But Juna had no interest in facing him.
When Weecho came off the bay into the channel he could see her shadow sitting on the dock under the bungalow on stilts. Saw her stand when he turned the Jet Ski from the channel to come in that last short distance. By the time he docked, she was gone.
He started to call out for her.
“Don’t yell.” The voice was Nina Galleon’s, her ghost hovering above the dock where it had been before. “Sounds carry out here.”
“Where’d she go?”
“Go find out. But be quiet.”
He started up the ramp, jerked his thumb at the Jet Ski. “I think it needs gas.”
“Just go.”
The sliding door off the deck was open, but he didn’t see Juna. Went through the living room, checked the bathroom and bedroom, even under the bed. The place was empty.
He shut the front door, started across the plank walkway to shore, heading for the A train station. Maybe could catch up with her on the way.
He didn’t. Didn’t see her on the platform either.
He stood by himself and practiced some bullshit lines out loud while he waited for the train, trying out what he’d say when he saw her. Was glad she didn’t hear what he came up with when he heard how lame it sounded.
He still had the package of opium under his jacket, still had the blinking blue light. Went to toss the light into a trash bin, realized he didn’t want it calling attention to itself, not here in Lynch country, and waited until he got home
She wasn’t at the loft either. He tried her cell, she didn’t pick up.
He fed Wanda, waited up late, listening for the elevator while he stared out at the bridge. When he finally turned in, it was just him and Wanda on the single mattress.
# # #
“We need you up here right away.”
It was Alexey on Weecho’s cell the next morning, telling him to come to the town house.
“Why, what’s up?”
“Just get here,” he said, and clicked off.
When Weecho got there, Jeremy the houseman again led him up the winding stairs to the library. Alexey was sitting at the computer table with Commissioner Burke and Dara like last time. But this time nobody asked him to help himself to breakfast. Burke tossed an 8x11 photograph onto the table.
“Take a look.”
Weecho picked it up… did a big blink. It was a shot of him on the Jet Ski, with the packing drum full of opium floating at his side, one of the packages from it in his hand.
“One of our narcotics people was on that patrol boat,” Burke said. “He took the picture. That’s the only reason I have it instead of DEA. If they get a copy and run it through image enhancement, you’re toast.”
Weecho wasn’t all that recognizable because of the angle and the fog. But it was enough for Burke to know who it was. And image enhancement software had gotten better than Weecho might have liked.
Alexey tapped the picture. “That drum of junk was probably straight from their lab, pure and uncut.”
“That’s what I figured,” Weecho said.
YOU ARE READING
Weecho: First Shots
Teen FictionA hot young photographer shoots a conspiracy murder, has cops and the killer chasing after those pictures, hooks up with a fugitive punk girl to cover his back.
