Page 33 of More Than a Hero (Baytown Heroes #12)

Pete and Jeremy sat across from Robert in the same room where they had met before.

The harsh fluorescent light overhead cast stark shadows on the boy’s face, highlighting the tension in his features.

Gone was the cocky bravado and the ridiculous demand to be called Superman.

Now, Robert sat small in his chair. His shoulders curled inward as if he could make himself disappear.

His fingers were clenched together so tightly on the metal table that his knuckles had gone white.

Pete tested him, his tone even. “State your name for the record.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Robert Reeves.”

Pete nodded, choosing not to comment. “We were surprised to hear from you so soon,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “What changed?”

Robert grimaced, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I-I’m sorry.”

The unexpected apology gave Pete pause. He flicked his gaze to Jeremy, who remained silent, waiting. Neither of them wanted to interrupt whatever was unfolding in the boy’s mind.

Robert exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry I wasted your time before.

” His voice hitched slightly, but he powered through.

“I talked to my granddad.” He stopped again, swallowing against the thickness in his throat.

“He-he’s disappointed in me.” His eyes darted to Pete’s, then away.

“And I don’t wanna be that. I don’t wanna be someone he’s ashamed of. ”

Pete’s jaw tightened, his chest pulling with something unexpected. He had a hunch that Robert’s grandfather was the kind of man who meant every word he said, and that kind of belief—the unwavering kind—had the power to change a boy’s path.

Robert squared his shoulders, his fingers still locked together. “But he also said he believes in me. He said I can fix this. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you again.”

Jeremy, ever the patient one, leaned forward slightly. “Alright. So talk to us.”

Robert nodded, his breath shaky but determined.

“What I told you before was the truth. I was just hanging out, you know? And then Lashawn rolled up, and he acted like he wanted to talk to me. I felt like—I don’t know, like I was someone.

Like I mattered.” His lips pressed together as if the admission left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“So yeah, I got in the car with him. I thought we were just going to grab something to eat. I had no idea he had drugs. No idea he had that much cash. And definitely no idea he’d drive like a lunatic or try to outrun the cops. ”

Pete nodded, his expression unreadable. He leaned forward, mirroring Robert’s posture, forearms braced on the table. “We believe you,” he said, voice steady. “But is there anything else you remember? Anything at all?”

Robert hesitated, his jaw working. He shook his head once, but Pete could see it—the hesitation, the flicker of something in his expression. Hope curled in Pete’s chest, cautious but real.

Finally, Robert exhaled sharply, his voice dropping. “He always came by himself. Recently, I mean.” He winced, rubbing a hand over his face. “But the first time I ever saw him? He wasn’t alone.”

Jeremy leaned in. “Who was with him?”

Robert’s fingers flexed, and for a moment, he stared at his hands like they might hold the answer.

“He pulled up in a black sedan. The windows were dark, and the car looked new. Like, really new. And he wasn’t alone.

” He licked his lips, shifting his gaze between Pete and Jeremy.

“The other guy—he was smaller than Lashawn. Not small-small, but stockier. He had sunglasses on. The kind that… uh… are kinda like a mirror.”

“Reflector lenses?” Pete supplied.

Robert snapped his fingers. “Yeah! The kind where you can see yourself when you look at him.”

Jeremy took a slow breath. “Anything else?”

Robert nodded quickly, his energy shifting.

“He was wearing this red Nike tracksuit. The kind that looks expensive, you know? And black high-tops. But he never talked, or at least not that I remember.” He shrugged, looking younger than his sixteen years.

“I thought maybe he was just a tagalong. You know, Lashawn was the main guy, and this dude was just… there.”

Pete’s senses sharpened. “Did he have any distinguishing features? Tattoos?”

Robert’s brows pulled together. “He wore long sleeves and pants, so I didn’t see much, but—” He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening. “His hands. His knuckles. He had tattoos across them. They spelled ‘BLOOD.’ And he had a gold tooth, right here.” Robert pointed at one of his incisors.

