Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption

by Jo Richardson

  Despite the fact that I’m not in the mood for this shit, I turn up the volume to see what’s going on.

  “The twenty-one-year-old gang member was wanted for questioning by the Redemption police department in connection to a previously unsolved murder case. A tristate manhunt has been underway for several weeks. That manhunt ended early this morning when Mr. Leary’s body was found in a suburb of the city.”

  “What the . . .” I go a little lightheaded, not gonna lie, as I watch the screen flip to the scene of the crime. Your typical police ranks are standing around, talking to random business owners. Some medics are lingering to the left, a few photographers to the right. On the ground behind them all, there’s a white sheet draped over a heap of something.

  This isn’t computing. I dropped his very alive and kicking body off at the 1st Precinct no less than twelve hours ago.

  A sourness fills me up as I sit and listen to the reporter go on and on about how Donnie was found shot to death, execution style, at approximately four A.M. and how the police won’t confirm or deny it was gang related. She continues by stating there’s speculation that drugs were found at the scene along with a twenty-two revolver believed to belong to the victim.

  “Authorities believe that known gang leader, Thomas Flint, may have been behind the shooting. No arrests have been made, as of yet.”

  Flint’s name sends a chill through every inch of me. And not the good kind, either. He’s not exactly the type of person you wanna cross. Why someone like Donnie, who seemed fairly up and up—for the most part anyway—would get involved with that guy is beyond me.

  Okay, let’s do the math.

  I dropped the kid off at about one A.M.

  Even if—and that’s a huge-ass if—he was awarded bail in night court—so very not likely, considering this was a murder case he was associated with—it’s virtually impossible that he was able to make said bail until business hours. I know this because Tricky Ricky, who’s pretty much the only bail bondsman around, doesn’t answer his fucking phone after midnight, no matter who you are. Which means there’s no way in hell Donnie escaped four experienced officers who seemed to be jacked up about getting him tagged and titled before they went home for the night. Not to mention the fact that together they outweighed the kid by about seven hundred pounds.

  Of course, there are other ways to escape a group of overweight cops besides being able to take them down. Donnie’s pretty smart. Maybe he found a way. However, on top of all that bullshit, a gun? Not one kid at that drag race pulled one on me. If Donnie had it, why didn’t he use it?

  Then there’s the drugs.

  I’m just gonna leave that one alone for now. It’s too questionable. Could he have had it on him at the time I caught up to him? Possible, maybe. But probable? I don’t know.

  If I’d stolen a shit-load of goods from Thomas Flint: a) I wouldn’t have it on me for Christ’s sake; and b) I sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging around for a drag race. I’d be getting outta Dodge before anyone could ask me the price.

  The suck-ass angle of the news camera doesn’t give me a very good perspective for seeing whether or not there are any cops I recognize from last night at the scene.

  Doesn’t matter.

  What’s more important than shitty camera angles is, can this BS come back and bite me in the ass?

  In other words, did I cross the ”T”s and dot the ”I”s?

  Think, Stiles.

  Think, think, think.

  The envelope Hank Riley handed to me last night catches my attention. I pick it up and open it for the first time since I got it.

  “Mother. Fucker.”

  I turn the blank piece of paper over. Then over again. And again, and again, until I finally crumple that shit up and toss it in the trash can.

  “Asshole!”

  Why?

  Because they never wanted him to make it into holding, dumbass.

  Whatever I signed ─whatever proof I may or may not have needed to show that kid was at Redemption PD last night─ is gone by now. And I’m the fucking idiot who let it happen.

  On the other hand, maybe I should be glad I didn’t sign that paperwork since it doesn’t link me to this kid. For now. Which raises another question. Are they gonna want their money back?

  Maybe it’s hush money.

  Liability begins to weigh heavy inside my gut, and I do my best to shake it off, but the scene playing out on the television is tugging away at me.

  You don’t wanna do this.

