Page 88 of Long Way Down

Pongo snorted. “Maybe we shoulda been the Sharks instead of the Dogs.”

“Doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Someone walking the other direction nearly put his eye out with an umbrella prong. He didn’t feelgoodabout things, but, as usual, talking to Mav had left him feeling better. “So I’ve got this phone.”

“Yeah,” Mav said, voice shifting to business mode. Paper crackled in the background, and Pongo wondered if he stepped outside his office much these days; moving up in the world had turned their chapter presidents into a bunch of desk-bound paper pushers. “We’ve put the word out through all the right channels that if someone wants to talk – and I mean talk seriously, not threaten – to the Dogs, then they need to go through Ian’s office. It cuts down on street corner meetings and that sorta bullshit that lands us in holding cells overnight.”

“Smart,” Pongo admitted, only a little reluctant. Iandidallow them never-before-available opportunities.

“We’re gonna have to make some kinda peace with the Russians, Italians, and Japanese, and that’s gonna be…” He made a defeated noise. “A headache and a fuckin’ half. But in the meantime, another group’s reached out to us.”

“Who?”

“The Alpines.”

“Heh.” He fished some change out of his pocket for a held-out cup and ducked his head against the sting of cold raindrops on his cheeks. “They trying to take sides before shit blows up?”

“Most likely. They said they have something to offer. And don’t laugh – they might be small, but they ain’t nothing.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Where am I meeting this Nutless Wonder? Somebody finally gonna get to see Neutrality HQ?”

“Call the guy that and I’ll be down at the morgue trying to ID your hands and feet, smartass.”

Pongo rolled his eyes, though Mav couldn’t see.

“And no. I don’t know where you’re meeting. Your contact will let you know.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll get thrown in the back of a van?” Pongo asked, grinning to himself. “Sold into slavery? Press-ganged into the Green Berets?”

“I’m more worried that you know the word ‘press-ganged.’”

“Hey, now. I know stuff.”

“You know how to run your mouth – which is why I’m not worried anyone’s gonna want to snatch you up. Be good,” he said, over Pongo’s protest, “and call me after the meet’s done.”

“It’ll be late.”

“I’ll be up,” Maverick assured. “And whatever you do, don’t get on the Prince’s fucking bad side.”

“I heard that’s the only kind he has.”

“All the more reason.”

Nineteen

Rojas and Novak had spent the day following up on alibis. Rojas’s voice filled the car, tinny and scratchy through Contreras’s phone in the cup holder. “The ex-boyfriend, Jason, is on camera an hour before the call came in at the vic’s place. Bought pizza at Guido’s and, according to the roommate, they ate and played video games all night. He doesn’t have any defensive marks or bruises on him, either. Guy’s a little shit, but he looks like he’s in the clear right now.”

Melissa frowned.

Contreras said, “Yeah. What about the classmates?”

“Doug Waxman says he checked into one of the library’s special study rooms at eight-fifteen that night, and signed back out after midnight. Said he had a big project due he’d been putting off and had to cram it all in last minute.”

“He on camera, too?” Melissa asked.

“We’re pulling the footage from the school,” Rojas said. “But there’s not a log at the library, and the kid working the desk that night said he was busy and couldn’t tell us who might have come or gone.”

“Reassuring.”