Jeremy’s expression remained carefully neutral, but Pete could see the shift in his posture, the quiet intensity in his eyes.

Robert winced. “I know what they were. But they didn’t seem so bad. I didn’t know why they’d want to hang around our apartment building.”

“You ever see any gang members hanging around your building?”

“No. I mean, there are some guys that don’t work. I don’t know what they do.” He snorted. “Probably nothing. Some of them work farmwork, so it’s kind of seasonal. But mostly, it’s families just getting by, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, understanding more than he let on.

“But when Lashawn started coming around, it wasn’t the adults he hung with. It was me and a few other teens.” He swallowed deeply. “I was being used, wasn’t I? He was recruiting for the Bloods, and like you said yesterday, I was just there, ready for anything.”

“But not now,” Jeremy reminded him. “Today, you’re thinking more clearly. You’re showing us that you have integrity, just like your grandfather knows.”

Robert blew out a long breath. “You were asking about the guy who showed up with Lashawn. He had a tattoo on his neck. Some kind of star.” He lifted a hand, fingers hovering near his own throat as if tracing the memory.

The room went still for a moment. Then Pete gave a slow nod. “That’s good, Robert. That’s real good.”

Robert sagged back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

He had done something right—maybe for the first time in a long time.

And for the first time, Pete saw a kid who wasn’t trying to be Superman.

He was just trying to be better. And that was something worth believing in.

Pete studied Robert carefully, his pen poised over his notebook. "Did you see him more than once?"

Robert hesitated, his fingers tapping nervously against the tabletop. "The first time I ever saw him was the first time I met Lashawn. I saw him maybe twice after that. Then it was just Lashawn coming around."

Jeremy leaned in slightly. "Did you ask Lashawn about it?"

Robert nodded. "Yeah. I asked if his friend was coming back, and he just laughed. Said his friend told him he could ‘have the area.’”

Pete’s brow furrowed. "‘Have the area’? Did he explain what that meant?"

Robert shook his head and gave a small, defeated shrug.

"He didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask." His eyes flicked up toward them, and for a moment, Pete was struck by how young he looked.

Just a kid. But there was something haunted in his gaze, something that hinted at knowledge no sixteen-year-old should carry.

"I was never scared of Lashawn," Robert admitted, his voice quieter now, "but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy you wanted to keep pushing for answers. "

Pete nodded, jotting down the information in his notebook, the scratch of his pen filling the silence. "And you never saw this other guy again?"

"No. Never." Robert let out a long, weary sigh. "I know it’s not much, but I swear, I’m trying. I’m trying to give you everything I can think of."

Pete set his pen down and met Robert’s gaze.

"We appreciate this, Robert. We really do.

" He gave the boy a reassuring nod before continuing.

"We know you were drug-free and in the passenger seat. We also pulled your school records. Your attendance is solid, and your grades are decent. That tells us you weren’t out skipping school to run with some gangbanger. "

For the first time, hope flickered in Robert’s expression. "Will you tell the judge that?"

Pete leaned back slightly, exchanging a glance with Jeremy before answering. "Right now, you don’t have to worry about a judge."

Robert blinked, confusion evident in his widened eyes. "I don’t understand."

Jeremy spoke this time, his voice steady but reassuring.

"The way this works is the district attorney reviews our evidence and decides whether you’ll be prosecuted for a crime.

Everything you’ve told us, your drug test results, your school records, the fact that you weren’t driving that car—all of it is taken into account.

And what you’re doing right now, helping us? That goes a long way in your favor."

Robert swallowed hard, his lips pressing together as tears welled up in his eyes. He nodded, unable to speak as the emotions overwhelmed him. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and he swiped at it hastily, as if embarrassed. “I’m grateful for anything you do.”

Pete and Jeremy stood, prepared to leave, but just as they turned toward the door, Robert’s head jerked up suddenly.

"A mole!"

Both detectives stopped in their tracks, swinging their heads back toward him. "What?" Pete asked, eyes sharp with interest.

