Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
She hesitates. “I’ll ask her to speak privately.”
“And they’ll all know she’s talking to a lawyer. They’ll figure out who you are and connect you back to her one big case. Then whoever is behind this coverup will know we’re after them.”
“How do you know it isn’t Vance herself?”
“You really didn’t look at her files.”
“Yes, I did,” Sara says, sounding annoyed. “Vance is twenty-eight, young for a detective, but decorated. She was promoted six weeks ago—” She stops, lips pressed together. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“She’s a rookie,” I say. “A young detective without much experience. Why would anyone assign her a case like this?”
“Unless they want her to mess it up.” Sara relaxes and sits back in her seat. “I should’ve seen this sooner.”
“You have enough to worry about. If you go storming in there, everyone will know we’re chasing after this lead, and we definitely don’t want that.”
“So what do we do?”
“Sit back and wait.”
Sara glances at me then looks at the bar and sighs. “Stay in this car with you for possibly hours or roll the dice and go inside. I have to admit, it’s not an easy decision.”
“As much as I love your wit and your conversation, this is what’s right for the case. Sit back and relax, my frigid little princess. We’ve got time to kill.”
Sara closes her eyes, curses quietly, but at least she doesn’t move.
Half my job is boring. There are exciting bits, like running after scumbags that won’t pay their debts or breaking knees or killing enemies, but mostly it’s a lot of administration. Making sure guys have product, making sure the stash houses are safe and secure, keeping cops fat and happy, all that shit. I’m used to this sort of exhausting boredom, but Sara’s not.
She gets antsy after ten minutes.
“Tell me something about growing up,” I say just to keep her distracted. “What was it like?”
“I’d rather not give you my sob story.”
“Ah, come on. You’re one of those overachievers. What did Mommy and Daddy do to you?”
Her jaw flexes, but she must be even more bored than I realized, because she answers. “Mom is an alcoholic homemaker and my father is a surgeon.”
“Surgeon. Fancy. Gotta admit though, I know a whole lot of alcoholic homemakers. That’s basically just wife where I’m from.”
She gives me a look like she’s sick of my shit. “What about you? Your parents both passed?”
“That’s right. My grandma raised me.”
“She must’ve been a good woman.”
“The best there is, but she couldn’t work much. Had all these health problems. COPD, arthritis, diabetes. Bunch of shit. That’s why I am what I am.”
“And what are you, Angelo?”
I consider that question. “I’m a man that looks out for those that I love.”
She seems surprised by my answer, but she doesn’t try to correct me. Instead, she shifts down lower in her seat and closes her eyes. I figure the conversation is over and let her get some beauty rest, but after a few minutes she speaks up.
“When I first met you, I never would’ve guessed you were the type of guy to drop everything to come down to Dallas and help out a friend.”
“Nicolas isn’t just a friend. He’s a brother.” But I doubt she can understand that.
“Even still. I don’t agree with the way you go about things, but so far, you’re getting some results, and you’re risking a lot to do it.”
“In my line of work, you treat your people like kings. You take care of your family and you pay your debts. That’s always been how I live.”
“If you weren’t a criminal, that’d almost be noble.”
“Unfortunately, I’m scum.”
She cracks a smile and turns on the radio.
We get lucky. Cops all across the world tend to be the hard drinking type. It’s the sort of job that sticks with people, that really gets under the skin, under the nails, that’s like a grime under their tongue. Drinking softens some of the bad stuff. Makes some of it almost easy to manage. I’ve met sober cops, but I’ve never met a cop that doesn’t have at least one coping mechanism.
Detective Misty Vance exits the bar flanked by a big gentleman around eight. Only three hours, which is lucky. They pause out front, talk for a few minutes, then go in opposite directions. I’d guess partner, boyfriend, lover. Maybe all three. I nudge Sara and she startles awake.
“Now’s our chance,” I say and open the door. “You ready?”
“Ready,” she says and follows me outside.
Detective Vance’s car is a black Ford pickup. She’s parked at the far end of the lot, and as we approach, she puts her back to the vehicle and turns on us, one hand moving to the weapon at her hip. She’s pretty, short blonde hair, hard eyes, no makeup. Denim jacket over jeans. I give her my best smile, and maybe Sara does too, because the detective squints at us and doesn’t draw the gun.