The Devil You Know Read online

  “Where is she?”

  The girl shrugs.

  “She did not come home this morning. She always comes home.”

  “She was working last night?”

  The girl nods.

  “We both were. She was on this block.”

  “That’s why you approached the police officer.”

  The girl nods again.

  “I was hoping he could help. I was hoping he saw her or knew somebody who did.”

  I look once more at the photograph. The girl captured there looks happy. Hopeful. Excited at the prospect of life. I wish I could do something to help this girl find her sister, but right now there’s just too much on my plate.

  I hand the photograph back to the girl.

  “Good luck finding your sister.”

  The girl doesn’t take the photograph. She isn’t even looking at me. Her gaze is directed at something over my shoulder.

  I glance back to see an old BMW coming up the street, two men in front, both wearing sunglasses.

  I turn back to the girl but she’s already moving away from me, hurrying up the sidewalk.

  “Hey.”

  The girl doesn’t answer, just keeps walking.

  “Hey!”

  The girl starts hurrying her pace.

  Behind me, the BMW’s engine growls as it shoots forward.

  The girl is sprinting now, turning into the alleyway beside the motel.

  The BMW’s tires screech as it makes the hard turn into the alleyway, following her.

  I shove the crumbled photograph in my pocket and hurry up the sidewalk. I notice that girl across the street again, the one taking pictures with her cell phone. Because of the commotion, her attention shifts toward me, and across the two blocks our eyes meet. She holds her phone up again, only for a moment, but I’m certain that she just took a picture. My picture.

  Oh, hell no.

  Part of me wants to stray off course, head directly to this girl and take the phone from her, smash it so hard the memory card shatters into a hundred pieces, but before I can, the girl in the alleyway cries out.

  The BMW is parked at an angle, its front bumper kissing the side of the building and making it impossible for the girl to escape. Both men are out of the car now, and one of them has grabbed the girl, shoved her up against the wall.

  I glance back once more at the girl across the street. This girl now looking up and down the street, as if looking for something, and then hurrying over to the other side. For some reason I think she’s coming to the prostitute’s aid—maybe she herself is a prostitute as well—but instead she climbs the steps and disappears through the motel’s entrance.

  The girl in the alleyway cries out again.

  I start down the alleyway, and don’t speak until I’m only a few feet away.

  “Hey, do you guys smell something?”

  Because of their sunglasses, it’s impossible to tell whether or not these men are glaring at me, but I’ll bet five bucks they are.

  I take another step closer, overdramatically suck in air through my nose.

  “Yeah, it definitely doesn’t smell good. Do you want to know what it smells like?”

  Neither man answers.

  I say, “It smells like two assholes.”

  One of the men turns to me, his hands clenching into fists.

  “Bitch, you better get the fuck out of here before we turn you out.”

  I take another heavy sniff and then nod, pointing at the man.

  “Yeah, you especially smell like a dirty asshole. When was the last time somebody wiped you?”

  The man is clearly not used to having a woman talk back to him. His anger turns to rage, and he rushes at me at full speed. Which makes taking him out almost too easy.

  I duck and move to the side when he comes at me, stepping behind him and grabbing the back of his head and smashing his face straight into the nearest wall. Blood geysers from his nose. He stumbles back. Tries to take a swing at me. I duck this attempt even more easily, grab his arm and twist it behind his back, pulling up hard enough that his body becomes mine, a simple puppet, moving in whatever direction I want.

  The other man has let go of the girl. He pulls a switchblade from his pocket, starts toward us.

  I jerk the man’s arm up and turn him toward his friend.

  The man with the knife pauses, considering his options.

  I say, “I’m going to dislocate your friend’s shoulder because nobody likes a smelly asshole. You want me to dislocate your shoulder too?”

  The man with the knife snarls.

  “Fuck you, bitch.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I twist the man’s arm enough to hear something pop. The man screams. I push him forward. He stumbles a bit, almost falls into his friend. With the other man’s attention focused on his friend for that instant, he doesn’t see me coming. Within seconds, I’ve snatched the knife from his hand, stabbed him in the stomach, then grabbed his other arm and jerked it back until I hear that pop again.

  He screams, too.

  I look up at the girl, who’s staring at me in horror.

  “Leave. Pack your things and leave town. Leave the city. Leave the state. Start a new life.”

  “But—but—but my sister—”

  “Is not coming back. You know that. Whatever happened to her, she’s gone.”

  The girl again looks to be on the verge of tears. She stands frozen for an instant before shaking her head as if waking from a dream. Immediately she squeezes between the wall and the car and hurries down the alleyway.

  The knife is still in the man’s stomach. I lean down and pull it out. Blood starts to ooze from the wound.

  “Might want to put pressure on that.”

  The man’s hand scrambles to find the wound.

  I wipe the blade on the man’s shirt so it’s clean and then close the knife and slip it into my pocket.

