The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(52)

He sighed. “Anyway, my stepdad was a cop. A real hard-ass bastard. But he got me into the academy. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. It gave me something to do, something to focus on. Something useful. I can’t say it plainer, the man saved me.”

Lipsky watched the dog poke his nose into the bushes, then turned to Peter with his pale X-ray eyes. “Now you,” he said. “You’re the only suspect I have in that killing on Sixteenth Street. I can’t prove you did it, but hey, I know you did. Personally, I don’t give a shit one way or another. I figure you had a good reason. Guy with an assault rifle hosing down a residential street. Somebody had to stop him. That’s reason enough for me. He lost his right to due process the minute he pulled the trigger.”

What do you say to that? A police detective telling you he knows you killed a man and doesn’t care? Peter didn’t know what to say.

So he kept his mouth shut.

“But here’s the damn thing, kid. You can’t just kill people,” said Lipsky, seeing right through him. “You can’t. That’s not a way to behave, back in the world. I don’t know what you’re into, or what happened over there, but it has to stop. You need a new mission. So I can put you in jail. Or I can put you to work. Your choice.”

Mingus wandered the parking lot, watering the light posts. Lipsky kept talking.

“I know a group works with returning veterans.” He scratched his chin. “It’s kind of raggedy-ass, no money to speak of. They have a building not far from here. I don’t know what they’ve got to offer, maybe some job training, basic construction skills, stuff like that. But I’m thinking you could maybe teach some of those classes. Talk to some of those guys. And they have showers, a kitchen, some bunks set up for guys who don’t have anywhere to stay. Some good guys,” he said. “Even some jarheads.”

“Okay,” said Peter.

“Okay?” said Lipsky. “You’re not just blowing smoke up my ass?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll check it out,” he said.

“Sure you will. Here’s the deal.” Lipsky stared at Peter. “If you want your new driver’s-side window, you’re going to have to meet me at this place to pick it up. I don’t work there, but I’ve met a few people. I’ll introduce you around. You can see what we’re trying to do there. You can even use the showers. No strings attached.”

Clearly, Lipsky thought Peter needed saving. Peter couldn’t imagine why. He was living in his truck and had just done his personal grooming at a car wash, but that was a temporary thing. Operational necessity.

Still, when Lipsky reached out to him, offering a business card between two fingers, Peter took it.

It was cream-colored, with olive-green lettering. The Riverside Veterans’ Center.

He’d seen this card before.

Jimmy had one just like it folded into his stash belt when he died.

“Okay,” said Peter. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I wrote my cell number on the back,” said Lipsky over his shoulder as he strode toward his cruiser. “So you don’t have any excuses.”

“Hey,” said Peter. “Thanks for finding that window.”

“I’m a highly trained officer of the law,” said Lipsky. “I can tell when a guy needs a kick in the ass to get him going.”

Mingus met the detective at his car and sniffed at the pocket of his chocolate-colored coat. “Ah, you caught me. You want one?” He pulled out a small plastic package of dog treats, fished one out, and held his hand with the treat mostly hidden in his fingers. Mingus stuck his nose close and tried to nibble it out, without luck. Then sat and wagged his tail.

“Shake,” said Lipsky, and Mingus put out a paw. “Good boy.” Lipsky tossed the treat up, and the dog snapped it out of the air, teeth flashing white. “Good boy.”

Lipsky waved, climbed into his car, and roared out of the parking lot, tires chirping. Peter looked reproachfully at the dog.

“I thought you were better than that.”

Mingus butted his head into Peter’s thigh.

Peter scratched the dog’s heavy strawberry-smelling ruff. “Maybe you’re just hungry.”





24



Skinner suggested they connect at an East Side coffee shop. Peter agreed only because he wanted to talk to the man face-to-face and it was too cold for any sane person to meet outside. He parked his truck on the street, locked Mingus in the back of the truck to avoid another hamburger rampage, and left his gun tucked into his toolbox.

Alterra Coffee was a quirky local place in a repurposed industrial building, now filled with laptop-toting hipsters, businesspeople meeting out of the office, and a few street people getting out of the weather. There was a warm buzz of conversation, but the open feel and tall glass roll-up door and skylights helped keep the white static from driving Peter out immediately.

He was deliberately late but still had time to get coffee and find a table by the glass roll-up door before Skinner strolled in. The same white-blond hair and pale, aristocratic face. No coat, no briefcase, just a midnight-blue suit worn with the same elegant disregard Peter remembered from the man’s office. Peter wondered if finding investors was like getting a date, where the secret was in appearing not to need one.