Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

What had Spider seen? If he had been on the roof at the same time Hector was shot, I was willing to bet my boat he had seen something. There was even a chance he could identify the killer.

But he hadn’t come forward and said anything at the time—why? It smelled like guilt to me. Guilt about what, I couldn’t say.

But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that I was right. Spider had been one of the good kids, helping to cool down violence with Hector’s posse. Now he had gone bad. It could be simple bitterness, but he was young for that. Guilt would be a lot stronger as a motivation.

There was a clatter and Lin came up the ladder, followed moments later by Spider, the kid with the porkpie hat.

He stopped dead when he saw me and then turned with a sour look and said something to Lin. She shook her head. Her hair whirled around her face like shredded silk. She spoke passionately for a moment, her face serious, animated, heartbreakingly lovely.

That was not lost on Spider. He watched her, licked his lips, and shrugged. When she placed a hand on his shoulder he stiffened, then slowly nodded.

He turned to face me, then strutted across the roof to where I stood.

“Hey, ghost, sorry about your face, man.”

“Shit happens,” I said.

“Yeah, but whoa. Look like shit happen to your face a lot, man.” He shook his head, reached a finger toward the knot on my face. “You get beat up a lot, ghost?”

I snatched at his hand. He tried to yank it back, but I caught his wrist. I didn’t pull or squeeze or anything dramatic. I was trying to get him off balance mentally, not physically. I just held his arm motionless while he struggled to retrieve it, giving him a friendly smile the whole time.

After a few moments he gave it up. “Damn, man, okay, you can hold my hand, that what you want?”

“No. That’s not what I want.”

“Then what is what you want, motherfucker?”

“I want to know something only you can tell me, Spider.”

“Goddamn, you let go my arm I’ll tell you anything.”

“Okay. How does it feel to kill your best friend?”

For a long moment he didn’t breathe. All the blood left him. He sagged and if I had let go of his arm he would have fallen to the tarpaper.

When he finally gathered enough air to speak, it sounded like a small boy talking from the bottom of a well.

“Didn’t kill nobody,” he whined.

I kept smiling. “Sure you did, Spider. Have you forgotten him already? His name was Hector McAuley. He thought you were his friend. I guess he was wrong about that, huh? Because you set him up.”

“I—I didn’t think—don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

“Of course not. You just keep thinking that,” I said. “Because if Lin finds out—”

He twisted so violently to look at her that he almost managed to pull away from my grip. She still stood near the ladder. She smiled encouragement at Spider.

He turned back to me. If possible, he looked even more scared, but not quite so young now. “What you want from me?” he husked.

I let go of his wrist. “The truth, Spider.”

He licked his lips, rubbed his wrist. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I know that. But you know who did.”

Nothing. He looked at the roof, moved a pebble around with his toe.

“He was your friend, Spider. That ought to mean something.”