Page 17 of Talk to Me

“Oh, hang on,” one of the guys stepping off the elevator said, he held the door open for me. “Heading down?”

“Yeah, parking garage.”

“You got it, man.” He hit P1 and then let the doors close. I tucked my head down, leaning heavily on the crutches while yawning. The tired rolled over me. Easier to play the part when you inhabit it.

Once I was in my vehicle, I scratched at the beard covering the lower half of my face. Damn thing itched. I started the old F150 up and rolled my head from side to side. At least the “broken” foot was the left one. Meant driving wasn’t too much of an issue.

You needed to use a building badge to get in and out. Trevor Markowitz of Randolph Trading was the right height and build if you squinted and looked at him sideways.

Not that I had to worry, he was out of town this week and a couple of cameras had been on the fritz for the last few days. It all worked out.

It was just after midnight. The bars were still hopping. I took my time driving to another garage. It was a private one, and I dropped the truck off for clean-up, then walked three blocks over to pick up a different car.

Then I found myself at an all night diner for coffee and food. I ate in the car, firing off the proof to the client’s dropbox.

I had a half-dozen fresh emails since the day before. Vetted files from Patch were at the top of the box. That was my girl, always on top of things.

Thumbing through her breakdowns, I grunted. She definitely found a lot more on the targets than my first go round. Probably should have taken it to her in the first place. I bit into the tuna melt.

Despite the ache of hunger in my gut, I ate slowly and deliberately. I tended to eat very little when on a job. The less I ate, the less I needed to take a shit.

The same with drinking.

Drink only the bare amount necessary. I’d hydrate before I got on my flight. In the meanwhile, I would eat my sandwich, sip my coffee, and do my research.

My email pinged three times while I read through the first file. I really did like how much detail she broke it down in from personal habits to online addictions. What I could never figure out was how she figured that out.

The comment that his background was too clean set off alarm bells. It meant someone had scrubbed him. Whether it was the government or whoever his criminal associates were, it was a very thorough job.

Thorough enough that Patch, the best goddamn operator I’d ever had, highlighted the discrepancies. She hadn’t filled in the blanks. But I hadn’t asked her to do that. It would be a much deeper dive and require a lot more of her resources.

Turning the information over in my head, I pulled out some fries and munched on those as I went through the next two targets’ files. All scrubbed. Just like the first. Patch had left a note at the bottom of the last one.

Post Office should have better receipts than what they turned over. Suggests that they were part of the scrubbing. Be wary.

Part of the scrubbing. So maybe a freelance Eraser had taken the job. If that was the case, then Patch was right. Nothing that came out of the Post Office could be trusted.

Fuck.

I could turn the jobs down. I hadn’t accepted yet. They’d come back with an increased offer. I’d declined the first time because they’d been cagey on the target and the timeline. I’d also been busy.

Now? Well, with the recent job done, I had plenty of time. The question was, did I want to deal with the fall out if it turned out to be a shit show? The coffee was dark and bitter, like my soul. So good.

Leaving the files, I flipped back to my mail to see the receipt indicating proof of death had been accepted. The next was proof of payment.

Oh, that would take care of a few bills. It was almost two in the morning, but it was after five in the Cayman Islands. My body had no idea what time it was, too many trips abroad. The internal clock was broken.

I slept when I needed sleep and that was fine. When I finished the last of the fries, I put a call through to Isaiah.

“You better have blood or bone showing, I just poured my fucking coffee.”

A grin crossed my face at the grumpy bastard’s greeting. “Well, then I got you after you were out of bed. So bitch less.”

“Oh,” he answered with a grunt. “It’s you. Hang on.”

I waited as he probably switched locations. The soft click of a door closing and the beep of an alarm engaging confirmed the thought. Leaning back in the car, I stared down the darkened street.

I was close enough, I could probably drive down to the beach for sunrise. Problem was, I’d be facing the wrong way.