Even before it came to a complete stop, both officers leaped out of the vehicle.
“Get the fuck back here!” the cop in the sunglasses shouted.
After casting a glance behind them and seeing that the cops were out of their car now, the vandals started to pick up speed.
That was when Leroy stepped from the shadows. He walked briskly, but not fast enough to draw attention. Someone shouted something from one of the apartment balconies, which was followed by a chorus of laughter.
Leroy paid this zero heed. When the officers disappeared out of sight down the alley, he broke into a slow jog.
It took him 15 seconds to cross the road and 10 more to determine that while the driver-side door to the police cruiser was locked, the passenger door was not. After a final look to make sure that the officers hadn’t given up their pursuit just yet, he opened the door and slid inside.
And then Leroy got to work. He checked under the seat first, but when that yielded no results, he tried the glovebox next. Only it was locked. When he failed to find the keys in the visor or in the center console, he cursed and peered into the backseat.
There was nothing there, either, of course.
The two police officers might be stupid enough to leave their car unlocked and unattended to chase after two street punks, but they weren’t dumb enough to leave anything incriminating out in the open.
Which left only one place.
Leroy reached over the driver seat and grabbed the trunk release lever.
He heard an audible pop and then got out of the car again, making sure to close the door behind him.
Somewhere above, Leroy heard people shouting and music playing, but he couldn’t tell if the former was directed at him or the police officers.
It didn’t matter anyway. What mattered was finding out what the officer had handed Declan on the day he’d died.
To his dismay, the only things in the trunk were road cones and a handful of loose flares.
“Where the fuck is it?” he muttered, moving the cones around with his hand. As he did, he noticed a business card and picked it up. “Officer Michael Pontiac,” he read out loud. For some reason, instead of tossing it back into the trunk, he slipped this into his pocket.
Just as he heard another shout, this one almost certainly directed at him, Leroy noticed a small tab on the felt bottom of the trunk, near the latch. He grabbed it and pulled upwards, which caused the road cones and flares to slide deeper into the trunk.
And then he started to smile.
Leroy grabbed the zipper on the dark-colored bag that had been hidden beneath the false bottom and opened it.
Inside, he saw a yellow envelop and a package wrapped in butcher’s paper. It was held together by clear tape emblazoned with what looked to him like a snake eating the world.
Pulling the bag from the trunk and slipping it over his shoulder, he was about to lower the false bottom when something caught his eye.
Beneath the bag, buried in the ring of the spare tire, was a sawed-off shotgun.
Don't take it, a voice told him. Don't take it—you got what you came for. Leave the gun.
It took Leroy a moment to realize that it was his brother’s voice inside his head. His brother, who had been shot in cold blood by street thugs following a transaction with these very police officers.
With Officer Michael Pontiac and his partner.
Leroy's hand shot out and he grabbed the sawed-off shotgun and slipped it into the bag.
Then he zipped it closed, lowered the false bottom, and moved the cones from the back to the front, as they’d been when he’d first opened it.
Leroy glanced around before slamming the trunk closed and starting to run. Only this time, he was running away from the car and not toward, as his brother should have done a month ago.
Chapter 5
“Damien Drake, meet your cellmate,” the corrections officer said. Drake peered into the open cell, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the lighting.
Before he could see anything, two hands shoved him in the back. Drake stumbled forward and only managed to stay on his feet by bracing himself against the metal bed frame.
Scowling, he whipped around to look at the man who’d pushed him.
“Don't you eyeball me, son,” the corrections officer, a large bald man with tattoos on his neck said, as he slammed the cell door closed.
Drake bit his tongue. He wanted to say something, he wanted to fucking punch the guy, but knew that he was better served by remaining silent. After locking the door, the officer took a step back and placed his hands on his wide hips. Then he flexed his lat muscles, making him look at least three times as large as Drake himself.
Correction officer peacocking, he thought glumly.
“You know what? I usually don't have opinions about people who spent time here. But with you? I hope you lose your case, Drake. Because I think you and I can have a good ol’ time.”
Then the man started to laugh, and Drake shook his head and turned back to his cell.
“I'll be back in an hour for lunch.”
Drake's eyes flicked from the empty lower bunk to the upper bunk. Lying on the bed was a thin, fidgety man with skin the color of skimmed milk, where it wasn’t spotted with dark blue tattoos, that is. He appeared to be reading something, something so engrossing that he hadn’t noticed what had just happened; hadn’t, in fact, noticed that he’d acquired a new cellmate.
Which suited Drake just fine.
The cell, which was approximately eight feet wide by fifteen deep, only contained the bunkbeds, a silver toilet, and a sink. Above the sink was a mirror, and Drake strode over to it. The glass—if it was glass—had long since been broken and was smeared with only god knows what. Still, he took a moment to look at his muddy reflection.
One night, Drake. All you have to do is lay low for one night.
“You ain’t gonna look any prettier by staring at yourself,” a scratchy voice called out.