  It’s not exactly smart to get involved in things I have no business sticking my nose into. This isn’t my problem. Quite frankly, I don’t want it to be my problem if Hank Riley and squad went through this much trouble to erase him.

  Something bothers the shit out of me, though.

  When I drop a perp off, I expect them to stay there and not end up face down in a puddle of muck with no heartbeat three hours later.

  “Dammit.”

  And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that maybe I liked the kid.

  Nothing at all. This shit’s business.

  The money I scored last night and the envelope from Redemption’s finest sit on my desk.

  You know that old saying about curiosity killing the cat? Well, if I was a cat, I’d be dead right about now. To say curiosity is one of my more dominant personality traits is an under-fucking-statement.

  It only takes me another minute or two to think things through. I push the money into my desk’s top drawer, turn off the TV, and lock up. Zen time is over.

  X X X

  After I park the Chevelle about a block away, I scope out the crime scene where Donnie Leary was found dead. Not too many official types are still hanging out, and the body’s gone now.

  It seems neat. The chalk outline is smack dab in the middle of the alleyway. This strikes me as odd because why wouldn’t whoever shot this kid try to hide the body? Unless they wanted it to be found.

  Clue number one. Thomas Flint likes to fly under the radar. It’s easier for him that way. Therefore, when he makes someone disappear, they aren’t found in an alleyway behind some random fast food joint. They generally aren’t found at all.

  The Do Not Cross tape I encounter is slightly amusing. There isn’t a yellow tape out there that’s ever deterred me from getting the information I need.

  Officers of the law? That’s a different story.

  There are a few strays who apparently decided to hang around. They’re in a tight-knit circle off to the side of the area whispering among themselves. I recognize a couple.

  Hank Riley is one, of course. Jim Galley is another. Both were there last night when I dropped Donnie off. Not that it’s weird or anything.

  Note the sarcasm.

  It’s time to skip over the detective work that takes forever and a fucking day to do and go with plan B.

  I stride on up to the circle and pretend I’m part of the group.

  “Stiles. What are you doing here?” Hank spots me, and his face turns about as red as a fifty-dollar hooker’s heels. Fine by me. I just so happen to be excellent at bluffing my way through shit.

  “Hey, fellas.”

  The rest of them turn and glower at me, except Jim Galley, who leaves the group to make a call. I, for one, have always scoffed in the face of intimidation.

  “Heard a friend of mine was shot and killed this morning. Thought I’d check it out.”

  This comment is two-fold. I’m letting them know that I know Donnie’s dead. I’m also flipping them the bird without actually flipping them the fucking bird.

  Genius, right?

  “Not sure what you’re talking about, Stiles.” Hank isn’t being flippant or pompous. He’s altogether emotionless, which wigs me out a little.

  “The perp I dropped off last night. Don’t be coy, Hank.”

  They all have blank looks on their faces and avoid giving me their full attention, but I’m not a fucking idiot, despite popular opinion. When no one offers up the obvio
us, I take it upon myself to stir the pot some more.

  “Anyone wanna explain how Donnie Leary went from your capable hands to face down in the gutter this morning?”

  My expression is rock solid, but inside, I want to break some bones.

  There’s an exchanged look or two. A few hushed words between a couple of them. The circle of secrecy is eventually broken, though, when Hank decides to make an attempt at explaining the situation.

  He starts with a shrug. “Kid left the precinct before we could book him.”

  “Officially,” Jim adds, ending his call and joining us again.

  “Officially, huh?” That must be cop talk for we lost him.

  “That’s right.” Hank and Jim exchange smirks.

  “Who’d he leave with?” I take out the notebook and pen I keep on me at all times.

  “No idea,” Jim informs me. “Wasn’t there.”

  I nod like I believe his load of crap. “Really. You all weren’t curious as to who was taking this vicious murdering piece of shit off your hands you’ve been searching for, what, half a month?”

  A scrawny little fucker, who probably doesn’t know a conspiracy theory from the hole in his ass, pipes up, “Not our problem anymore.”