Robert lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the side of his nose. "That other guy—the one who was with Lashawn. He had a mole. Right here." His fingers hovered just to the side of his nose. "It was kinda big, but I didn’t want to stare, so I can’t tell you much more."

Pete exchanged a look with Jeremy, a spark of something passing between them. This was new. This was something. "Good job, Robert," Pete said, his voice filled with approval.

As they stepped out of the room, Jeremy signaled to the guard to escort Robert back to his cell. He exhaled, running a hand down his face before turning to Pete. "I want to check with the Philadelphia DTF, see if they can ID this guy and what they’ve got on Lashawn. Then we’ll talk to the DA."

With a firm nod, Pete clapped Jeremy on the back. "Let’s get to work."

Pete sat at his desk, flipping through the file in front of him, his fingers skimming over pages of mugshots, arrest reports, and surveillance notes.

Lashawn Tate. Twenty-four years old. A history that read like a road map of bad decisions—multiple drug arrests, suspected in at least two gang-related assaults, and a two-year stint in prison that clearly hadn't done much to straighten him out.

Jeremy leaned against the desk, arms crossed, listening as Pete hit the speakerphone button and dialed a number from the file. It rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

"Philly DTF, Detective Russo."

"Russo, it’s Pete Bolton, Eastern Shore DTF. Got a minute to talk about Lashawn Tate?"

A brief pause, then the sound of heavy fingers on a keyboard met their ears. "Yeah, I know him. Bloods. Small-time player with a big-time mouth. Always had more ambition than sense."

"Looks like he’s still trying to play big shot. He got himself tangled up in a bad situation here. Transporting cocaine. About fifty grand in tens and twenties. Speeding. Evading police. You get the picture. And he’s sitting in jail right now.”

“Well, well… good you got him down there. He won’t have quite the same group as he had up here.”

“We’ve got a witness putting him in a black sedan with an unknown male—Blood tattoos, shorter and stockier than Lashawn. A gold incisor. The guy has a mole on the side of his nose. Ring any bells?"

Russo let out a slow exhale. "Lashawn, I know. The guy with the mole? Not off the top of my head. But I can ask around, see if it shakes anything loose. You got anything else on this mystery man?"

Pete glanced at Jeremy, who shook his head. "Not much. Penchant for reflector glasses, last seen in a red Nike tracksuit. Could be nothing, or he could be the real shot-caller."

“Could be. If he’s rolling with Lashawn, he’s either using him as a front or keeping him on a short leash.”

Pete’s jaw tightened. That was his thought too, and it didn’t sit well. "You got anything fresh on Lashawn? Last known associates, recent heat?"

Russo grunted. “Last we had him pinned, he was running deals for a mid-level supplier. Name came up on a couple of wiretaps, but nothing solid enough to charge him. We know he’s still moving product, but he’s gotten cautious. Keeps his circle tight.”

“Anyone in his crew we should be looking at?”

“Couple of names, but none that match your guy. Still, I’ll run it through my informants, see if anyone’s seen this mole-faced mystery man. Might take a day or two.”

Pete tapped his pen against the desk. “Appreciate it, Russo. Keep me posted.”

“Yeah, yeah. And Bolton—” Russo’s tone dropped, all humor gone. “Watch your back. If Lashawn’s pushing into new territory, it means someone bigger is letting him. That’s the guy you need to worry about. My guess is that he’s recruiting down there.”

Pete met Jeremy’s gaze, the weight of Russo’s words settling between them. “Noted. Thanks.”

The line went dead, and Pete leaned back, exhaling slowly. Jeremy pushed off the desk, his expression unreadable. “So we wait?”

Pete nodded, closing the file with a snap. “For now. But I hate the idea of someone down here.”

“I wonder if it’s the guy Robert saw?”

“If so, we need to make sure no trail leads back to him.”

“When do you want to talk to the DA?” Jeremy asked. “’Cause I’m ready now.”

Pete grinned. “Same here.”