Drake turned his eyes toward the voice, which was coming from the upper bunk. Milkman was looking down at him, a sneer on his face. He appeared to be missing at least half the teeth on the right side of his mouth and his eyes were deeply recessed into his face like the headlights of an old-fashioned Ford automobile. His head was shaved, and he had oddly feminine cheekbones.
“They call me Drake,” the man said as he swung his legs over the side of the bunkbed.
Drake raised an eyebrow at this, wondering if it was some sort of jail house trick or scam. Then he took a step backward as the man slid off the bed and landed in a crouch.
As he stood, Drake measured him up. He had no intentions of getting into an altercation but, in his experience, sometimes they were unavoidable, and it was good to know where he stood. His cellmate was impossibly skinny, bordering on emaciated, and Drake thought that he’d have no problem taking him even with his withdrawal, wonky liver, and wounded leg.
But Milkman didn’t appear aggressive in the least. He held out his hand with nails bitten to the quick.
“My name's Drake,” the man repeated again, his leer becoming a full-fledged smile.
Drake hesitantly grabbed the man’s hand and shook it, preparing his left to throw a punch should he deem it necessary.
“My name’s Drake,” he said.
The man, evidently not finding anything strange about this, scampered back up to his bunk like a quadrupedal spider.
Then he picked up the magazine that he’d been reading: Popular Mechanics for Kids.
“So, what are you in for, Drake?” the man asked from behind the mag.
Drake stared upward, his lips twisted in confusion.
“Mind your business,” he said quietly, moving back to the mirror.
His cellmate pulled the magazine away from his face and offered him a sidelong expression.
Then he laughed.
“I'm in for possession of a controlled substance with the intent to distribute.”
Drake wasn't interested
in what the man had to say, but despite making this clear by ignoring him, the other ‘Drake’ was not dissuaded.
“Methamphetamines. You see, I was addicted to the stuff, but then I came in here and gave it all up. It was all part of God's master plan,” as he spoke, the man reached up and fingered a tattoo on his throat that ran beneath the collar of his T-shirt. Although Drake could only see part of it, he knew it to be a cross. There was also some webbing on his neck and a lightning bolt behind his ear.
And did God tell you to get those stupid tattoos all over your body?
“So… what are you in for?”
Drake shook his head and turned to the cell bars and peered out.
“Mind your damn business,” he repeated.
Turning his head to each side, he saw more than a half dozen arms extending from between the bars, mirrors in hand.
I might only be here for one night, Drake thought, his stomach twisting into a knot. But I’m thinking this is going to be one of the longest twenty-four hours of my life.
Chapter 6
Leroy opened the door to the apartment as quietly as possible. The lights were off inside, which was a good sign—his mother hadn’t waited up for him. After closing the door behind him and double-checking to make sure it was locked, he started down the hallway toward his room. Twice the bag slipped off his shoulder and each time, his jaw tensed in anticipation. He was worried that the shotgun was loaded and would accidentally go off. Eager to stash the bag away, his foot landed too heavily on one particular board and it creaked loudly.
“Where were you today, Leroy?” a voice asked from behind him. Leroy's heart started to thud away in his chest and his throat was instantly parched.
He turned on his heels, swallowed ineffectively several times, and stared at his mother's concerned face.
“I was—I was—”
“You was nothing, Leroy; you missed school today. Don’t you lie to me now. Where you been?”
Kinesha Walker was tall and thin, with a pretty face that until Declan’s passing had appeared to belong to someone a decade younger than her thirty-eight years. But not anymore. In fact, to Leroy, she looked more like a fifty-year-old than someone who wasn’t quite forty yet. Still, he knew better than to take this as a sign of weakness.
He’d felt her wrath too many times to make that mistake.
“It's just that, after what happened to—”
Kinesha strode forward so quickly that Leroy didn't even realize it until she reached out and pinched his arm.
“Don't use your brother's death as an excuse. You have a chance to get out of here, Leroy. Not me, not even your brother, God rest his soul.” She extended the forefinger of her free hand and poked him painfully in the center of his chest. “But you can. Now tell me where you were.”
Leroy cringed. She was pinching his arm so tightly that he could feel her nails biting into his skin even through the thick sweatshirt that he wore.
He tilted away from her grasp, which caused the bag to slip down his opposite shoulder.
Like most mothers, Leroy knew that Kinesha could tell when he was lying.
“I didn’t go to school today, mom,” he admitted, his eyes locked on his running shoes now. Telling the truth—the partial truth, anyway—was the fastest way out of this situation. And perhaps the only way to make it to his room without her asking what was in the bag.
Kinesha's grip tightened on Leroy’s arm and this time he winced.
“I know that, Leroy. And look at me when I'm talking to you.” Leroy's eyes shot up, and he saw for the first time that his mother was crying. Or maybe she had been crying, which wasn't an uncommon occurrence since Declan’s murder—he couldn’t be sure which. “But I want to know where you were.”
Leroy sighed.
