Page 64 of Sinful Seduction
“I am.” She twines her fingers together in her lap, quietly chewing her gum, so each movement makes her jaw flex and release. “I feel safer now, having earned a new skill. I maintain that skill with multiple-times-a-week sessions at the range, just as all responsible gun owners should.”
“Agreed. Can we see your weapon, Miranda?” I gesture toward her desk between us. “If you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” She tugs her bottom drawer open and rummages around for a beat, her easy acceptance messing with the direction I thought this case was heading. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, then straightens again and places a black cherry P365 on top of a well-worn notebook.
Surprised, my brows shoot high on my forehead. “Sig Sauer? I asked to see your 42.”
She snaps her desk drawer closed and settles back in her chair. “If you did your job well, detectives, you’d know my Glock was reported missing three weeks ago. I’m not the type to place all my eggs in one basket, so I trained with an extensive catalog of firearms while at the range. My Glock was a favorite, but this is a close second.”
“Missing?” Fletch’s eyes flash with danger. With determination. “Or stolen?”
She shrugs. “I had it, and then I didn’t. I hesitate to saystolen, since I have no proof. But I do know that in all the time I’ve owned a firearm, I’ve followed the same, strict routine. I keep it on me when I’m moving, in my desk drawer when I’m here, and in my drawer by the front door at home.” She goes back to studying her nails, grinning like this entire conversation is fun for her. “I’m not the type to toss unfounded accusations around, especially not when they point toward a dead man. But Molly’s boyfriend was here the last time I remember seeing it. He took her out to lunch and did all that couple-y stuff, macking on her in the parking lot, and whispering whatever things teenagers whisper aboutwhen her parents aren’t around to supervise. My day went on as usual, and it wasn’t until I was packing up for the evening that I realized my property was not where I left it. I’m not saying it was him, but I’m not saying the coincidence doesn’t leave me with pause. I did the right thing, filed the reports, and signed on the dotted line. Then I invited detectives into my office and let them make a mess with the fingerprint powder. He’s in the system, just as I suspected he would be, but the detectives couldn’t find his prints in here. So that’s…” She shrugs. “That. I went home and unpacked my P365. Is that all?”
“What did Molly say about the gun?” I shuffle forward on my seat, holding her stare. “Cops walking around, asking questions, dusting for prints. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
“It did by her. Molly had left for the day when they arrived, and they were gone again by the time she got back the next morning. The cleaners had come through and wiped away the powdery residue, and she’s technically just a child, not formally employed here at Channel Seventy-Nine, so I suppose no one really even thought to bring it up in front of her.”
“But if you thinkherboyfriend stole it, how was staying silent on the matter the right thing to do?”
“I’m not a babysitter, Detectives. I’m not her parent, nor her therapist. I have far more important things to do than gossip with a literal teenager.” She snags her pistol and places it back in her drawer. “And now I’m done. So, unless you’d like to change the subject and talk about something far more interesting, then I’d say that concludes our meeting.”
GRANT FREEMON
The streets are familiar, even to eyes that haven’t studied them in decades. The wary stares, something I long ago stopped noticing, I, too, now do. The fast shuffle of hands, deals made, agreements come to, and then a separation of bodies, as each party goes back to their own slice of hell.
I haven’t walked down Chapel Street in a long, long time. But I do it now in clothes I paid for—not stolen. In shoes I tried on in a store—I didn’t roll some other kid for them. A barber styled my hair, not a kid in an alley, and the wallet in my back pocket—filled with legitimate ID, and credit cards that weren’t lifted from some other poor soul’s pocket.
Times sure have changed, and with them, my comfort and confidence in a life that wasn’t likely to fuck me over.
But the lessons a kid learns on the streets tend to stick. And the faces, most of the time, remain the same.
“No fuckin’ way!” Shuby, a boy I knew forever ago—now a man—starts my way, his hands balled together and sweat stains marking his dirty tank. He wears jeans two or three sizes too big, and checkered shorts beneath.
Jesus, I forgot how low we used to wear our pants.
“Say it ain’t so!” He walks straight past me, then around me, before coming back to the front and running the tip of his tongue across his teeth. One of them is gold. “Free Bird flew back home. The fuck!” Fasterthan I remember, he throws his arm out and yanks me in for a hug, laughter bubbling from deep in his chest, his heart hammering against his diaphragm.
With excitement, maybe. With vigilance, mostly.
“It’s not often one of my boys comes back around.” He inches away, only to drag my hand into a familiar shake, one I haven’t practiced in years. Hell, if muscle memory doesn’t have our palms connecting, anyway. “It’s like I’m seeing a ghost, G. You got my heart pitter-pattering.”
“It’s good to see you, Shube.” There was a time in my past when I held genuine affection for Caleb Shuberman. We were as close as brothers back then. We would have killed for one another. Died for the other. Fuck, there were more than just the two of us back then, but those who are no longer around proved just how far they’d go for the rest of us. “You look good.”
“Yeah?” He pats his flat stomach. “Doing what I can to keep the ladies flowing. Not all of us got to marry the likes of Layla Tompkins. You took the prettiest one, G, so the rest of us are out here dealing with the scraps.” He settles back on his heels and looks me up and down. “I’d like to think you’ve come to say hey, but I wasn’t stupid back in the day, and I ain’t stupid now.”
“Did you hear about the Bay shooting on Monday night?” My head pounds with an ache I haven’t escaped since the phone rang. My stomach curdles with the dread I’ve felt from the moment I found out my baby got mixed up with the likes of Benjamin fucking Saxon. “Two vics. One deceased, one rushed to the hospital.”
“Yeah, I heard.” His face is more weathered than mine; his tan significantly darker. Lines bunch between his brows from years of sun exposure I managed to escape. “I don’t hang out over there much these days, but I heard about it. Just a couple of kids. Jesus,” he chuckles, “back when we were their age, it felt like we’d already experienced the world. Now, when I think about teens, all I see are babies.”
“Yeah, well,mybaby was the one who ended up in the hospital.” Rage pulses in my veins and prickles the tips of my fingers. A desperate hunger throbs in my blood, a lusting for violence pulling me back to the boy I used to be. “Mydaughter, Shube. My fucking child.”
“No shit.” He drops his hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t know, G. I had no fuckin’ clue, or I’d have paid better attention. She okay?”
“She died. For a minute,” I rasp. “Her heart gave out, and the doctors had to bring her back. I just…” I shake my head. “I don’t know where to look. I don’t know who did it. I don’t know why they didn’t have better aim. They were there for her good-for-nothing piece of shit boyfriend.”
“Fuck me…”
“They got him. But they tagged her, too. So now I need answers.” I bring fiery eyes up and stop on the man I once considered my best friend. My brother in arms. “I need to know who did this, and then I need them not to be breathing anymore.”