Free Dead Red by Tim O'Mara

before reaching the sidewalk, Jack said something I couldn’t hear—which was the point of putting some distance between us—laughed, and patted his buddy on the back. Roy turned to leave, then stopped as if he suddenly remembered something. He said one more thing to Jack, then headed in the other direction. Jack stood there for at least twenty seconds. When he came back to where I was, he said, “Didn’t wanna bore you with the details of my business, Ray. You understand, right?”
    “Yeah, Jack. Private means private.”
    “I appreciate that.” He looked at his watch. “Well, too late for a drink and too early for breakfast. I guess you want me to drop you at home, huh?”
    “What was that last thing Roy said to you?”
    “Just something he noticed about the vic.”
    “Something interesting enough to ponder in the middle of the street?”
    Jack considered whether to share this last bit of information with me. He walked around to the driver’s side of the car and leaned over the roof. “You remember what Roy said about the tattoos on our dead kid?”
    “Yeah?”
    “He noticed some more ink on the palm of the kid’s left hand.”
    “Another tat? Gang shit?”
    “No. This was real ink, like from a pen.”
    “What’d it say?”
    “Could be nothing,” Jack said, sounding like it was anything but.
    “That’s not an answer, Jack.” I leaned on the roof of the car. Our eyes met over the top of his fancy Mustang. “What did it say?”
    Jack looked down at the roof of his car. He licked his forefinger and made a circular motion along a spot in front of him. He then took his sleeve and buffed out whatever he thought was there.
    “… Jack?”
    “He had the letters KT written on his hand,” he finally said.
    “That’s it?”
    “They were followed by a slash and the number seven.”
    KT/7? “Some gang code?”
    “You still think like a cop, man.”
    “So you don’t think it’s gang-related?”
    “Remember where Ricky T was shot?”
    “Do I remember where—?” Shit. “God damn it,” I said, a bit too loudly. “Kent and North Seventh.”
    “Underneath KT/7 was written DJ2S,” he said. “And I’ll betcha another bag of donuts that was—”
    “The medallion number of the taxi Ricky was driving.”
    “Bingo, Officer Donne!” Jack slapped the roof of his car. “That dead scumbag killed Ricky T, Ray. We don’t need ballistics to tell us that.”
    “ We don’t need ballistics to tell us shit, Jack. Did Roy share this with Detective Royce?”
    “Yeah,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m sure he did.”
    “We need to be more than sure, Jack. We have to know that Royce makes the connection. Sooner rather than later.”
    “You wanna go walk over to the crime scene and tell him, Ray? Maybe go out for a beer later and take a trip down Memory Lane?”
    He had a point. “Text your buddy. Tell him what we just figured out, have him tell Royce. Officer Roy White’s gonna look like a genius.”
    Jack smiled again and pointed at me. “That’s good, Ray.” He took out his phone. “That’s real good.”
    “I know.”
    “Now, Roy’s gonna owe me big-time.”
    Good for you , Jack , I thought. Good for you.

 
    Chapter 7
    BY THE TIME I GOT THE BAGELS, cream cheese, and coffee up to my apartment, Allison was already showered, dressed—still in my T-shirt, but her own jeans—and sitting on the futon with my laptop on her lap. It was barely five thirty, and she was hard at work and looking pretty damn cute.
    “Nice field trip, dear?” she asked, not looking up from the screen.
    “Let me put some breakfast together and I’ll tell you all about it.”
    “Keep talking like that, tough guy, and I’m moving in.”
    I laughed, but not too loud. Allison and I had been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and to say the thought of living together hadn’t crossed my mind would be a lie. As it was, we spent two or three nights a week at each other’s places, but I was glad we