Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(13)

“So, I’ll see you then, honey,” she says with that flippant, motherly, I won’t bother waiting for you to call back to confirm because you know better than to cross me tone.

She ends the message, and I let my head fall back against the headrest.

At least I don’t have to bring my own booze.





GUTTERAL INSTINCTS ARE A BITCH





THERE ARE, at any given time, two types of bullshit that tend to go down in my world. The first kind can be extinguished with a quick trip to the local bar. That’s, generally speaking, bullshit of the family kind. Then there’s the type that takes a little more energy to snuff out.

Client bullshit.

One of my cases gets stolen by some half-assed newbie P.I. who thinks he’s slick. Maybe a payment I’m due gets “lost in the mail.” Or my favorite: I get one hell of a screwed-up case that not even the Redemption P.D. wants to handle.

That’s when I go to my safe place.

My Zen.

My office.

The fourteen-by-fourteen foot space, located on the outskirts of downtown Redemption, is slightly overpriced, sure, but it’s where my mind works best.

There’s nothing special about the place other than the fact that it’s far, far away from where my family lives. Therefore, they don’t tend to swing by unannounced. Much.

It’s still got white walls because I don’t know how to pick a color to save my f*cking life. The world’s single worst coffee maker ever created completes the decor, along with your basic couch that sits across from my desk, a bathroom for obvious reasons, and, most importantly, a twenty-inch Sony to keep up with the news and maybe watch a little something called “none of your f*cking business.” I consider the bulletproof windows and soundproofing I had installed to be bonus features.

Your standard, run of the mill, private eye office.

Okay, substandard. Semantics.

How much room do you need to fax contracts, take phone calls, and collect payments, anyway? Sure, there’s the occasional face-to-face meeting with certain clientele, but honestly, most of the cases I take these days can be squared away via text, email, or Facebook.

Actually, scratch that last thing; I quit social media when catfishing and multiple personalities became the everyday norm.

I’ve got enough problems keeping track of who’s who in the real world; I don’t need to add virtual psychos to my list of issues. Besides, one less place for the man to keep his watchful eye on yours truly; ya know what I mean?

Once I’m inside, I set the remains of my burger and fries down onto the desk, turn on the television, and head for the stack of bills I’ve been avoiding for about a week. I pull out the twelve thousand I still have tucked away in my jacket and the envelope that’s with it and toss them onto my desk. As I rummage through the top drawer to find a deposit slip, I grab the remote.

Ah. I knew I had one somewhere.

I start to fill the slip out, then my f*cking pen runs out of ink. Story of my life, people.

Unable to find another working goddamn writing utensil, I flip channels on the TV until I find the news.

It’s not odd to me so much when Donnie Leary’s face pops up on the screen. I do find it off-putting that the old photo of him is accompanied by the solemn expression of a reporter saying something I can’t hear.

What’d you do now, kid? Frustration kicks in because not only did he almost have me convinced he was one of the good guys, but now I might have to go track his ass down again.

Despite the fact that I’m not in the mood for this shit, I turn up the volume to see what’s going on.

“The twenty-one-year-old gang member was wanted for questioning by the Redemption police department in connection to a previously unsolved murder case. A tristate manhunt has been underway for several weeks. That manhunt ended early this morning when Mr. Leary’s body was found in a suburb of the city.”

“What the . . .” I go a little lightheaded, not gonna lie, as I watch the screen flip to the scene of the crime. Your typical police ranks are standing around, talking to random business owners. Some medics are lingering to the left, a few photographers to the right. On the ground behind them all, there’s a white sheet draped over a heap of something.

This isn’t computing. I dropped his very alive and kicking body off at the 1st Precinct no less than twelve hours ago.

A sourness fills me up as I sit and listen to the reporter go on and on about how Donnie was found shot to death, execution style, at approximately four A.M. and how the police won’t confirm or deny it was gang related. She continues by stating there’s speculation that drugs were found at the scene along with a twenty-two revolver believed to belong to the victim.

“Authorities believe that known gang leader, Thomas Flint, may have been behind the shooting. No arrests have been made, as of yet.”

Flint’s name sends a chill through every inch of me. And not the good kind, either. He’s not exactly the type of person you wanna cross. Why someone like Donnie, who seemed fairly up and up—for the most part anyway—would get involved with that guy is beyond me.

Okay, let’s do the math.

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 f*cking 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.