Page 48 of Making His Bones

Elektra

“ . . . and just as I was taking a selfie with three glamorous actresses, someone shouted out ‘The policia are coming!’ They heard there was bath salts at the party and were coming to bust anyone partaking. Well! I posted the selfie to Instagram along with a note that it might be my last ever.”

Lytton rolled his eyes at me. “Such drama,” he whispered from the side of his mouth.

Santiago continued. “The stairs down to the front were so jammed with people, I said ‘follow me!’ I went to the owner’s bedroom and looked out the window. Carefully calculating the distance, I ripped the sheet off the bed. I said I would be the first to try it out. Heroically I threw my shoes down to the cement below.”

“White golfing shoes,” said Lytton.

Santiago didn’t hear. “With three men bracing themselves holding the sheet still, I rappelled like a Swiss mountain man down the wall! I motioned to my friends that everything went well. When four of us were at the bottom, we heard sirens approaching, so we vaulted over a fence, ran up a few blocks, and called Cabify. We all gathered at my apartment—wait, Wolf, take this fork to the left of this boulder!”

“I see,” said Wolf blandly. It was probably the first time his tricked-out truck had been off-road.

“We all had a good laugh, mixed up some sublime martinis, and gasped when there was some scratching at my window!”

“Who the hell?” I said, by now intrigued with the story.

“Upon opening the curtains, I saw it was Roberto Frost, the birthday boy whose surprise party it had been! We immediately hauled him in. He said he was the one who called the cops on his own party!”

“Wait, what?” I asked. “Roberto Frost, really?”

That wasn’t the part that got Lytton. “Why’d he come in your window? Why not just use the front door?”

Santiago shrugged, holding onto the chicken handle as Wolf bounced over large rocks. “Maybe he was used to windows.”

I asked, “Why didn’t he want the party?”

But Santiago was pointing out the windshield. “This is where I get off, Wolf Glaser. Stop right by that saguaro.”

Lytton clutched Wolf’s car seat. “What are you fucking doing, Slayer?”

Santiago turned placidly to his boss. “I said I’d show you the back way in. But I cannot be seen with members of the Bare Bones MC, as you know. It wouldn’t do for anyone, especially pastors like Pitchfork, to know I associate with you.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Lytton waved, as if just remembering these facts.

Wolf stopped the truck, and Santiago leaned over to shake my hand. “Very nice meeting such a pretty scientist, Elektra Spinoza. I hope you find out who killed your daughter.”

“What’re you going to do?” I asked. “It’s ninety degrees out there.”

Santiago saluted. “I will see you.” And he skipped out of the truck like he was embarking on some lighthearted shopping spree.

Lytton instructed me, “Elektra, I’m going to get in front. You’ll stay in back for protection.”

Wolf said, “What’s the plan, Lytton? Just bust on in there with guns blazing?”

“Well,” said Lytton, as we rumbled along again, “first we should ascertain where they’re keeping Gray.”

I said, “I think it would be a lot more effective if I confronted them too, Lytton. After all, I’m the one with the dead daughter.” I found it had a stronger impact if I said, “dead daughter” as opposed to some euphemism, like “passed-away child.”

“No,” said Lytton. “No way. I’m not risking the life of an outsider just for some shitbirds like the Pitchforks.”

“While they are obviously hosepipes,” said Wolf, “I believe she is right. We can protect her with our pieces, which are definitely of superior caliber and quality than the metal of those tardbillies.”

“But as you know, ammo flies where it will in a free-for-all.”

“I doubt they’re going to risk the charge of murder over someone as inconsequential as an actor from LA,” opined Wolf.

“Hey,” I protested. “He is worth it to me.” Then I realized that didn’t sound right.