Page 25 of Go First
“The one that says you think breakfast before dawn is a crime against humanity.”He forked another bite of eggs, chewed with relish, then pointed the fork at her.“You should try it.Fuel for the day.”
“Blechhh.”
Her coffee was black and bitter, but it kept her upright.She stirred it absently, letting the spoon clink against the mug.“Fuel doesn’t help if the engine hasn’t been tuned.I got maybe three hours last night.”
Marcus shrugged.“Luxury.I was lucky if I got ninety minutes.”
She eyed him.“Then how and why are you not dead on your feet?”
“Simple,” he said, grinning.“Grease and caffeine.The twin pillars of law enforcement.”
Kate allowed herself a ghost of a smile.Her partner could be infuriating, but sometimes his irreverence was the only thing keeping her from sliding under the weight of their cases.She took another swallow of coffee, feeling it burn down her throat, and reminded herself they had work to do.
Hector Martinez.
A man who had worked long hours at odd jobs—catering, deliveries, and, more recently, a sashimi truck that parked on weekends by the waterfront.
And this morning, they were going to knock on his door.
Martinez’s apartment block stood hunched on the edge of a gray Portland suburb, its concrete walls streaked with mildew, windows patched with duct tape where glass had cracked.The kind of place that swallowed lives whole.
They climbed the stairs, the smell of stale cooking oil and cigarettes clinging to every landing, until they found his door.Apartment 3C.
Kate rapped smartly.“Mr.Martinez?FBI.We need to ask you some questions.”
Silence.
Marcus knocked again, louder.“Mr.Martinez, we’re not here to make trouble.We just need a word.”
Still nothing.
Kate pressed her ear to the door, listening.Faint hum of an old refrigerator.No footsteps.No movement.
“He’s not here,” she said, straightening.
“Or he don’t wanna be found,” Marcus muttered.He glanced up and down the corridor, then out the grimy stairwell window.
That was when they noticed the man with the shopping cart.
He was pushing it slowly along the sidewalk outside, every metal squeak of the wheels echoing up the walls.His coat was patched corduroy, his beard straggly, his eyes bright and shrewd beneath the grime.He looked up at them without surprise, as though he had been expecting their attention.
“You want Hector?”he called, voice gravelly.
Kate and Marcus exchanged a look, then descended the stairs quickly.The man had stopped by the entrance, one hand resting on the cart handle as if to anchor himself.
“You know where he is?”Kate asked.
The man grinned, revealing teeth worn to stubs.“Fish market.Payson.Opens at four in the morning.Hector, he’s always there early.To get the best stuff.Tuna, halibut, crabs, whatever the fancy folks pay for.Mind you, he was late today.”
Payson.A twenty-minute drive up the coast.Kate’s mind worked quickly.“So he was there Friday morning, too?”
The man’s grin widened, revealing more gaps than teeth, but he shook his head slowly.“I ain’t say that.Didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout no Friday nor no other days neither.”
Marcus folded his arms.“Come on, help us out, pal.You see him Thursday night?Friday dawn?You know his schedule better than anyone.”
But the man only chuckled, low and hoarse, and began to push his cart forward again.“Don’t know what I know.Don’t know what I don’t.Hector, he his own man.That’s all.”
Kate stepped after him, her tone sharpening.“A man was murdered, sir.We’re not playing games.If you know something—”