Free Cry Me a River by Nancy Holder Page B

to make their bones just like other gangs. As far as she was concerned, that was all they were—a thug club.
    Slowly she inched down the same side of the street as the minimart. Back up on the other side. She studied the small houses as she passed them, secured behind chain-link or wrought-iron fences—the walls flecked withchipped paint, security bars and aluminum foil in the windows, rickety porches and brown crabgrass in the pavement cracks. A few of them sported bright American flags planted in weedy yards and stickers on mailboxes that read WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. Grace had never seen a sticker that said WE SUPPORT OUR COPS .
    She ambled around the corner, onto the street where Malcolm had died, pulling her soft green jean jacket around herself as a blast of wind flapped at the hem. She was cold; maybe she’d invite Ham over tonight and get warmed up.
    On any other occasion, the thought would have made her smile. But she was drawing closer to the place where they had found Malcolm’s body. She stopped, staring, digging her hands in her pockets. The sound of Malcolm’s laughter echoed in her heart.
    She looked across the street, wondering if someone was watching her, someone who had lied to Butch and Bobby about having seen it happen. Then she turned around, cocking her head as she took in the yard directly facing her. The privet hedges were nicely trimmed, and there were no weeds. In lieu of the standard cracked cement walkway to the front door, there was a nice, tidy brick path. The porch had been refaced with brick, and there was a trio of stone urns containing well-cared-for geraniums. Whoever lived here had a little more time and money than his or her neighbors. More to lose, in other words. And people like that …
    She scrutinized the eaves of the sloped wooden roof. At the apex, she caught a glint in the early-morning sun. Narrowed her eyes and really stared. Oh, yeah, baby.
    It was a security camera.
    How’d we miss that?
she thought as she gingerly opened the gate and walked on the snazzy brick path, listening to the
scuff-scuff
of the soles of her boots, which reminded her of Jedidiah Briscombe’s shuffle.Visiting hours would find her in his room, hopefully with an update on the investigation and a report on the welfare of Jamal.
    Maybe I should get a warrant
. But that same stupid judge was still on call, and he’d probably say no.
    She reached the porch and glanced around, spotting another camera such that anyone approaching the front door was captured in profile. She unclipped her badge and held it up for the camera as, seeing no bell, she rapped on the door.
    A dog barked inside the house. She glanced at the camera and kept her mind focused on where her gun was—back holster—because sometimes people with security cameras in bad neighborhoods weren’t nice people.
    The dog growled. Grace kept her badge held up high. Then she heard someone walking toward the door.
    “Go back, Frank,” a male voice said. “Go on, now.”
    The wind stuttered the knob and then the door opened, revealing an incredibly good-looking guy who was at least a foot taller than Grace. He had wet, dark blond, curly hair; enormous, deep-set sea-blue eyes; and more crags on his face than a mountain. He was wearing a blue Henley and a pair of jeans, and socks. He smelled like soap.
    “I’m Detective Grace Hanadarko,” she informed him, holding up her badge so he could read the number off it if he cared to. “There was a hit and run on this street Thursday between the hours of eleven thirty p.m. and one a.m. I was wondering if you saw or heard anything.”
    He lifted brows that were darker than his hair. “I had no idea,” he said. “I just got in about an hour ago. I stopped to pick my dog up from the kennel.”
    “I noticed you have a security camera.”
    He nodded. “I do. It was on while I was gone. I was at an architecture conference in Santa Fe.” He steppedbackward, inviting her in. “Would you like to see if I