Part 27 (1/2)

Eventually he formed his plan, and under his direction, she took the 280 Freeway to the Sixth Street exit and turned right onto Brannan, then made a U-turn and pulled into the depressed curb s.p.a.ce outside an industrial roll-up garage door to a good-sized and completely darkened warehouse. Mickey got out into the now frankly bitter night and pushed the b.u.t.ton on the box next to the metal door adjacent to the garage's entrance.

When no one answered, he got back into the car and directed Alicia to turn right at the next corner, then to take another quick right into the alley behind Brannan. She pulled over and stopped by a low stoop under a darkened door that he knew to be painted bright orange by day. The light over the door, and all the windows in a row high along the wall, were dark. But Mickey knew where he was going as he got out of the car again and found the key right where it was supposed to be, tucked into a magnet case that was stuck against the upper inside edge of a floor vent on the side of the stoop.

He told Alicia to wait where she was. Then, opening the back door, he let himself into Hunt's warehouse on the residential side. He deactivated the alarm, and then, turning on lights as he walked through the kitchen, den, hallway by the bedroom, he let himself into the ma.s.sive basketball court side, then crossed to the door next to the garage and unlocked it. Retracing his steps, in spite of his gimpy walk, he was in seconds back in Alicia's car, directing her down to the end of the alley, then through another couple of right turns back onto Brannan, and then waiting by the curb while he let himself in again, and pushed the b.u.t.ton to raise the garage door. As soon as she was all the way inside, with Mickey getting her parked so she'd be out of the way of Wyatt's Cooper, another push of the b.u.t.ton let the garage door down.

Alicia let herself out of the car and stood dumbstruck, turning all the way around as she attempted to take it all in-the half basketball court, the guitars and audio stuff, the computers against the opposite wall. ”Where are we?” she finally asked.

”My boss lives here. Pretty cool, huh?”

”Unbelievable.”

It may have been unbelievable, but it was also very cold on this side of the warehouse, and in another minute they were inside the living area, where the temperature was close to seventy degrees. Alicia found herself a seat in a leather- and-chrome reading chair in the den and Mickey went to help himself to a couple of beers from Hunt's refrigerator. He brought back the Pilsner Urquells and a corkscrew that doubled as a bottle opener. ”I could open these,” he said, ”but I bet you could do it easier.”

”I bet I could too.” She opened both bottles, pa.s.sed one to Mickey, who gingerly sat on Hunt's tan leather couch. ”So did I miss something?” she asked. ”Does your boss know we were coming here?”

Mickey tipped up his bottle. ”I don't see how he could have, since I didn't know it myself until about a half hour ago.”

”But-”

”Yeah, I know. It could be a problem, but I don't think so. Wyatt's a good guy and he's on the right side. Besides that, and more important, Juhle wouldn't ever believe that he'd be keeping you here. Not without telling him. And at least until there's a warrant out for you, there's no legal issue. You can stay anywhere you want.”

”So we're staying here?”

”That's my plan.” Mickey sipped more beer. ”For a few days anyway. It's the safest place I can think of. Plus your car's off the street. Presto, you're disappeared.”

”That's scary.”

”Maybe. But a lot safer for you. And not just because of Juhle.”

”What do you mean?”

”I mean whoever killed Dominic and Neshek. If they know you're a suspect and you, say, show up dead, looking like a suicide, well, now, wouldn't that be convenient?”

”Now you are scaring me.”

”Well, that's one of the reasons I thought of coming here. You're safe here. From everybody.”

Alicia digested that for a long moment. ”So when is Mr. Hunt getting home?”

”I don't know. Sometime.”

”You don't want to call him and leave a message we're here?”

”I don't think so,” Mickey said. He didn't want to give Hunt the option of ordering them out-not an impossibility-before he'd had a chance to argue for his position. ”It might be better as a surprise.”

”n.o.body ever cooks for me,” Mickey said, ”except in restaurants.”

”Well, I do now.”

At ten-fourteen on this Wednesday night, Alicia was standing over a bowl of half a dozen broken eggs in Hunt's kitchen by his four-burner Viking stove. Mickey had stolen one of Hunt's short-sleeved sweats.h.i.+rts and he and Alicia had maneuvered it down over his cast and now he sat-nearly reclined, actually-at the kitchen table. She'd already set out a couple of plates and utensils and had bread going in the toaster. He held his just-opened third beer in his right hand.

Pouring the eggs into the skillet, she pinched some salt and pepper over them, then opened the spice cabinet over the kitchen counter and took down a small bottle of yellowish liquid. ”Truffle oil? Normal people have truffle oil?”

”Don't leave home without it,” Mickey said. ”Sure.”

”Should I put some in?”

”Every chance you get.”

In a small stream, she added some of the magical stuff, gathered the eggs with a spatula, then turned off the heat as the toast popped up. After b.u.t.tering it, she put a slice on each plate, ladled the eggs onto each, covering both pieces of toast completely, then topping the ma.s.s with another pat of b.u.t.ter.

Mickey picked up his fork and took a bite. ”These are perfect,” he said.

After they'd finished their eggs and Alicia had washed up, they were back in the den. Mickey had perked up when they'd first arrived, and that burst of energy had carried him through their meal. But now he sat slumped down in the reading chair, feet up on an ottoman, head on a pillow, covered with a blanket that Alicia had found next to the pillow on the top shelf of Hunt's bedroom closet. ”The couch opens up.” His voice sounded thick and groggy. ”You can sleep there.”

”What about you?”

”I'm good here. I'm almost asleep already.”

”Sorry, Mick. You're mangled and battered. You get the bed. Period.”

”Are we going to have a fight about this?”

She was already pulling the cus.h.i.+ons off the couch. ”No. You're going to get in the bed as soon as I get it made.”

”And what about you?”

”I've got my trusty sleeping bag and pad in the back of my car out there.” She pulled out the couch mattress, which was already made up for guests with a sheet and a blanket. Then, pulling down a corner of the blanket, she turned to face him. ”Do you need help getting up?”

”No.” But even as he said it, he winced at the attempt.

”Stop.” She stepped over and took off his shoes, then held his feet up while she moved the ottoman out from under them. Next she removed the blanket and draped it over the bed.

With his feet flat on the floor, he took her hand with his good arm and lifted himself into a sitting position while she went to one knee in front of him.

”Okay,” she said. ”Good arm around my neck. Easy, easy.”

Suppressing the urge to moan, he was up, still leaning on her.

She guided him over a few steps, then helped him down so that he was sitting on the bed. Finally, she put his pillow down where his head would be, lifted his feet, and turned him so that he could recline fully. She pulled the oversheet and both blankets over him and tucked them in. Then she lowered herself and sat on the edge of the bed. ”How's that?”

Clearly, the movement had cost him. Any boost he'd felt when they'd first gotten here had dissipated with the adrenaline and the beer. Now a light sweat had broken on his forehead and he was breathing through the pain in his ribs, slowly and deeply through pa.r.s.ed lips. ”Good.”

”Would you tell me if it was bad?”

”Maybe.” He broke a tired smile. ”Probably not.”