The Book With No Name by Anonymous Page A

anything.’ It was obvious that this comment didn’t sit well with the forensic experts, who threw a few hard glances in Somers’s direction. It didn’t bother him, of course. He enjoyed winding them up. ‘Oh, and Jensen – you’ll probably work this out for yourself, but I’ll tell you anyway. Sanchez will lie through his teeth when you question him. He’s not one for cooperating with the police. If I know him like I think I do, he’s probably already got a hitman on the job, looking for the killer or killers, so don’t believe everything he tells you. There’s no more than fifty per cent truth in anything he says.’
    Leaving Somers behind to annoy the forensic crew, Jensen made his way back outside. It was a relief to be out of the stink in the kitchen and in fresh air, and for a minute he just stood there, gulping down great lungfuls of the stuff. The ambulance had been backed up to the porch at the front of the house and two of the medics were lifting a stretcher up into the back of it. The larger of the two bodybags was already in the back, laid along one side, and they were now putting what was probably Audrey’s body on board with it. One guy was backing, stooped over, into the ambulance while the other struggled to hold up his end of the stretcher from below. He was blocking Jensen’s exit, and the detective waited for the stretcher to be loaded before tapping the medic on the shoulder.
    ‘I’ve got to go see a guy called Sanchez Garcia at the Tapioca Bar later. Do you know where it is?’ he asked.
    ‘Sure. We’re driving past it on the way to the morgue,’ the man replied through gritted teeth as he helped push the stretcher into place. ‘You can follow on behind us if you want.’
    ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ Jensen pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and held it in front of the man’s face. ‘One other thing. If Sanchez was going to take the law into his own hands, who would he most likely get to do his dirty work?’
    The ambulanceman looked at the note for a second, considering whether or not to take it. It didn’t take him long. Hegrabbed the note from Jensen’s hand and shoved it in his breast pocket.
    ‘The only man Sanchez would trust is the King,’ he said.
    ‘The King?’
    ‘Yeah. Elvis lives, man. Didn’t you know?’
    ‘Apparently not.’

Eleven
    Marcus the Weasel was still hungover. Not that he cared too much. He was happily drinking his way through the worst of it. He had fallen on his feet the night before. Robbing Jefe had turned out to be much easier than he had expected. The bounty hunter had slept like a baby all through the mugging that Marcus had performed on him. Of course, it had helped that Marcus had slipped a few drops of date-rape drug in Jefe’s drink. He wouldn’t normally have wasted some of his precious Rohypnol on someone he had no intention of having sex with, but Jefe had been carrying that beautiful blue stone on the chain around his neck. He had hidden it quite well, but the drunker he became, the more often it had become visible to those who look for that sort of thing, and Marcus looked for that sort of thing. As it turned out, too, Jefe was carrying a few thousand dollars in his pockets, so Marcus would be drinking for the next two or three months, and the drinks were all on Jefe.
    He had booked himself a fairly nice room at the Santa Mondega International. He didn’t intend to stay there for too long, because of the expense, but just a few days of living a life of luxury would be good. Marcus figured he had earned a lucky break. Dammit, he deserved to spoil himself for a while.
    It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon and he still hadn’t opened the curtains. He was just sitting around lazily on the huge king-size bed in the hotel room, still wearing his black leather trousers from the night before, and a string vest that had once been white. The TV was nicely positioneddirectly in front of him on the far wall, and his bottle