Flashback

“So the reconquista armies and militias out there got their collective asses kicked, there are more than a million and a half spanic residents of East L.A. running south for their lives, and word is that the Nuevo Mexican forces haven’t been able to draw the line at San Diego but are falling back to the old border.”

“So?” repeated Nick.

“So there are about half a million yahoos in Denver who are getting big ideas of kicking spanic ass here in our own backyard,” said K.T. “The whole force is on duty today—full riot gear—and drawing a protective line in Five Points, north Denver, West Colfax area, the old Manual High School feeder neighborhoods, and all of southwest Denver beyond Santa Fe Drive.”

“You don’t have enough people, K.T.”

“Fucking tell me about it,” said the lieutenant. “What the hell do you want, Nick? I gotta get to work.”

“Any progress on getting me that impound V-eight I asked for?”

K.T. squinted at him. “You were serious?”

“As a heart attack, partner.”

“Don’t call me ‘partner,’ you flashcave dweller. Why on earth would I risk my entire career and pension by stealing you a car from impound, Nick Bottom?”

“Because they’ll kill me if I don’t have real wheels to get out of here.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” demanded K.T. “The black helicopters coming for you?”

Nick smiled at that. She was closer to the truth than she could know.

“You read the grand jury notes,” said Nick.

“Another reason not even to talk to you, mister. Much less commit a felony for you.”

Nick nodded. “Assuming they were a frame-up—assume that for just a minute—ask yourself who’d have the juice to change phone records, suborn testimony, do all the things that grand jury near-indictment required to be done. The late mayor and former DA Mannie Ortega?”

K.T. snorted a laugh.

“Who, then?” pressed Nick. “The governor? Who?”

“It’d have to be someone on the level of Advisor Nakamura’s group,” said K.T., glancing at her watch and glowering. “But why would Nakamura spend all that time almost six years ago framing you—at great effort and expense—and then hire you now to find the killer of his sweet widdle boy?”

“I’m working on that,” said Nick.

“But that’s assuming that all that grand jury work was a frame-up,” snapped K.T. “Which has to be bullshit.” She turned to walk away.

Knowing how much K. T. Lincoln hated to be touched—he’d watched her scowl a supervisor into retreat for doing so, not to mention baton the teeth out of a begging perp—he grabbed her by the upper arm and turned her around.

“That grand jury information meant that I killed my wife. You knew us for years, K.T. Can you imagine me hurting Dara?” He shook her with both hands. “God damn it, can you?”

She removed his hands and glared at him, but then looked down. “No, Nick. You couldn’t hurt Dara. Not ever.”

“So one way or the other—whether I find Keigo Nakamura’s killer or not, and I only have until this evening to report on that—Advisor Nakamura’s going to have me whacked. I’m certain of it. But with a fast car…”

“You’re nuts,” said K.T. But her voice was softer now. “Why did you say in your call yesterday morning—I never got back to sleep, by the way—that you were trying to save Val and you? Is Val back from L.A.?”

“I was out there looking for him from Monday until last night,” said Nick. “I think odds are decent that he and his grandfather got out of the city before the shit hit the fan.”

“And he’d come here… to you? Why, Nick?”

He may want to kill me, thought Nick. Instead of saying that, he shrugged. “All I know is that if he arrives today, I need a fast way out of town. A car with balls.”

“How far do you have to get to be… away… out of town?” asked K.T.

“Three hundred sixty-four miles would about do it,” said Nick.

“Three hundred sixty… Nick, no car goes that far these days without an overnight charge or a hydrogen top-off. What on earth is three hundred and sixty-one miles from here that you’d need to…” She paused and her eyes widened. “Texas? Are you shitting me?”

“I shit thee not, Lieutenant Lincoln.”

“The Republic of Texas doesn’t take felons on the run, Nick. Nor do they take flashback addicts. Nor do they…” She paused again.

Nick said nothing.

K.T. took a step closer. “You look… different. Your eyes… Are you off the flashback shit?”

“I think so,” Nick said softly. “The last nine days or so have been too busy for me to think about the drug.”

“Nine whole days,” said K.T. There was some sarcasm in her tone—there always was—but Nick could also hear the serious question beneath the derision.

“It’s a beginning, partner,” said Nick. He remembered when he’d helped her go off both painkillers and cigarettes in the months after a minor shooting—the nicotine being harder to kick than the narcotics. Dara had understood when he’d sat up nights with his partner, listening to her moan and bitch. He knew that K.T. also remembered it.