Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(14)

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 f*cking 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-f*cking-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.

Note the sarcasm.

It’s time to skip over the detective work that takes forever and a f*cking day to do and go with plan B.

I stride on up to the circle and pretend I’m part of the group.

“Stiles. What are you doing here?” Hank spots me, and his face turns about as red as a fifty-dollar hooker’s heels. Fine by me. I just so happen to be excellent at bluffing my way through shit.

“Hey, fellas.”

The rest of them turn and glower at me, except Jim Galley, who leaves the group to make a call. I, for one, have always scoffed in the face of intimidation.

“Heard a friend of mine was shot and killed this morning. Thought I’d check it out.”

This comment is two-fold. I’m letting them know that I know Donnie’s dead. I’m also flipping them the bird without actually flipping them the f*cking bird.

Genius, right?

“Not sure what you’re talking about, Stiles.” Hank isn’t being flippant or pompous. He’s altogether emotionless, which wigs me out a little.