iliad
, but I was willing to bet this was a favorite verse. He aimed his rifle back toward the ceiling, and another pigeon fell down beside him. “Come see, Miss Manning.”

I guess it was too much to ask that this sociopath hadn't noticed me. The overhead lights made my body cast a long shadow on the concrete. I stood up and walked around the corner, keeping my eye on the muzzle of the gun. It was pointed at the ground, but I wasn't feeling comforted, especially when he began quoting again. His recitation took him awhile, and I had time to both recall how many pages I'd skimmed in freshman English and gather my wits.

“Much better than the Lord's prayer, don't you thiiink?”

“Beautiful, but nothing beats the Lord's Prayer in my book. Leader Holt, I'm so glad it's you,” I said, pulling my bag in front of me and doing my best doe-eyed expression. Under the circumstances, acting like a deer wasn't the safest choice, but I thought vulnerable might get me further than vindictive. “The shots frightened me.”

“This one's still breathing,” Leader Holt said, ignoring my comment and motioning me to come even closer. I obeyed in time to watch the bird's chest expand once then stop. “They sayyy a pigeon is a type of dove, but a type isn't the same. No one's paying for wedding pigeons, are they?”

I shook my head, taking a step back. The leader swiveled the gun toward me, then rested the base on his upturned palms. “Walnut. Unadulterated walnut. It belonged to my grandfather.”

He held it out to me, and I moved to take it, but he pulled it back toward his chest, holding the weapon as if it were a toddler. “I don't imagine you can kill much of anything with that busted arm.”

“Probably not,”
I said, squashing the suicidal impulse to say “try me” instead. My list of people deserving some head smashing was growing. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you, but I understand if now's a bad time. We all need time to, um, decompress.”

I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket as if to oh-so-casually check the time, but Cronos yanked it out of my hand. I had assumed by his laconic speaking tendencies that he wouldn't be quick, but I was wrong. He moved like a damn pit viper.

“I tell you what, Miss Manning. You do me a personal favor and kill one of these vermin for me—what do the city folks call them? You catch one of these
rats with wings
, and I'll let you make a phone call to whomever you like.”

“How generous. A man of his word, I presume.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He held the rifle toward me again, and I reached to take it. I wasn't shocked when he snatched it back toward his chest, but my mood wasn't improving.

“I see what your word is worth, Mr. Holt.”

“You see nothing. That's your problem. That's always the problem. Do you know the story of David and Goliath, Miss Manning? Of course you do. Everyone knows that one, but what about Nestor? Nestorrr.” The name took longer when he repeated it, but still didn't sound familiar. Never to fear, Cronos was going to enlighten me. “Young Nestorrr came first, taking down his own giant to be a hero. It's one of my favorite stories. Later he became king.”

“How about that?” I said, but was ignored.

“Not for being a hero, mind you. All his siblings were dead. Do you know the story?”

I shook my head, waiting for a moment when the leader might leave himself vulnerable to an attack. His slow enunciation was grating on my nerves as much as his misguided
self-righteousness. “Siblings” took him particularly long to spit out.

“This great big warrior underestimated his opponent and was taken down by an upstart.”

Leader Holt held his gun with one hand as he reached into his back pocket for a slingshot. When he held this out to me, I knew he wouldn't jerk it back, but part of me wanted him to be joking. I'd never actually used a slingshot before and doubted my beginner's luck would land me a poor man's dove.

“No wonder you were at the Halloween parade, Mr. Holt. You seem to like charades.”

The leader shook his head, digging again into his back pocket to pull out three marbles. They were iridescent, pink and gray, as if chosen with their targets in mind. I slipped my arm sling off and pushed it into my bag, my fingers grazing the handle of the bolt cutters. A bad plan was better than no plan. Just call me Miss Glass Half-Full.

My elbow ached as I extended my arm slightly to hold the base of the slingshot. The doctor had said there was no risk of permanent damage if I took it easy for a few days. But that was like those Tylenol warnings, right? No more than six pills a day. More guidelines than rules, I'd always thought. It didn't help that my hands were shaking, but I managed to cradle the marble, then select a target. I picked the fattest bird I could see, hoping that his weight would slow him down. No dice. Even if my aim had been more accurate, the marble would have breezed right past him. We all move fast enough when our lives are in danger.

“I wasn't at the parade, Miss Manning. I don't go out of my way to expose myself to filth.”

I'd been so focused on the task at hand that I'd forgotten about my attempt to gather information. Thankfully, Leader Holt had not.

“
Just large quantities of porn.” I didn't gesture behind me, but he knew what I meant, shaking his head again, bemused.

“For our campers, of course. I onllly watch enough to make sure they could make men or women commme back to their natural states.”

