originally dark blue, layered with grime and paint. She caught the reek of stove grease and Super Glue.
‘Grace.’ Paul stepped around the van, gripping a bologna sandwich. ‘You okay?’
‘Little shaky. Nice.’ She surveyed the tent. ‘Christo should be worried.’
‘He is,’ Paul said mildly. ‘Looks just like the Reichstag after he wrapped it in silver fabric, only smaller and cheesier.’
He took a bite of sandwich and his eyes went to the bruise on her jaw.
‘It’s taking what? Twenty pouches to print it?’ The police Super Glue came in foil pouches, simple to use, but costly on something this big.
‘Nah, the bean counters wouldn’t approve that, even on this one. I got creative. Used aluminum pie pans at each corner with a couple of vaporizers and squeezed out Super Glue I bought at Long’s Drug. Everybody wins.’
‘Yeah, right, except Eddie Loud.’
‘Hey, he’s the whacked-out bad guy, Grace. Not you.’
Looking at the tent made her realize what Paul wasn’t saying. How much the department was putting into processing this one. And the reason why.
‘Not many senators’ sons drive taco vans and wind up dead.’
‘You can play this one through any way you want, Grace, but it’s still going to stink. We should have good prints by late afternoon.’
‘What do you expect to find?’
‘At this point? I’m not sure.’ His jowls sagged and his eyes drooped, his usual look after a good night’s sleep. ‘I heard the first toxes from the ME said Loud was cranked.’
‘Makes sense.’ Grace had a flash of Eddie’s jangly energy. ‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘Have at it. There is something you might find interesting.’ Paul put down his sandwich and positioned his face against the cloudy plastic, looking through the window into the dim interior. Grace squinted next to him. She made out vague shapes, open chip bags, the stove. Soft white particles dusted the grill and cabinets.
‘What am I looking at?’
Paul pointed at something through the filmy visqueen and Grace took another look.
‘The kitchen timer? Is that it?’ It was a small white timer with big black numbers, sitting on the counter next to an open bag of taco shells. Grace had used an almost identical one that morning playing the Timer Game.
Paul shook his head. ‘No, that.’
She still didn’t see it.
‘Loud was wired.’ Paul pulled a Dr Pepper out of his jacket and drank.
‘Wired. What are you talking about?’
‘Right out of the Spy Shop Catalog. A tiny video cam attached to his shirt button. We think from the setup, there was a mixer right there on the counter, and I don’t mean the Martha Stewart kind.’ He pointed. ‘Whoever was in here left behind a connector cable.’
‘You think somebody was in here? Recording this?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Too soon to say. Eddie Loud’s minicam button in his shirt could turn out to be a prop, not real, not with a signal transmitting what was recorded.’
He took another swig of his drink.
‘Or it’s out there, in cyberspace, the killings.’ She stared at Paul, her gaze troubled.
‘You okay?’ he asked again.
‘He said my name, Paul, right before he tried to kill me. He warned me about somebody called the Spikeman who was coming to get me.’
‘We don’t know yet what we have here,’ Paul reminded her. He finished the sandwich and drained the can, crushing it and tucking it into the pocket of his brown polyester jacket.
A short fat man rounded the building, moving like his hip joints were killing him. His shiny bald head caught the light and for a second, Grace saw the taco van reflected like a miniature hologram. Tan work pants ballooned over a huge belly, cinched with suspenders the colors of a Portuguese flag: green, red, yellow. He was scowling and waving his fists.
‘Oh, shit. I told the guard not to let this guy in.’
The man was yelling in a torrent of Portuguese, fury mottling his face.
‘Calm down, Mr. Esguio.’ Paul moved forward cautiously, his palms raised and flat.
‘Calm down!’ Esguio cried in English. ‘You have stolen my van! My work! How can I calm down when you have stolen my van and won’t give it back!’
‘Okay, Mr. Esguio, I know you’re upset –’
Esguio lunged toward Paul and shoved him backward. They grappled. It was like watching a strongman contest where the leading contestant was charged with pushing a semi. Paul skidded a half step back, losing ground as Esguio moaned and smacked a hand to his heart and flopped forward. Paul managed to brace himself and catch Esguio before he toppled.
‘Oh, my God,’ Paul said. ‘He’s having a heart attack. Is he okay? Ask him.’
Grace asked him in rapid-fire Portuguese. Esguio cracked open an eye and answered, his voice pitiful. His eyes were the same dark brown as hers, making him look vaguely familial. He was as old as her aunts. They probably all went to school together. Dated. Divorced each other at least once.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He wants to know how long you’re keeping the van.’
‘About his health.’
‘He’s fine.’
‘The van,’ Esguio prodded. Paul tipped him to his feet.
‘Try two or three years,’ Paul said. ‘He’s okay, though, right? You okay?’
‘Two or three years!’ Esguio moaned in English.
‘You should have thought of that before getting a killer to drive it,’ Paul said. ‘Did you even check Eddie’s license? Did Eddie even have a license?’
‘Now listen here,’ Esguio bristled.
Grace laid a hand on his arm and smiled winningly at him. ‘How about I take you out for breakfast. Would you like that, sir?’
Esguio stiffened with pride and yanked his arm free. He started moving through the cars and Grace fell into step next to him.
‘Wait.’ Paul trotted after them. ‘Mr. Esguio. Sir. You can’t go with her. You’re not supposed to tell anybody anything.’
‘Paul.’ Grace stopped, her voice reasonable. ‘Say for a second maybe there was a TV-remote setup in there. Was there audio and video equipment in your taco van, Mr. Esguio?’
‘What?’
‘TV stuff. To take pictures.’
‘No TV. Just a grill and a refrigerator. What are you talking about?’
She turned back to Paul. ‘Say there was a TV-remote setup. Say Eddie really was trying to warn me. That means somebody very bad might be after me. And if he is, Eddie’s made it clear the bad guy doesn’t have plans to invite me to his mother’s house for dinner either, unless she lives in the Bates Motel. So if Mr. Esguio can help me find the bad guy first, before he finds me and kills me – and that could be the plan here, Paul, to kill me – that’s good. Works for me.’
Mr. Esguio looked from Paul to Grace. His chins moved like a hula dancer.
‘I could use a cup of coffee. Decaf.’