“I— Do you know about guns?” He seems surprised.
“I grew up in West Virginia, remember?”
I didn’t grow up in West Virginia. Vicky Lanier, my alter ego, did. But my father was an avid hunter and took me with him sometimes. He’d take me to the shooting range, too, and let me fire his guns, at least his handguns.
“What kind of gun do you have?” I ask again.
“It’s a Glock.”
“A Glock what? A 23?”
He steps back. “You do know your guns. It’s a Glock 17, apparently.”
“Okay, fine. And you have a suppressor?”
“A what?”
“A silencer, Christian. You need a silencer.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Is it already attached?”
“Yeah, he— It came attached.”
He, meaning Gavin, I assume. Gavin Finley has a firearm owners identification card with the state, and he owns three handguns, at least three he has legally purchased.
Yeah, it’s nice having an investigator like Rambo on my team.
Not that I would expect Gavin to give Christian one of his own guns. No, Gavin must have bought it from a fence or used a straw purchaser. That’s what I’d do.
“Let me see it,” I say. “I want to check it out.”
“It’s not here. But don’t worry. The guy who got it, he knows guns.”
“Does he knowyou?” I ask. “Does he knowme?”
“No, no, no, nothing like that.”
Yes, yes, yes—exactly like that. It must have been Gavin, and I’m sure Gavin knows who I am. He’s Christian’s—Nick’s—best friend from childhood. He’s a fellow scammer, only his are less profitable.
“Practice shooting,” I say.
“You want me to practice?”
“You’ve never fired a weapon before. Even shooting from close range, you need to get used to it. You need to make sure the magazine is properly loaded and the slide is back, you need to get used to the weight of it in your hands and holding it with a suppressor—”
“You’re, like, G.I. Jane over here.”
I pat him on the chest. “Promise me you’ll practice. Don’t let Halloween night be the first time you’ve fired a gun.”
—
“So no luck with Simon’s green phone?” Christian asks me.
“I couldn’t find it. And you remember what his diary said about the weekends. They keep their phones off. They don’t communicate after Friday morning until Monday morning.”
“Right, I remember. They go dark on the weekends. That’s smart.”