  Chris Kingsley has been on the force for about five years now. Thinks he’s tough shit, but I saw him get his ass whooped in the ring by a first year a few months ago down at the gym where all the men in blue hang out. He wasn’t there last night when I dropped Donnie off. The fact that he’s here now with Hank and Jim tells me he knows something, though.

  “Yeah,” says another one. I think I know him, but I can’t remember his name. Must not be that important. “And why do you care anyway, Stiles?”

  He knows me, though. Duly noted.

  “Yeah,” Hank tries to be the comedian. “You got paid. Your job is done. Why don’t you go on home and drink another pint of tequila, buddy? We got this.”

  He laughs as do the rest of the asshats congregated here today.

  “Kiss my ass, Riley.”

  He takes a step toward me, but Jim stops him with a classic hand to the chest move. Like that shit’s supposed to send me a message or something.

  “Jackie?”

  The annoying, brotherly cry for my attention sends my mojo into a screeching halt just as I’m about to take my interrogation in a new direction.

  Perfect.

  I wait, patiently, for a good enough reason for being here to pop into my mind. There is none. So I guess I’m wingin’ it.

  When I turn, I’m met with folded arms and a scowl that could put Ma’s to shame on a good day.

  “‘Sup, bro?” I smile. I make nice. It’s my thing.

  Nick’s eyebrows couldn’t get any closer if they were performing some kind of kinky mating ritual, but before he questions me, he scans the crowd I’m hangin’ with, slow and deliberate like.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You know.” I give Jim the old side-eye. “Just shootin’ the shit with the boys. Right, guys?”

  I twist my neck around, and Jimbo is already walking away again. Must have a shit-load of calls to return today. The rest of the group straightens up, and they each give a respectful nod to my big brother.

  Me? I’m still trying to figure out who done it. The only thing I know for certain is Jim Galley is a lying sack of rotten fucking potatoes.

  “You, uh, planning on calling Mom back sometime, Jackie?” Nick tries, in his own sarcastic way, to be covert about his line of questioning. He fails, though, and the boys all snicker to themselves like we’re on the playground and I just got called out by the teacher. Which, basically, I did, but that’s beside the point.

  The crowd of Redemption officers spreads out to give us some space. Or maybe to avoid more conversations of the incriminating kind. Who knows. Meanwhile, I swallow down the urge to tell Nick what a prick he is for fucking up what was most likely one of my best performances to date when it comes to questioning jack asses.

  “What?” He must have telepathically gotten the message. Or maybe it’s the death stare I’m giving him.

  I shake my head and push him aside. I’m outta here. It’s not that big a deal, anyway. “Stop calling me Jackie.” He knows I hate that shit.

  “Well?” He follows me as I head back to the car.

  “I’ll call her.” Damn, what is this? Haggle Jackson Day?

  “When?”

  “What are you, Nick? Her intermediary?”

  “Don’t you mean, intermediary?”

  I stop. I think. I turn around and face my brother.

  “It’s the same fucking thing.”

  He gives me that look. The one where he’s about to question me about something I’m not all that keen on talking about. Not now and not with him.

  “I’ll call her.” I make a promise I’m gonna have to keep now to distract him. He takes the bait. Kinda.

  “Go ahead.” He crosses his arms. What, does he think I’m gonna do it right here?

  Look, it’s not that I don’t want to call my mother. It’s that I know, once I call her, I’m gonna hear a whole lotta crap about how I haven’t called her back. Then she’s gonna tell me about dinner again. That’ll be followed up by, oh, and Nickie’s going. And he and Mia can give you a ride, Jackson. It won’t be that bad, Jackson. All of that will lead into, Oh, Jackson, dear, when are you going to settle down and find someone to bring to dinner? Frankly, I don’t have time for it.

  Dinner or dating.

  “I will.”

  “What are you waiting for?” my brother challenges me. Something I don’t typically pass up on.

