Wild Fire (Chaos #6.5)(12)

“On autopilot,” he muttered.

“Because I came off the plane and acted like a bitch? Or because your work with this kid somehow got sidetracked?”

He wasn’t going to answer that.

“You’re headed in the right direction anyway. I live in Governor’s Park,” she told him.

“Great,” he mumbled.

“It’s the kid,” she decreed.

She wanted it?

He’d give it to her.

“Yeah. Seventeen. One-hundred-and-forty-nine IQ, and he’s been tested, so that’s not a guess. Scholarships lined up to top schools. And I mean top. Top in terms of MIT. His dad gets murdered, the cops can’t find who did it, he’s so pissed at the world, he wants off the grid. And he’s headed that way.”

“Your dad,” she whispered, correctly ascertaining why he’d been recruited.

It could be Jag shared with Carolyn and Carolyn shared with Georgiana.

But it definitely was Blood, Guts and Brotherhood.

Graham Black, his father’s story was out there.

Everyone knew.

Or at least everyone who’d seen that film.

What everyone didn’t know was right then, in the cab of his truck, sitting next to a gorgeous but paradoxical woman, he was wearing the leather cut his father was wearing when he’d had his throat slit.

“Yup,” he grunted.

“How did this kid’s dad get murdered?” she asked.

“They live in a duplex. Him, that being Carlyle, his little sister, mom, dad, and it’s the middle of the night, and the dad hears a racket coming from the other side. The mom calls the cops, but the noises aren’t good, so the dad grabs a baseball bat and heads over. Busts in. Tears up to the bedroom. He’s shot dead interrupting an attempted rape.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed in horror.

“That about sums it up,” he agreed.

“A boyfriend? An ex? A hookup?”

“What?” he asked.

“Did the woman who was being raped also get—”

“No, she survived.”

“So, it’s a stranger? A breakin? Did the dad hear the breaking-in part?”

“That’s the rub,” Dutch told her. “They heard the fight, not the breakin, and there was no evidence of a breakin, outside what Carlyle’s dad did to get in. But the woman contends it was a stranger. She’d never seen him, had no idea where he came from. She was sleeping and then he was there. There was hope in the beginning, they thought. The woman, their neighbor, she was cagey. They think she knows more than she’s letting on. And Carlyle, his mom, and his younger sister said there were folks who visited her that they weren’t real hip on, and the dad flat-out did not like having around. They just don’t know who they were.”

“And she’s not talking.”

“No.”

“Or she’s lying.”

“Yeah.”

“And this kid ran away from home because his dad died next door and he probably heard the gunshot that killed him.”

Dutch swallowed, feeling that for Carlyle in a big way, before he said, “Yeah.”

“What’s she saying about these folks who came calling?”

“That they’re just friends. Acquaintances, whatever. They have nothing to do with the incident.”

“Do the cops believe that?”

“I don’t know what they believe. I just know months have passed with no leads, no DNA that wasn’t supposed to be there, nothing this guy left behind, no other witnesses, but the dad, who can’t share what he saw, and the case will stay open, but they’re moving on because it’s gone cold and they got other shit they gotta do.”

“And you’re not getting through to the kid,” she surmised.

“Nope,” he confirmed.

“Maybe he just needs some time,” she suggested.

“Yeah. Time to get himself hooked up in shit he shouldn’t be hooked up in.”

“Is that happening?”

“Yup.”

“Well, damn,” she whispered.

“And she finds a reason to curse,” he muttered.

When he did, he felt a faint slap, but heard a definite one against the leather at his arm when she whacked him gently, like a man’s woman would whack him gently as a joke, all as she said an amused, “Shut up.”

Mm-hmm.

They needed to get to Governor’s Park.

Yesterday.

“How do you know he’s turning to the dark side?” she asked.

“Saw him with some dude who deals black market crap.”

“Sorry?”

“Saw him, at the back of a bar, with some dude who deals black market crap.”

“What do people involved with black market crap want with a seventeen-year-old kid?”

Dutch felt his innards seize.

Because that was a good fucking question.

“Dutch?” she called when he didn’t say anything.

“Deal it for them,” he pushed out.

“Is he doing that?” she pressed. “Dealing for them? Do you know that?”

“No,” he forced through his lips.

“Okay, I’m no authority on this, but I’ve done a few articles on gangs. And gangs deal, and they’ll use a seventeen-year-old to deal. Non-gang suppliers supply kids who deal in schools. These are easily picked-off, expendable soldiers in that war. One goes down, three pop up. But black market…”