Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,60

did not divulge his own relationship to Veronica. And he honored Veronica’s request, leaving out the part about Andre’s disturbing provenance.

When he finished, Andre said nothing.

Evan asked, “What don’t I know?”

Andre filled him in on some remaining details—the visit by the Gentners, the fake U.S. Marshals phone number, how he’d watched from the darkness as Jake Hargreave bled out.

Evan said, “Have you been back to the impound lot?”

“Nope.”

“Still have the keys?”

Andre flicked his chin at a plastic hook on the wall where his key chain dangled.

Evan checked the watch fob dangling from his belt loop. “The lot closes in an hour and a half. Once it’s empty, I’ll go look around.”

Andre popped up and snatched the keys from their hook. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“You think I’m just gonna wait around here? Hail no.” He scrambled to tug on his shoes. “This is my life. You want to help me? Then help me. But you ain’t taking over.”

“Andre. No way.”

“You said it yourself. I’m not safe anywhere I go. Might as well be with your white-knighting ass.” He finished lacing up, his knuckles brushing the empty bottle of rum. He picked it up. Sniffed it, eyes closed. Hearing the siren song. He seemed to realize what he was doing and dropped the bottle again. “I need to go to a meeting. Or I gotta call my sponsor.”

“You’re not calling anyone,” Evan said. “Zero contact. You’ll put us both at risk. Understand?”

Andre smiled. “So that means I’m going with you?”

31

Chasing Good

Evan parked in the precise spot across from the impound lot where Declan and Queenie Gentner had positioned their Corvette as they’d lain in wait for Jake Hargreave, a good distance back from the surveillance-camera scope of the First Union Bank’s ATM. Though it wasn’t yet six o’clock, the sky was nearing full dark, December early twilight crowding ever earlier. This stretch of downtown, mostly factories and plants, was already largely deserted.

Through the facing chain-link, the wrecked vehicles slumbered in imperfect rows, strobing into view between streamers of low-lying fog. Evan kept the headlights and dome light off, the engine killed, his door cracked to prevent the windshield from fogging with his and Andre’s breath.

“Why don’t you just roll down a window?” Andre asked.

Because the laminate armor glass didn’t retract, and even if it did, there’d be nowhere for it to go given the Kevlar-plate reinforcements filling the door panels.

“Broken,” Evan said.

Andre shivered. “Fancy-ass truck like this, I’d figure you could afford to get that shit fixed.”

“I’ll look into it.”

The kiosk was lit from within, illuminating a man in a Carhartt jacket chewing a pen and watching a tiny portable television that looked decades old. Evan checked his watch fob again. Ten minutes to closing.

He retrieved a tube of superglue from the center console and spread a thin layer across his finger pads.

“Why’re you doing that?” Andre asked.

“Cover my prints.”

“Shouldn’t I do that, too?”

Evan looked at him. “You worked here. Your prints should be all over the place.”

Andre said, “Good point.”

A white Mazda drifted past and a few moments later a Tesla Model S with tinted windows. Evan noted the plates, watched them turn at the intersection ahead and vanish. He adjusted the side mirror to better capture the street behind them.

Andre was at it again, prying dirt from beneath his fingernails.

Evan grimaced. “Can you stop doing that?”

Andre peered over at him. “Why?”

“Because it’s gross. And you’re in my truck.”

Andre blew an annoyed puff of breath through his lips. “You’re so fastidious. All anal retentive and shit. Even your hair’s fastidious.”

“Big word.”

“Says the guy with fastidious hair.” Andre shifted in his seat, enjoying himself now. “Is a little bit of dirt bothering you?” He waggled his dirty finger in the air. “How ’bout this? Oh, no! Oops.” He wiped it on Evan’s thigh.

Evan resisted the urge to administer a kenpo ridge hand strike to the bottom of Andre’s chin, shattering his jaw. Instead he shoved Andre’s arm away. “And you could use a shower. You smell like hot-and-sour soup.”

Andre laughed. “Don’t I know it.” His eyes warmed. “Shit, Evan. There you are. For one second you’re almost like your old self. That little-ass kid always getting knocked around. But I’ll give you this. You always got back up.” He shook his head. “I used to be like that, too. I used to get up every time they knocked me down. Till I couldn’t no more.”

“’Cuz of the booze?” Again there was the loose articulation, the street slang, coming out of Evan’s own