  “Think I’m going to keep this as a memento of our time together. Thanks, fellas. It’s been swell.”

  Both of them swear and call me names, but it’s hard to take them seriously when they’re lying on the ground groaning in pain.

  I reach the end of the alleyway just as the girl with the cell phone emerges from the motel’s entrance.

  I step back before she notices me. Peeking around the corner, I watch as she looks up and down the block again and then hurriedly crosses the street. She goes up the block and climbs into a car. Fortunately, the car faces this direction, so once she has it out on the street, she heads my way.

  I’m already halfway down the block when she passes. From the corner of my eye it doesn’t look like she sees me.

  I cross the street and climb into the Civic, maneuver a quick three-point turn, and manage to catch up with the girl three blocks later.

  I let her keep a two-block lead.

  By now Ramon and his partner are long gone, but this girl, well, something tells me wherever she’s going could be just as interesting.

  Fifteen

  Carlos banged his fist against the apartment door, and when there was no answer, he banged his fist again.

  Ramon said, “Maybe he’s not home.”

  They stood alone on the third floor of the apartment building, the hallway narrow and musty.

  Carlos tried the doorknob. It didn’t turn. He looked at Ramon.

  “Did you stretch this morning?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m too old to kick down this door.”

  Ramon looked at the door.

  “Maybe we should just try to find the manager or somebody else who might have a key.”

  Carlos said, “In a few hours agents from Mexico City will be coming here to take over our investigation. Do you want to look like an asshole who didn’t do any work tracking down a lead?”

  Ramon said nothing.

  “I’m close to retiring, so it doesn’t matter much to me, though I would love to help bring down the Devil. You … you’re just starting out. Thi
nk about how capturing the Devil would look.”

  Carlos pointed at the door.

  “Now, are you going to do this or not?”

  The door itself was thin and cheap. It took only two kicks before it broke away from the lock.

  Carlos pushed the door open, his gun now in hand, and entered the apartment.

  “Miguel, if you’re in here, you have three seconds to come out with your hands up.”

  Silence.

  Carlos said, “Three.”

  More silence.

  “Two.”

  Nothing.

  “One.”

  Ramon stepped up next to Carlos, his gun at his side.

  “I guess he’s not here.”

  “I guess so.”

  But Carlos and Ramon kept their guns out as they moved about the apartment. The place was as cramped and shitty as the outside of the building looked. The bedroom just a mattress on the floor and some boxes of clothes scattered about. Same with the rest of the place. A ratty couch and TV. The sink in the kitchenette full of dirty dishes.

  Ramon said, “You think he took off?”

  Carlos said, “I can’t tell if the place has been ransacked or if this is how it always looks.”

  Out in the hallway an angry voice shouted.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  A fat bald man stood in the doorway. He stared at the broken door as if in shock, then glared at Carlos and Ramon.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Carlos kept the gun held at his side.

  “We’re looking for Miguel. Are you Miguel?”

  The fat man snorted.

  “Do I look like Miguel?”

  Carlos said, “It’s impossible for me to say because I don’t know what Miguel looks like.”

  The fat man seemed to notice their guns for the first time. His large brow creased as he frowned.

  “Are you police?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We can’t tell you that. Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m the landlord. I live on the first floor. I got a call there was a disturbance up here so I came to check it out before calling the police. Who’s going to pay for that door?”

  “Do you know where Miguel is?”

  “No. What did he do?”

  “How long has he been living here?”

  “I don’t know. A couple years.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I can’t remember. I don’t socialize with my tenants. But he always paid his rent on time, so I never had any problems with him.”

  “Does he have any friends in the building?”

  The fat man shrugged his heavy shoulders.

  “Again, I don’t know. What’s this about? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “We’re worried about his safety. It’s important we track him down as soon as possible.”

  This was a lie, but they weren’t about to tell the landlord the truth.

  The fat man shrugged again, now looking about the place.

  “That’s all I can tell you. He always paid his rent on time. That’s the only thing that matters to me. Never had any complaints about him.”

  Ramon said, “Do you know where he works?”

  “Some motel. I couldn’t tell you which one.”

  “Any other job?”

  “Not one that comes to mind. Seriously, what is this about?”

  Carlos and Ramon traded glances. It didn’t look like they would get much more out of the landlord.

  Carlos said, “Thank you for your time.”

  He and Ramon started past the fat man into the hallway, ignoring the landlord as he sputtered after them.

  “Wait. What about the door? Who the hell is going to pay for that door?”

  Sixteen

  Ramon and his partner stand on the sidewalk for a minute, talking to one another, and then they drift over to the two cops parked along the street.

  Ramon’s partner leans down to speak to the driver. The driver nods. Ramon’s partner leans back, and then he and Ramon walk to where they had parked their pickup truck down the block. They slip inside the truck and are gone seconds later. The two cops start their car and drive down the street where they make a U-turn and coast to a stop by the corner.

