Having been shaken to her very core, she’s wisely questioning where things will go for her—for us. And, ultimately, who will I owe my allegiance to in five, ten, twenty years?
To the police department of a wild city whose crime rate doesn’t seem to be improving?
Or to the goddess who’s the loving mother of my children?
His thumb hovered over the REPLY key while he contemplated what he should say.
I can’t lose this woman.
I should say something, I just don’t know what’s—
“Matt, you need to see this,” Harris called.
Payne looked up, then glanced at the phone—then slipped it back into his pocket.
Nice job, Matty ol’ boy.
You just proved once again that you don’t deserve her.
“What is it, Tony?” Matt said as he walked toward him.
Harris was pointing in the direction of another evidence marker, this one somewhat obscured by weeds and shadows. It was close to the yellow tape. Next to it was a pair of spent shell casings.
“Any chance they’re .45 GAP?” Payne asked.
“They are,” Mudd offered. “Just two of them. But .45-cal. Glock.”
Kerry Rapier said, “Number nine? Our mystery shooter strikes again?”
Payne exhaled audibly, then looked at Mudd.
“Well, hell, Harry, let me guess,” he said, gesturing toward the alleyway. “The guy’s got a history of sex crimes.”
Mudd stepped over to the Impala, reached in, and from the front seat picked up a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Payne.
Payne looked through the clear plastic at the Wanted sheet and its mug shot of the huge, goateed, droopy-eyed LeRoi Cheatham.
“You got it, Matt,” Mudd said. “Cheatham served time for rape and was out on early release. Then, because he thought he could make only one visit with his parole agent, he got on the Megan’s Law list.”
“There’s just no damned end to these perps,” Payne said.
He read the back of the sheet. Handwritten in blue ink was: “Lex Talionis, Third & Arch, Old City, $10,000 reward.”
“Check out the back,” Payne said, handing the bag to Harris. “I’d say Kerry’s right: number nine for our mystery shooter. Or ten, if Reggie Jones turns out to be his handiwork, too.”
Harris held up the bag, then passed it to Rapier and said: “And, as Kerry likes to say, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that we’ll find the same doer’s prints on that sheet. Looks like the same cheap gray paper stock as the others.”
Mudd said, “The kid said the doer told him to give that to his mother.”
“Well, that’s evidence, so it’s not going to Mama. She’ll have to figure out how to convince Five-Eff to cough up the ten large without it.”
Mudd looked at him, clearly confused.
After Payne explained that Five-Eff was Francis Fuller, Mudd made the connection to the reward.
Mudd then went on: “Cheatham had a hundred twenty-two bucks cash on him. A rusty switchblade knife that didn’t really switch itself open. And two eight-balls of what we suspect is crystal meth. Which the Wanted sheet tends to confirm, as he has a history of doing meth, too.”
Payne glanced at the young boy in the back of the squad car.