I dropped the kid off at about one A.M.
Even if—and that’s a huge-ass if—he was awarded bail in night court—so very not likely, considering this was a murder case he was associated with—it’s virtually impossible that he was able to make said bail until business hours. I know this because Tricky Ricky, who’s pretty much the only bail bondsman around, doesn’t answer his fucking phone after midnight, no matter who you are. Which means there’s no way in hell Donnie escaped four experienced officers who seemed to be jacked up about getting him tagged and titled before they went home for the night. Not to mention the fact that together they outweighed the kid by about seven hundred pounds.
Of course, there are other ways to escape a group of overweight cops besides being able to take them down. Donnie’s pretty smart. Maybe he found a way. However, on top of all that bullshit, a gun? Not one kid at that drag race pulled one on me. If Donnie had it, why didn’t he use it?
Then there’s the drugs.
I’m just gonna leave that one alone for now. It’s too questionable. Could he have had it on him at the time I caught up to him? Possible, maybe. But probable? I don’t know.
If I’d stolen a shit-load of goods from Thomas Flint: a) I wouldn’t have it on me for Christ’s sake; and b) I sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging around for a drag race. I’d be getting outta Dodge before anyone could ask me the price.
The suck-ass angle of the news camera doesn’t give me a very good perspective for seeing whether or not there are any cops I recognize from last night at the scene.
Doesn’t matter.
What’s more important than shitty camera angles is, can this BS come back and bite me in the ass?
In other words, did I cross the ”T”s and dot the ”I”s?
Think, Stiles.
Think, think, think.
The envelope Hank Riley handed to me last night catches my attention. I pick it up and open it for the first time since I got it.
“Mother. Fucker.”
I turn the blank piece of paper over. Then over again. And again, and again, until I finally crumple that shit up and toss it in the trash can.
“Asshole!”
Why?
Because they never wanted him to make it into holding, dumbass.
Whatever I signed ─whatever proof I may or may not have needed to show that kid was at Redemption PD last night─ is gone by now. And I’m the fucking idiot who let it happen.
On the other hand, maybe I should be glad I didn’t sign that paperwork since it doesn’t link me to this kid. For now. Which raises another question. Are they gonna want their money back?
Maybe it’s hush money.
Liability begins to weigh heavy inside my gut, and I do my best to shake it off, but the scene playing out on the television is tugging away at me.
You don’t wanna do this.
It’s not exactly smart to get involved in things I have no business sticking my nose into. This isn’t my problem. Quite frankly, I don’t want it to be my problem if Hank Riley and squad went through this much trouble to erase him.
Something bothers the shit out of me, though.
When I drop a perp off, I expect them to stay there and not end up face down in a puddle of muck with no heartbeat three hours later.
“Dammit.”
And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that maybe I liked the kid.
Nothing at all. This shit’s business.
The money I scored last night and the envelope from Redemption’s finest sit on my desk.
You know that old saying about curiosity killing the cat? Well, if I was a cat, I’d be dead right about now. To say curiosity is one of my more dominant personality traits is an under-fucking-statement.
It only takes me another minute or two to think things through. I push the money into my desk’s top drawer, turn off the TV, and lock up. Zen time is over.
X X X
After I park the Chevelle about a block away, I scope out the crime scene where Donnie Leary was found dead. Not too many official types are still hanging out, and the body’s gone now.
It seems neat. The chalk outline is smack dab in the middle of the alleyway. This strikes me as odd because why wouldn’t whoever shot this kid try to hide the body? Unless they wanted it to be found.
Clue number one. Thomas Flint likes to fly under the radar. It’s easier for him that way. Therefore, when he makes someone disappear, they aren’t found in an alleyway behind some random fast food joint. They generally aren’t found at all.
The Do Not Cross tape I encounter is slightly amusing. There isn’t a yellow tape out there that’s ever deterred me from getting the information I need.
Officers of the law? That’s a different story.
There are a few strays who apparently decided to hang around. They’re in a tight-knit circle off to the side of the area whispering among themselves. I recognize a couple.
Hank Riley is one, of course. Jim Galley is another. Both were there last night when I dropped Donnie off. Not that it’s weird or anything.