He waited for the police to arrive, which they did. He waited as they searched, waited as they left. He waited as the sirens in the distance died. He waited, and waited some more, he waited for hours, just to be sure, he waited, and every breath through the fetid garbage was a reminder of exactly what he had become.

And it was sweet as honey cake.

CHAPTER 49

AFTER DETECTIVE RAMIREZ yanked Kyle Byrne back into Bubba’s, she twisted the lock in the door and pushed him into a booth halfway down the bar. Then she stood with her back to him, facing the rest of the bar, and pulled out her badge and her revolver.

“Police,” shouted Ramirez.

“Hello there, Detective,” said Kyle. “Thirsty?”

“Just shut up, you. Now, I want everyone to get down. Something might be coming through that door, and if it does, it won’t be pretty.”

As the bar’s patrons scattered to the floor and started crawling behind the bar, the bartender, still standing, reached down and pulled out a shotgun. With a quick pump, he slid a cartridge into the chamber.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Ramirez.

“This was my father’s bar,” said the bartender. “You think I’m not going to defend it?”

She looked at him, a skinny black kid with raw hands and a mouth set like granite. The gun sat solid in his hands. “What’s your name?”

“Bubba.”

“Bubba? You’re kidding, right?”

“Bubba Jr.”

“Well, listen, Bubba Jr.,” said Ramirez. “You point the muzzle at the floor and don’t raise it an inch until I give the word. Understand?”

“I understand,” said the bartender.

“Something’s going down outside right about now, so it’s probably safer for all of you in here. But don’t be surprised if what comes through that door next is a car.”

Ramirez squatted down and faced the door with her gun, held in both hands, pointing right at it. She spoke softly enough so that only Kyle could hear. “Remember that number your girlfriend gave me?”

“She’s just a friend.”

“Really?”

“You sound pleased to hear it.”

“Shut the hell up.” Ramirez was angry at the lift she felt. She shook her head to bring herself back to business. “There was only one person other than you who called it. I traced the guy down and asked him some questions, and I got to tell you, he creeped me the hell out. Then I realized that his voice matched the voice on the 911 call that reported your break-in at your father’s old office. So as I called for backup and a warrant to search his place, I stayed outside his building to make sure he didn’t run. Next thing I knew, he was lugging a black satchel to his car. And I have to tell you, I don’t think the satchel was filled with underwear. I followed him to here, though I wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing until I saw you step out of the bar.”

“You think he’s here to kill me?”

“He’s here to something you, baby. Didn’t I tell you to stop stirring the pot?”

“The pot kept stirring me. So we’re just waiting here like sitting ducks for him to come and get me?”

“I called in the cavalry,” said Ramirez. She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here about—”

The squeal of brakes slipped through the door, and then shouting, and then sirens.

The short, fat kid who had left the bar with Kyle popped his head above the bar.

“Get down, you fool,” said Ramirez.

The kid’s head dropped below the bar again.

There was a knock. Ramirez put a finger to her lips and gestured at Bubba Jr., who pointed his shotgun at the door.

“It’s Henderson,” came the voice from the other side of the door.

“Henderson who?” said Ramirez.

“Henderson your mama. Open the hell up.”

Ramirez smiled as she stood and holstered her gun. “Put it away,” she said to Bubba Jr. while she twisted open the lock. “It’s one of the good guys. Or at least a reasonable facsimile.”

Detective Henderson stepped into the bar with wariness, looked around, spotted the shotgun still in Bubba’s hand, and raised an eyebrow. Then he spotted Kyle Byrne, sprawled in the booth where Ramirez had pushed him, and he growled.

“You get him?” said Ramirez.

“Not yet,” said Henderson. “You talk to the kid, find out what the hell is happening?”

“Haven’t had the chance.”

“Want to take him down to the box?”

“We can do it here.”

“And if he clams up?”

“Then we’ll box him nice and tight for a week,” said Ramirez. “Let’s see what’s going on outside first.” As they both walked to the door, Ramirez turned and pointed at Kyle. “Don’t you dare move,” she said. Then she turned to Bubba Jr. “If he stands up, shoot him.”

“With pleasure,” said Junior.

Ten minutes later Ramirez and Henderson were sitting in Kyle’s booth, Henderson beside Kyle, blocking his exit, and Ramirez across from him. The two cops had mugs of soda before them, Kyle a halffinished bottle of Rolling Rock.

“What was in the file cabinet, Kyle?” said Ramirez.

“What file cabinet?”

“Stop being cute.”

“I can’t help it,” said Kyle, smiling. “I was born this way.”

Ramirez stared for a bit and couldn’t stop herself from laughing. He was cute, and he knew it, which didn’t obviate the fact that he was playing it way too cute for his own good.

“Did I see who I thought I saw coming out of the bar a few minutes before you?” said Ramirez.

“Who did you think you saw?”

“Who do you think I saw?”

“Who do you think I think you—”

“Can we get on with this?” said Henderson. “The two of you are giving me a headache.”

“We’ve got a United States senator involved in our murder case,” said Ramirez. “How do you like them apples, Henderson?”

“I don’t,” said Henderson. “It means this peckerhead’s got us mixed up in something explosive enough to put my pension at risk.”

“You wouldn’t want to risk Henderson’s pension, would you, Kyle?” said Ramirez.

“No, ma’am.”

“So let me do some guessing here, just off the top of my head. Your father had something going on with Truscott before he was a senator. Your father died in 1994, right? That was when the senator was running for Congress the first time, if I’m not mistaken.”