I cringed at his enunciation of “come,” not sure if the emphasis was intended or not, but uncomfortable either way.

“But you sent the funeral invitations to The Pink Parrot. No sense in denying that,” I said, turning to meet his eyes.

The leader held out his hand for me to select a second marble, and I took it from him. This time I aimed quickly and released, trying not to overthink this rigged carnival game. The marble hit a rafter with a loud ping, but didn't do any damage to the animals.

“Yes, but you'll fiiind we rarely get our hands dirty. I'm a wealthy man, chapters in every major market, donations rolling in. Whyyy jeopardize my livelihood for a little bit of trash?”

He gestured toward the three dead birds in the corner, and I managed not to gag as I snatched the last marble and took aim again at the row of live pigeons. Why they returned to the scene of their attack was beyond me. Of course, they didn't have much to fear from me, as my third and final attempt flew wide. I dropped the slingshot and kicked it toward Cronos who
tsk tsked
my poor attitude, then bent down to retrieve his toy. I yanked the bolt cutters from my bag and knocked them against his rifle with as much force as I could muster one-handed. The gun flew out of my opponent's hands, and I kicked him hard in the chest. When he fell over, I crawled on top of him and held the bolt cutters awkwardly against his neck. He could have knocked it away easily it he tried, but perhaps he didn't know that. He made no motion to disentangle himself.

“
Let me assure you. My hands have been dirty plenty of times. Cell phone. Please,” I added.

I expected resistance, but the leader handed over my disposable phone with no complaints, and I leapt up to sprint toward the door. My dramatic exit was unnecessary since my opponent made no move to follow me or retrieve his weapon. Hunting practice was over.

Once outside, I cradled my aching arm while running toward the train station and, more importantly, crowds. It didn't take long to be back in civilization, and I ducked into the ninety-nine cent store to make that one phone call I had been so rudely denied. Agent Thornfield arrived faster than I would have believed possible. The DEA must have their own cars on call.

“This is one of the few stores in Texas that sells plastic flowers,” he said by way of greeting.

I glanced down at the assortment of fake carnations and lilies, wondering who he needed them for. In my experience, these are only acceptable at memorials and grave sites. I hadn't visited my parents' cemetery since before being hired by the NYPD and thought about buying a bouquet. No, that wasn't a road I was ready to travel, yet.

“Good tip,” I said instead, turning away. We walked outside, Agent Thornfield keeping an eye on my arm, then helping me get it back into the sling. I knew the pain wasn't bad enough for my elbow to be dislocated again, and I thanked God for small favors. “I'm not sure if Cronos Holt sees himself as David or Goliath or some guy named Nestor, but he's the hero of his story. Claims to be too wealthy to bother with violence.”

“He's
wealthy, sure enough. Cleared 2 million last year from speaking engagements alone.”

“People hire this fruitcake? I hope they don't pay him by the hour.”

Agent Thornfield spat on the ground, lost in thought for a moment.

“There doesn't seem to be a link between Cronos Holt and the Magrellis. I kind of wanted there to be, but there's not. I'm headed back into The Skyview this week.”

“You don't think that your cover's been compromised?” I asked.

“You're the only one who's seen me here, and I'm betting—no pun intended—that Kennedy S. Vanders won't be reappearing for a little Texas Hold ‘Em.”

“No bet. Nor Lars Dekker. You know he's missing, right?”

“Yes, ma'am. And I think of all the little tails I've been chasing, that one might lead to my rat.”

“You think he's been taken by the Magrellis?' That scenario had crossed my mind, too, but didn't add up unless Lars was in debt to The Skyview somehow. Had Eva lent him money?

Agent Thornfield touched the side of his nose and gestured toward a black Lincoln Town Car that had slid into view. “I've yet to meet a young investigator who doesn't have a reputation for chomping at the bit, so I won't bore you with old biddy gossip. I'm not much of a mother hen. I would have come on out here myself, too, based on nothing more than a wink and a promise. And most guys my age? We're looking to retire. Don't take a busted arm in stride so much anymore. I guess what I'm saying is—may I at least give you a ride home?”

I awkwardly rummaged in my bag for the invitation and held it out to him. “Not home. Cronos Holt's been sending these invitations, that much he admitted.”

Agent Thornfield took the paper from me, but didn't show any emotion beyond a small shake of his head. “Cartels use this tactic, too. But you must know that.”

“I know they follow through sometimes, too. Heads on railroad tracks, that sort of thing. I guess what I'm saying is that I've got my own rat to chase.”

“I can respect that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

M
r.
Thornfield allowed my silence during the ride. I was lost in unpleasant memories, part of me hoping that the DEA agent was as capable as he seemed. Maybe he could take down the whole cartel without me having to get closer than a football field to any Magrelli ever again.