J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [616]
He put the phone down and concentrated on the behind-the-wheel shit. Probably better not to speak to Mr. D anyway, given that he was in father fog, as he called it.
Shit, the heater was making him even logier.
Lash put down the windows and cut off the hot breeze wafting into the sedan’s front seat, and by the time he pulled up to the piece-of-shit house, he was much more alert. Parking around the back, so that the Merc was shielded by the screened-in porch and the garage, he went in through the kitchen door.
“Where are you?” he called out. “What’s the update?”
Silence.
He put his head into the garage, and when he saw only the Lexus, he figured Mr. D, Grady, and the other two were probably on their way back from jumping that other dealer. Which meant he had time to grab something to eat. As he went to the fridge that was stocked for him, he called the little Texan’s phone. One ring. Two rings.
He was pulling out a deli-made turkey sandwich and checking the date when D’s voice mail kicked in.
Lash straightened and stared down at his phone. He never went to voice mail. Ever.
Of course, maybe the meeting had been delayed and they were right in the middle of it.
Lash ate and waited, expecting to hear back right away. When he didn’t, he went into the living room and fired up the laptop, accessing the GPS software that located every single Lessening Society phone on the map of Caldwell. He set the search for Mr. D’s and discovered…
The guy was traveling fast and moving easterly. And the two other lessers were with him.
So why wasn’t the guy answering his fucking phone?
Suspicious, Lash called again and walked around the shithole as the ringing went on and on. There was nothing out of place in the house as far as he could see. Living room was the same and the two bedrooms and the master were tight, with all the window frames bolted in place and the shades down.
He was calling the Texan a third time when he took the hall to the street side of the house—
Lash stopped in midstep and swiveled his head to the one door he hadn’t opened—which had a cold breeze shooting out all around its jamb.
He didn’t have to open the thing to know what had happened, but he cracked the fucker anyway. The window was shattered and there were black streaks—rubber, not the blood of slayers—around the sill.
A quick look out the gaper and Lash saw footsteps in the thin layer of snow that were headed in the direction of the street. No doubt the hotfoot routine hadn’t lasted long. There were plenty of cars around to hot-wire in this quiet neighborhood, and that kind of shit was kindergarten for any criminal worth his cock.
Grady had done a runner.
And the move was a surprise. He was not the brightest diamond in the chain, but the police were after him. Why would he risk another set of motherfuckers gunning for him?
Lash went into the living room and frowned as he looked over at the couch, where Grady had left that greased-out Domino’s box and…the CCJ he’d been reading.
Which was open to the obituaries.
Thinking of Grady’s busted knuckles, Lash went over and picked up the paper—
He smelled something on the pages. Old Spice. Ah, so Mr. D had half a brain, and had looked at the thing, too….
Lash scanned down the listings. Bunch of humans in their seventies and eighties. One in her sixties. Two in their fifties. None of which had the name Grady listed either as sur or middle. Three out-of-towners with family here in Caldie…
And then there it was: Christianne Andrews, age twenty-four. No cause of death listed, but the DOD was on Sunday, and the burial service had been today