Page 12 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“No cash,” he said, shaking his head. “Crypto. You know the deal.”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” I agreed. “I’ll send it when I get on my computer again. Now, Czech crime crew. What do you know?”

“Well, you lucked out that I don’t work for them. No confidentiality issue.”

“You’re not a fucking shrink, Keith,” I reminded him.

“Still. You wouldn’t want me telling everyone the way to your heart is with gummy fish and big cups of black coffee.”

I was getting a headache just from a twenty-minute conversation with this kid. “Czech. Crew. Now,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.

“You probably need some water,” he told me, diagnosing my headache.

“Rich coming from someone who drinks liquid poison all day. Keith, I’m running short on patience.”

“And you have a dog to get back to,” he said, glancing at the bags again, this time with a little more concern. “Okay. Czech crew. I had someone mention them a few days back.”

“And?” I prompted when he didn’t go on.

“And… they got a place over in Washington Heights.”

“I’m gonna need more than that, Keith.”

“I think they mentioned a townhouse.”

“There’s several strips of townhouses. I need more.”

“I can look into it,” he said, then, at my glare. “I will look into it.”

“When?”

“I have some time next wee—“ he started, watching me as I stalked toward him. “Today. I’ll work on it today.”

“Good. Then you will also call me today,” I demanded. “I want an address before dark.”

“Okay. Alright,” he said, nodding. “Go feed your dog. What’s her name by the way?” he asked.

“Oh,” I said, frowning.

“She doesn’t have a name?”

“I don’t think they ever used one for her.”

“Well, she needs a name.”

“Got one?”

“Not without seeing her,” he said as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

“She’s… tan.”

“Yeah, but, what’s her personality? Is she a lover or a loner? Does she enjoy—“

“I have a feeling this is going to go off-track really quickly,” I cut him off. “Focus on the Czech’s address. I will name my own dog.”

With that, I headed out, stopping outside to let out a loud snarl that everyone passing ignored before jumping back on the subway to Spanish Harlem where I did a paranoid sweep of the building before going back down to greet the dog, tossing out toys that she stared at, unsure what she was supposed to do with them.

And that, well, was sad as fuck, wasn’t it?

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