“I met up with some of Declan's old friends,” he began, which wasn't technically a lie. “I wanted to ask them if they knew anything about what happened to him. About the people who were responsible for his death.”
Again, not exactly a lie.
His mother squinted at him, her telepathic powers intruding on his thoughts.
This uncomfortable silence stretched on for several seconds before she eventually broke it.
“I don't want you hanging out with them, Leroy. They were the people that got Declan killed. They got him mixed up in something, and I don't want you to fall in with the same crowd. Leroy, you're the only one of us who has a chance to get out of this place.”
As she spoke, Kinesha raised her arms, indicating the interior of their small apartment. She’d done her best to make it look nice, but it was clearly just lipstick on a pig.
“I know, I know. I just wanted—”
His mother grabbed both his arms and Leroy was forced to look up at her again.
“You're the only one who can get out of this.”
And then, at that moment, Leroy felt something else.
He felt anger.
All this pressure that everyone was putting on him—even Declan before he died—was unfair. He shrugged his mother off and took a step backward, his eyes hardening.
“We can get out, mom; we can do it. Sure, it’s hard. But it’s possible.”
His mother inspected him for several moments again before replying.
“Declan told me that you were naïve, Leroy, but I don’t think you’re stupid. In fact, I know you’re not stupid. And that's precisely why you can make it out.”
Leroy threw his arms up in the air, which caused the bag to slip even further. This tempered his anger; no matter how furious the discussion made him, it would pale in comparison to how Kinesha would react if she looked inside the bag.
“Okay, mom. But would you get out? If you could, that is?” he asked in a low voice.
Kinesha Walker bit the inside of her lip.
“I can't get out, Leroy. This place… this place is designed to keep me down. The people, the building, even the street. It reaches out like it’s alive and grabs you every time you try to leave and pulls you back in again. I can't, Leroy. But you can. Now go get some sleep, because you are going to school tomorrow. And you are going to get out of here, Leroy.”
Another tear spilled down his mother's cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
This was the out he was looking for, a way to make it to his room without her asking about the bag. Only now that the opportunity had presented itself, there was something else he had to do first.
Something that was perhaps even more important.
Leroy took two steps forward and hugged his mother tightly.
“I will get out,” he whispered in his mother's ear. “I promised Declan and now I’m promising you: I will get out of this place.”
Chapter 7
Keep your head low, Drake reminded himself as he collected his lunch and made his way to an empty chair. Keep to yourself.
Even though he wasn’t looking at anyone in particular, he was well aware that many eyes were on him. Many, including his strange methhead cellmate’s who had so melted his brain with drugs that he simply repeated Drake’s name back to him during introductions.
You should be careful with that one, he thought glumly as he turned his attention to the tray of food in front of him. Not a name you want to be associated with these days.
Drake had seen better food on an airplane. There were two piles of congealed slop—one gray and one orange—a handful of carrots, a piece of dry toast, and a juice box of all things. That was the most confusing of all. As Drake inspected the juice box—noting that it had a small fish cartoon on it that reminded him very much of Nemo, but clearly wasn’t licensed—someone took a seat across from him.
Drake resisted the urge to look up and instead set about trying to swallow his food. This proved more difficult than he'd first thought, and after the first few swallows of the gray slop, chased with one of the orange, he resigned himself to just sucking down the glucose-laden juice box.
What he really wanted wasn’t a nice
steak or even a bowl of fresh pasta. What Drake wanted was a glass of scotch. He didn't even care if it was blue label or black label or even red. He just needed a drink.
As if reacting to the idea of alcohol, his liver clenched, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The next time he brought the juice box to his lips, he saw that his hand was trembling.
Although Drake did his best to ignore the man across from him, the way he was slurping up his food made this nearly impossible; he was devouring it. Which was why, when he stopped eating suddenly, Drake knew that something was wrong.
He finally looked at the doughy man across from him but didn’t know if he was naturally this pale or if he had seen something that had set him off. When the man’s eyes darted over Drake’s head, he knew that it was the latter.
Drake immediately started to stand, but a heavy hand came down on his shoulder and forced him down again. Before he could figure out what to do next, someone slid in beside him.
“Well, well, well,” a raspy voice said. “I didn’t ever think I would see you again, detective Damien Drake.”
Drake stared at the black man with the shaved head and close-set eyes. It was clear that he expected Drake to say something, but he knew better.
The man's thick lips curled into a sneer.
“Oh, it's gonna be like that, is it? You gonna pretend like you don't know me?”
Drake's brow furrowed as he tried to come up with a way out of this precarious situation unharmed. He turned the other way but was dismayed to find that it was also blocked. A burly man with a thick black beard had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and now sat with his arms crossed over his large chest.
As a last resort, he glanced at the security guard at the back of the room, but it was clear by the way he was intentionally not looking in Drake’s direction that he wasn’t going to be of any help, either.
A hand roughly grabbed his chin and wrenched his head around.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 39
