The gun banged against his hip as he ran.
The gun was a problem. In addition to the fact that it was annoying, the ballistics would connect him to the dead man in the Bulls jacket. Peter knew from long experience how slowly the wheels of government turned, and how finely a man could get ground up beneath them.
The white static couldn’t handle Peter getting locked up.
Not for an hour, let alone overnight.
It didn’t matter that he had killed the man in self-defense. The gun wasn’t legal, he had no permit for it. If they didn’t get him for the killing, they’d get him for the gun. And all the while, the man with the scars prowled around Dinah’s house and Lewis’s goons lay awake at night wondering how much money she had.
It wasn’t just the white static.
Peter had shit to do.
Someone had sent that kid with the AK. Peter needed to know who.
Five blocks from the shooting, he ducked down an alley to eject the remaining rounds, wiping his fingerprints from each with his shirttail, then dropping them through the sewer grate.
On the next block he did the same with the clip, and on the next block, the slide, and on the block after that, the frame.
He stopped to wet his hands with the dew on an unmowed lawn, and rubbed them together to help clean off the gunshot residue. He didn’t know if it would help if they wanted to test him, but maybe it would. He shook off the water and wiped them dry on his socks. He’d worn those socks for three days now. He wasn’t worried about gunshot residue.
He ran for another hour, looking for a big ugly orange dog. His breath came easily as he methodically quartered the neighborhood, waving coolly at the patrol cars when they roared by. They didn’t stop to ask him questions.
He didn’t find Mingus. He tried not to worry about the dog. He told himself Mingus was the kind of animal who could find his way home.
He was more worried about the Chevy Impala sedan with bullet holes in the rear windshield and quarter-panel.
And the black SUV driven by a man with scars on his cheeks.
And Lewis and Nino and Ray.
And Dinah, with a man watching her house, and four hundred thousand dollars in a paper bag tied up with string.
Peter really didn’t want to get locked up.
But if he went back to his truck, maybe he could learn something.
—
The police had set up a perimeter. Yellow plastic tape stretched around trees and lampposts and knockdown sawhorses. It contained the dead shooter, the intersection, and part of Jimmy’s street with half a dozen shot-up cars and Peter’s perforated truck.
Uniformed policemen and other crime-scene people wandered around in the weird glare of portable lights. A few neighborhood onlookers stood in whispering knots on the sidewalk.
Peter stopped at the tape. CRIME SCENE, DO NOT CROSS.
When a police officer came up to see what he wanted, Peter nodded at his pickup. “That’s my truck.”
The cop was older than Peter, with arms like bridge cables and a face made of stone. He asked for Peter’s ID. “My wallet’s in the glove box,” said Peter. “Or it was before some asshole broke my window.”
The cop nodded. “Wait for the detective.”
“What happened?” asked Peter. “Somebody get hurt?”
The cop’s face didn’t change. “Wait for the detective.”
Peter waited while the cop went to a group of men standing around the body. Uniformed cops paced around, eyes down, examining the ground.
After ten minutes, a tall, narrow guy in a tall, narrow suit under a long, dark coat came up to the tape line. In his late forties, he had the measured stride of a marathoner and the distant stare of a sniper. He opened a notebook, licked the tip of a pencil, and looked at Peter like he knew every time Peter had crossed against the light.
It was a little disconcerting. The white static fizzed down low.
“Name.”
Peter told him. The detective didn’t write it down.
“Address.”
Peter gave the man his parents’ house up north, although he hadn’t been back since he mustered out. The detective didn’t look surprised. It was the same address on the driver’s license. He didn’t write that down, either.
“Phone?”
“I don’t have one.”
That raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have one?”
Peter shook his head. Although he was thinking he should get one. One of those smartphones, if he could get one without a credit card. He didn’t have a credit card, either. Neither one had mattered when he was up in the mountains.
“What’s your business here?”
Peter had the answer ready. “I was working on a friend’s house a few blocks away. I finished for the day, was headed to Speed Queen for barbecue, and stopped to let my dog out. He took off after something. I went after him.”
“You stopped in this neighborhood? To let your dog out?” The detective wasn’t buying it.
“I’m not from around here,” said Peter. “It didn’t look so bad compared to where I’ve been.”