"Long enough for him to think we're not coming tonight and relax his guard," I said.
"Now quit your bitching. You whine worse than a toddler."
I peered through a pair of night-vision goggles. Donovan Caine lived in a modest cabin home in Towering Pines, one of Ashland's rustic-themed subdivisions. The two-story, wooden structure was located at the end of a cul-de-sac and squatted about two hundred feet up on a hill. Stunted pine trees lined the curving driveway that led up to the house, not quite matching the subdivision's boastful name.
Finn and I had gotten a fresh car and slipped into the suburban neighborhood just before six. Lucky for us, one of Caine's college-age neighbors had decided to throw a raucous party. Two dozen cars lined the streets, three deep in some places, while at least a hundred people, most in their early twenties, milled in and around the ranch-style house that was the closest one to the detective's abode. One particularly drunk frat boy had stumbled by, turned, and thrown up all over the hood of our stolen SUV.
I had to stop Finn from getting out and rubbing the guy's nose in his own vomit.
"It's not even your car," I pointed out. "You lifted it out of a mall parking lot."
"It's the principle of the thing," Finn sniffed. "This is a Mercedes. You don't puke on a Mercedes."
We sat about two hundred feet away from the cabin, out of range of any surveillance cameras or equipment that might be on or around the structure. Besides the party shack, there hadn't been much activity on the street. A few folks coming in from work and going back out to get dinner. Some kids wearing football uniforms piling out of a truck. People lugging groceries inside. The usual suburban routines.
At exactly six o'clock, the light on Donovan Caine's front porch had clicked on. The detective appeared to have accepted my terms. Or at least wanted me to think he had.
I hadn't spotted any scurry of activity around the house. No cops hidden in the bushes, no plainclothes detectives masquerading as put-upon suburbanites, no SWAT team parked in an unmarked van. But that didn't mean Caine wasn't waiting inside with a dozen of Ashland's most corrupt.
After the light had appeared, Finn and I had driven out of the subdivision. We'd killed time by eating some spicy fajitas, salty corn chips, and chunky salsa at Pepe's, one of the local Mexican restaurants. We'd returned just after eight and had spent the last three hours watching Caine's house.
"I still can't believe he turned on his porch light," Finn said, shifting in the driver's seat. "He must be as crazy and desperate as we are."
"Or he knows there's more to this than meets the eye and wants to get to the bottom of it," I replied.
"You know you could be walking into a trap. Caine could be waiting in there with a shotgun, ready to blast you to hell and back."
"He could, but I don't think he will," I said. "By turning on that light, he gave me his word. That means something to a man like Donovan Caine."
Finn snorted. "Yeah, it means you'll realize he's an exceptionally good liar when you're clutching your intestines and choking on your own blood on his living room floor."
I leaned forward and stared through the goggles at the house. It was after eleven now, and day had long ago given way to night. Darkness would have shrouded the street, covered in a blanket of silence, if every single light over at Party Central hadn't been turned on and cranked up full blast, along with an impressive sound system.
Somebody over there was on a Lynyrd Skynyrd kick. They'd played "Sweet Home, Alabama" so many times I wanted to crash the party, kill the radio, and knife whoever was selecting the music.
But the blaring southern rock, warm glow, and beer buzz didn't reach up the hill to Caine's place. Shadows pooled around the cabin like puddles of ever-expanding blood, encroaching on the cheer from the party.
A light snapped on in one of the second-story windows, and a tall, lean figure moved in front of it. Donovan Caine. I adjusted the goggles, but I couldn't make out his features through the thick curtains. He appeared agitated, pacing from one side of the room to the other. His hand was held to his head, as though he was talking on a cell phone. He seemed to be arguing with someone.
A pair of headlights popped up in the rearview mirror, ruining my night vision.
Cursing, I blinked away the spots that exploded in my eyes. But instead of stopping at Party Central and spewing out more college kids, the black sedan glided by. Its headlights snapped off, and the vehicle coasted to a stop at the end of the cul-de-sac, blocking the entrance to Caine's driveway.
"What do you see?" Finn whispered.
I blinked away the rest of the spots and squinted through the goggles. "Five men. Suits. All armed with guns. All headed toward the house. Four going up to the front. One headed around the back of the cabin."
"Fuck."
"Fuck is right," I muttered, pulling off the goggles. "There's only one reason you send five guys to a cop's house in the middle of the night."
The same scenario had played out when my family had been murdered. The sneak attack late at night. The old memories tugged at me, the hoarse screams echoed in my ears, but I blocked them out. Now was not the time to dwell on the past.
"Somebody's decided the good detective is more of a liability than an asset," Finn finished my thought. "He's probably been asking too many questions about the Giles murder."
"Justice will get you every single time. Now, you take the rear guard and keep him from coming up behind me. I'll surprise the others."
Finn sighed. "So we're going to go help him then?"
I didn't answer. I was already outside, running toward the cabin.
Several low hedges and growing pines dotted the landscape between the street and the cabin. Stiff needles clutched at my clothes, and the tangy scent of pine sap tickled my nose. But it was easy enough for me to hopscotch my way from bush to bush, tree to tree, shadow to shadow. I paused about fifty feet away from the steps leading up to the front porch. Listening. Watching. Waiting. A lone man stood outside the front door. His three friends must have slipped inside while I'd been approaching the house. I'd seen the fifth guy go around the cabin, probably to keep Donovan Caine from bolting out a back door. No worries. Finn would take care of him.
I shook my sleeves, and my silverstone knives fell into my hands. Cold and comforting, as always.
I picked my way up the hill, coming at the porch from an angle. The end of the wooden, wraparound porch stood about four feet off the ground, supported by a couple of low beams. I squatted down and peered over the edge, my gray eyes just above the porch line. The guy still stood by the front door, but his body was turned away from me, facing inside. He wasn't expecting trouble, at least not from this direction. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.