Redemption Song (Daniel Faust #2)(9)

“Let me guess. He’s backing the Redemption Choir. Force them to move into enemy territory, then slip them the support they need to give Sitri a big black eye. Slick move.”

“Exactly. That’s my theory, anyway. So I’m hunting a spy notorious for being un-huntable. Now tell me about this morning. Jennifer gave me the broad sketches over the phone. How much trouble are you in?”

“If they actually go through with the charges from our little car chase, not much. Worst-case scenario, I do maybe a month or two in county—”

“Absolutely not,” she said, her shoulders tensing under my hands. “I forbid it.”

“It’s soft time, sweetheart. Least of our problems right now. The FBI stepping in, that’s a different story, and it’s got Lauren Carmichael’s fingerprints all over it. She’s feeding the feds information, probably got the whole ball rolling. I think she’s running scared. She doesn’t dare come after us head-on, not now.”

“We did,” Caitlin said with a faint murmur of pleasure, “slaughter most of her associates.”

“This feels like a delaying tactic. Keep us off-balance and dealing with the law while she regroups. We’ve got to take care of her and that psycho Brand before she does. Which is why, if these charges go forward, I’m not asking for a plea bargain.”

Caitlin jerked away, turning on the sofa to face me directly. Her brow furrowed.

“What? Why not? You were caught red-handed, Daniel. If it goes to court, you’ll be found guilty. You and Jennifer chased that woman up and down the interstate and waved a gun at her, for mercy’s sake. There were witnesses.”

I picked up my wine glass and clinked it against hers.

“Because I have the legal right to face my accuser. If Meadow Brand thinks she can stall us by getting me tossed in jail, she has to come to court and testify.”

Caitlin slowly smiled, looking impish as she realized where I was going with this.

“And we’ll have someone waiting for her at every door and window,” she said.

“That’s a bingo. I’ll happily spend a few weeks behind bars, if it means paving the way for a shot at Brand.”

“Not bad, not bad, but I have a better idea. How about we kill her before your trial date, and I find you and Jennifer a very good lawyer?”

“You know any?”

She arched one eyebrow, incredulous, and tilted her head.

“Daniel? Did you forget who I work for?”

In retrospect, it was a dumb question on my part.





Five

I got another glass of chardonnay into Caitlin, eased her onto her stomach so I could keep rubbing her back, and slipped out the door when she started snoring. Mission accomplished. Considering Caitlin only needed a couple hours’ rest a night—she’d said it was more like meditation than how a human sleeps—I couldn’t imagine how hard she must have been pushing herself.

She’d probably be pissed when she woke up and realized I’d tricked her into taking a nap, but I’d face the consequences later. Right now, with the sun slowly setting over the red mountains in the distance and Las Vegas waking up from its hot slumber, I had moves to make.

Vegas loves a winner and hates a loser. As long as you’re flush with cash, this town will treat you like a king while it milks you for every last cent. Once your pockets are empty, though, the ride jerks to a stop like the yank of a hangman’s noose. Tonight I wasn’t headed for the neon triumph of the Strip or the raw chaos of Fremont Street, but a run-down road about four blocks from the action. Close enough to see the glitz, the electric glow cast against the darkening sky, but too far to touch.

St. Jude’s had a neon sign of its own, a crimson cross dangling from a rusted sconce over the beaten front doors. The place was a dance hall back in the sixties. Now the parquet floor was lined with cafeteria tables and volunteers serving up food from secondhand pots and plastic trays. I walked into the cavernous room, my eyes adjusting to the dim electric light, and made my way through a crowd of the lost and the destitute.

I was always surprised by how few of the regulars looked like shaggy bums. Most of them could have been me, could have been anybody. Just ordinary folks, some of them wrestling with demons, some of them fresh off a twelve-hour workday, coming to St. Jude’s for a hot meal because they still couldn’t scrape enough up enough cash to buy groceries and keep a roof over their heads. I stepped to the end of the serving line, but I didn’t pick up a tray.

Pixie was up ahead, scooping up ladles of instant mashed potatoes from a bottomless pot. She was twentysomething, thin as a razor, and her feathered hair was dyed scarlet with streaks of icy white—I think that was how she got her nickname. That or the fairy wings tattooed across her shoulder blades. When she saw me, one eyebrow twitched behind her clunky black-framed hipster glasses.

“Faust,” she said, looking like she’d just found something stuck to her shoe.

“Bad time?” I asked. She sighed and shook her head, waving over one of the other volunteers and handing him the ladle. I followed her around to the far end of the serving line, and we grabbed a seat at the edge of an open table.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said. “I smell wine on your breath.”

“Good nose. But only one glass, and it was for a good cause. What, should I have brought you a bottle?”