Power and Empire

“The only motive to kill Aaron Bennet is that he happens to live at an address similar to mine.”

Caruso touched Callahan on the elbow to guide her gently away. The shrinks at Quantico taught that this was one of the most unthreatening places to touch most people, but apparently Callahan was not most people. She jerked away and glared as though she might punch him in the face.

“Look,” Detective Little said. “We will get around to checking with any people who want you dead. I can imagine that list will be a long one. But if I’m not doin’ my job in the order you deem fit, well, I got plenty of more important things to do than stand around here and argue. Be my guest if you want to take over. I’ll have my guys out of here so fast your head will spin, lady.”

Callahan turned as if to walk away, then wheeled. “You listen, Fran. I’m not trying to piss on your leg. I’m merely pointing out that the person who killed this guy was really after me. When you snap to that fact, give me a call.”

• • •

Moco needed weed so bad. But he couldn’t chance it with so many cops swarming all over the place. Luckily, there was enough hash oil hidden in the door panel of his truck for two dabs. Making the hash oil was tricky business, requiring him to boil off the liquid butane he used to extract it from the buds. High heat and butane didn’t go well together, so the process took forever. When he was finished, he had an amber, honeylike substance packed with THC.

Moco liked to put a little dab of the sticky stuff on the end of a nail and smoke it. The buzz helped him think straight. Problem was, that would be almost as noticeable as smoking a joint — and he didn’t want to go there. Dabs tasted like shit if you ate them straight, but he had a plan. A lighter, a metal spoon, and a little bit of coconut oil he kept in the glovebox would help the dab slide down quickly — even if it didn’t do much about the taste.

He wedged the spoon in the crack of the center console to hold it, and then added a dab — about the size of a Tic Tac — with a half-teaspoon of coconut oil. He was just in the middle of mixing the concoction with the point of his pocketknife when his phone began to vibrate again.

“Hold this,” he said, passing the mixture of dab and coconut oil to Gusano, who took his earbuds out and blinked stupidly. “Don’t spill it.”

Gusano promptly stuck the spoon in his mouth and slurped down the whole thing.

Moco wanted to stab the idiot, and would have had he not needed help. He punched him in the shoulder instead.

“What?” the Worm said. “I thought you gave it to me.”

Moco shook his head and answered the phone.

It was Chueco again. “She’s coming your way,” the kid said. “That tough-looking dude with the beard is with her.”

“Follow her,” Moco said. He hung up and then looked across the seat at Gusano, still fuming over the stolen hash oil. He spoke through clenched teeth, hardly able to sit still. “You son of a bitch.”

Gusano nodded at the crumpled piece of plastic wrap in Moco’s lap. “What? You got another one. I’ll help you make some more after we kill the FBI lady.”

“You better,” Moco said, still glaring. He peeled back the plastic and bit off the rest of the hash oil, clenching his teeth at the bitterness. Eating it straight wouldn’t give him nearly as good a high as when it was mixed with oil, but it would have to be enough.

Callahan’s unmarked Expedition rolled by the 7-Eleven and Moco threw the pickup in gear. At least he was starting to get the “dab sweats.” Maybe he’d be thinking straight enough to kill the right person this time.

34

The thing Magdalena Rojas first noticed about Ernie Pacheco was his teeth. This would have pleased him had she mentioned it, because he’d paid a lot of money for them. She remembered that her father had had a nice smile, but this man they called Matarife was different. His perfect smile was starkly mismatched to the rest of his craggy, misshapen face. She’d heard he was injured in a bar fight, but whatever the cause, his flat nose looked like it had been melted and then smeared above his lip. An asterisk-shaped scar puckered the sunken flesh under his left eye. The ear on that same side was a mass of scar tissue. He kept his dark hair pulled back in a thick man bun. He seemed to believe the style anchored him to a more youthful appearance, but Magdalena thought it just called attention to the severity of the mess that he called a face. Oddly, while all those who followed him were adorned with images of La Santa Muerte, Matarife, the self-professed leader of her cult, did not have a single tattoo on his body.

Magdalena had met the man many times, but he never paid for her, even when she’d belonged to Dorian or Parrot. He took her just the same, always pretending like it was all her idea and that she should be happy because he was saving her from the other guys. It pissed off Parrot, but he never said anything. He just chopped her when Matarife left.