Page 20 of Stone Coast (Tyson Wild Thriller)

“It’s Jack’s. You never met JD, did you?"

"I wouldn't remember if I did."

Tyson grabbed the door for me, and I slipped into the sport seats.

The door closed with that unmistakeable clunk.

Tight like a bank vault. The car was pure nostalgia.

The smell of leather and oil filled my nostrils.

Built like a tank, it was understated elegance.

Subtle, but certainly not for someone trying to fly under the radar.

Tyson hustled around the vehicle and climbed behind the wheel. He cranked up the engine, and the exhaust roared.

We pulled out of the lot and headed across town.

With the windows down, classic rock pumped through the speakers, and the wind tousled my hair.

I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. It was a moment of escape.

I was a passenger in a car in paradise. I could pretend that I was a tourist, just visiting, enjoying the sun and sand.

I was a tourist.

My whole life was undiscovered country now.

Carter Wallace lived in Bayshore Heights.

I'd come to realize that anything with heights in the title was hit or miss.

It was either super affluent or below the poverty line.

Let's just say that Bayshore Heights was not a place I wanted to visit after dark without a gun.

And even then, I could find better places to spend my time.

Carter lived in the Pelican Breeze apartments on Elmwood Drive.

Tyson pulled to the curb, and we hopped out and made our way toward the apartment building.

It was one of those drab, cinder block buildings with eight units up and eight units down.

The teal blue paint had long since faded, and the building was covered with years of dirt and grime.

A few withering palm trees dotted the premises, and the sidewalks were in need of trimming.

A bicycle lay in the grass near one of the apartments, but it wouldn’t be there long.

In this neighborhood, anything that wasn't locked up was at risk.

"How do you want to play this?" I asked as we approached Carter's unit.

“Stay out of sight,” he said. "I'll handle this."

We reached the door to unit #8. I stood to the side, just out of view of the peephole. The sound of a TV filtered down the foyer and seeped through the door.

Tyson banged a heavy fist .

Commotion inside rumbled, and footsteps padded down the hallway.

The peephole flickered as somebody peered through. "Who is it?"

"It's Randy,” Tyson said. “Jamaal said you might be able to help me out." Tyson flashed a disarming smile.

The deadbolt unlatched and Carter pulled open the door with curious eyes.

Chills shivered my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood tall.

Adrenaline coursed through me, and my body trembled.

I had only seen him for an instant in the foyer of Grayson's house, but the man's build was unmistakable.

So were his eyes. It was the only feature I had seen of him. More than that, I felt his presence.

My initial reaction—I wanted to kill him right then and there. It took every ounce of self-discipline I had not to draw my weapon and empty the magazine into his chest.

Better judgment prevailed.

Carter looked at Tyson with a wrinkled brow, then his eyes looked at me and filled with panic. "Oh shit!"

It just slipped out of his mouth. An involuntary expression as he recognized me. He stepped back, slammed the door, and flicked the deadbolt.

"We just need to talk to you," Tyson shouted.

There was no response.

Tyson gave me a look.

I nodded .

"Well, that answers that question," he said.

We headed back to the car.

"What do we do now? Can you get a warrant for that guy's arrest?"

"No. Not enough probable cause."

"I'm telling you, that's him. How much more do you need?"

"If I put five guys with his build in a lineup, do you think you'd be able to pick out who's who?"

"The eyes, Tyson. The eyes."

"You told me the guy wore a balaclava. That's never going to hold up, and a judge is not going to sign off on it. I need something physically tying him to the crime scene.”

I frowned.

"Next time, shoot them both," he said dryly.

"Well, he was gone before I had the opportunity," I said.

We climbed back into the Porsche, and Tyson started up the engine.

"What now?" I asked.

"We talk to the local authorities, give them the information, and you let them handle it. You’re not going to take matters into your own hands. You’re not going to hunt that guy down. You’re gonna sit back and let the PD do their job."

"And what if they don't do their job? Can't the county handle this? You must know someone here in Pineapple Bay, don't you? "

"This is the PD's investigation. They have primary jurisdiction here. It's not like Coconut Key, where the city contracts with the county for policing. And I'm pretty sure that Detective Scarborough won't take too kindly to having this case taken away from him."

"I don't care how Detective Scarborough feels."

Tyson chuckled. "Still defiant as ever, I see."

We drove across town to the Pineapple Bay Police Station. Tyson found a place to park, and we hustled inside. At the main desk, I told an officer I was there to see Detective Scarborough.

"He's busy right now. Can I take your name?”

The muscles in my jaw flexed, and my eyes blazed into her.

Tyson put a gentle hand on my shoulder and flashed his badge. "We need to see Detective Scarborough now.”

He said it in a tone that offered no alternatives.