  They’re pointed right at the apartment building, keeping an eye out for whomever Ramon and his partner clearly didn’t find inside.

  I wonder how the girl is going to handle it. She’s still sitting in her car a block away. She’s been sitting there ever since she arrived ten minutes ago. As far as I can tell, she didn’t notice that I was following her. No doubt too focused on the task at hand to be aware of her surroundings. Which makes me suspect that whatever she’s up to she’s a novice.

  Two minutes pass before the girl finally opens her door and steps out. She stands there for a moment, staring down the block—probably at the parked cop car—and then closes her door and starts to make her way down the street.

  I watch her, curious to see what she does next, and am surprised when she just goes for it.

  She slips her cell phone out of her pocket and stares down at it. From where I am I can’t tell what she’s doing with the phone, but my guess is she’s trying to be inconspicuous. Texting, playing a game, whatever—she keeps her head bent as she works her way up the sidewalk and then, all at once, turns and enters the apartment building.

  I step out of the Civic and cross the street. I don’t have the luxury of a cell phone to act like I’m distracted. Besides my ID, passport, money, and the pimp’s knife, all I have is the crumpled photograph the frail prostitute gave me. I slip it from my pocket and act like I’m looking at it as I walk down the sidewalk. I pause before the apartment building’s entrance, looking up and down the block with a confused expression. I allow a quick beat to glance toward where the cops are parked. They’re still there, and they’re watching me, but my gut says it’s just because I’m one of the few out on the street right now and standing right in front of the building. I look back down at the photograph, mumbling to myself, and then turn toward the entrance. Slipping the photograph back into my pocket, I pull open the glass door and enter.

  The foyer is deserted. There is no elevator in the building, only a set of stairs. Judging by the closed doors along the first floor, I figure the girl took the stairs.

  I start up the stairs, quietly, trying to hear the girl’s footsteps, but a loud TV in one of the first-floor apartments makes it difficult.

  As I reach the end of the stairs and turn a corner, a fat man nearly barrels into me. He’s mumbling about a broken door and how much it will cost and the police are goddamned corrupt. He barely even notices me, lost in his thoughts. I’m the one who needs to step out of his way, and then he’s past me, headed downstairs.

  I hurry up to the second floor. Peer down the hallway. All the doors are closed. None are broken.

  I head up to the third floor.

  Bingo.

  The third door down from the left is open, kicked in.

  I pause outside the apartment.

  Somebody’s inside. The girl? Most likely, but I can’t be too sure. Only one way to find out.

  I step inside the apartment.

  The girl isn’t here. At least, that’s what it looks like at first. But then I hear movement coming from the next room—maybe the bedroom?—and a second later the girl appears, her cell phone in hand.

  She doesn’t notice me at first, too focused on taking pictures, but then she turns and looks up and gasps.

  I say, “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

  The girl stands there for an instant, frozen in shock. Then she frowns.

  “This isn’t your apartment.”

  “Did you break down my door?”

  The girl shakes her head as if to clear it.

  “This isn’t your apartment.”

  She pauses, studying my face. Recognition lights her eyes.


  “You were outside the motel.”

  I say, “Who are you?”

  The girl throws it right back at me.

  “Who are you?”

  She holds up the phone, snaps a picture.

  I say, “I can’t let you keep that picture. Or the one you took back outside the motel.”

  “Too bad. They’re already in the cloud.”

  I can’t tell if the girl’s bluffing or not. The phone doesn’t look advanced enough to be hooked up with some web cloud where all her pictures are stored, but maybe it is. And if that’s the case, then that will make this a bit harder.

  We’re at a stalemate, both of us staring at one another, so I do the first thing that comes to mind.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the pimp’s knife.

  Eject the blade.

  The girl’s eyes widen.

  “I’ll call the police.”

  Her voice now a tremulous whisper.

  “Call them. There’s a car right outside. You saw it before you came in here. It was the same one that was back at the motel.”

  The girl just stares at the knife.

  I ask, “Why were you at the motel? Why are you here now?”

  The girl says nothing.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  The girl blinks. Shifts her eyes up to meet mine.

  “Are those pictures really sent to a cloud?”

  The girl’s nod is almost imperceptible.

  “Then we have a problem. I’m going to need you to delete them. Right now.”

  The girl starts to shake her head.

  “I can’t delete them from my phone once they’re sent, and they’re sent automatically.”

  “Then how can you delete them?”

  No answer.

  I take a step forward.

  “How. Can you. Delete them.”

  The girl takes a deep breath.

  “Back at my house. On my desktop.”

  I nod, looking around the piece of shit apartment.

  “Then you and I are going to have to go there.”

  The girl says, “Are you going to hurt me?”

  “Not if you delete those pictures. That’s all I want.”

  For an instant she looks relieved. Then she squints at me again.