  “I—”

  “Me.” The slightly agitating, mildly sultry voice of Emma Green is heard like an echo meant to kill brain cells. I almost think I’m imagining my way out of this conversation but there she is, not too far away, practically skipping toward us. My brother and I stop short with whatever we were about to get into, captivated by her friendly smile.

  Too friendly, if you ask me.

  “Green, what are you—”

  “Sorry I’m late.” The flirtatious wink she flashes me is damn near welcoming. The knowing smile she gives my brother, even more so.

  Is she high?

  Doubtful. That’s not her M.O.

  I should say something.

  Mind your own damn business, comes to mind. That’s always a party favorite. Or, just a simple fuck off would do nicely. As it is, I can’t form a single word for her. I’m too busy getting over the shock and awe of how pleasant she sounds. The black skirt and jacket she’s wearing hug her in all the right places. Her long legs. Wrap those fuckers around me any day, woman. And the heels? Don’t even get me started on the heels.

  Damn.

  What is wrong with me?

  “And you are?” Nick questions her with authority and curiosity. Mostly curiosity. I can tell he recognizes her; he just doesn’t know from where.

  “Emma.” She extends a hand, and he takes it, gently.

  “Nice to meet you, Emma.”

  “Same, same,” she says. What’s up with the blushing? He’s not that charming. And he’s married.

  “I’m afraid I have to steal Jackson from you…”

  “Nick,” he offers. “Nick Stiles. I’m Jackie’s brother.”

  “Oh.” Green looks surprised and intrigued all at the same time. Her eyebrows furrow, and I can almost see the inner workings of her brain starting to kick into gear. This would make a great story. Dirty cop helps cheapskate P.I. brother gain new business.

  Only, she’d be wrong on both counts. As per usual.

  “Something going on here I should know about, Jackie?” he asks me, in that teeth grinding way that only a brother, whose second favorite hobby is to get under your skin, can accomplish.

  “Would you please—” I stop myself from jumping down his throat about the nickname. I don’t need Green learning anything about me to use as ammunition going forward.

  Screw that. />
  “Nothing’s going on, Nick. We just—”

  “Have a date.” The tabloid journalist in her makes stories up for a living so often she apparently doesn’t know when to stop.

  “Ha!” I don’t mean to let the laughter slip but that was a good one. I can appreciate humor when I hear it. Even the lame type of humor coming from Emma Green.

  Nick thinks I’m crazy, which is nothing new. “At one o’clock in the afternoon?” he challenges back to Green.

  “It’s an early dinner.” She clears her throat. “Fourish, actually.”

  Nick’s brow pulls together. So does mine.

  Me too, bro. Me too.

  “We still have to shop for something to wear,” she explains further.

  Annnnnd… foul ball!

  Nick’s hand parks itself against my torso.

  “Shopping?” He points at me. “And you want me to believe he’s taking you to a restaurant?”

  “We don’t—” I motion between Green and me to let him off the hook. He needs to know we don’t have shit going on.

  “Have time to stand around here and chit chat.” Green beats me to the punch as she slides over to me and hooks an arm through mine. “You promised, and I’m going to have a very difficult time choosing something to wear to Bonefish.”

  She pouts, and for a second, I envision her lips against mine.

  Then I shake that fuckery right out of my head.

  What the hell?

  Did she say Bonefish? Because, seriously, I hate seafood. Wait a minute. What the hell am I saying? I’m not taking her out.

  Nick belts out a laugh as I try to figure out Green’s play here. “Good one,” he says. “You almost had me there.”

  “No, it’s true,” Green assures him, unwilling to give up the ploy. “He lost a bet.” Her sex kitten smile disarms Nick enough to let her continue. I’m in awe of how quick to the draw she is, and I’m curious now. How far will she take this?

  “See, he told me I couldn’t do more tequila shots than him last week at the Bull’s Eye. I assured him I could; he said we should make it interesting. I said okay. Ba-da-bing ba-da-bang, I won, and now he’s buying me an expensive dinner.”

  My mouth is open; I feel the tug at my jaw. I also feel a slight sense of being impressed.