Free Time to Die by John Gilstrap Page A

again. “We’ve got six hours total.”
    “That’s still not enough time.”
    His eyes opened and he lifted his head again. “Just whose side are you on?” he said.
    Darla felt uncomfortable knowing that she’d wandered into territory where she did not belong. “Partly on your daughter’s side,” she said, but there was no commitment to the words.
    Carter scowled. “Only partly?”
    Darla shifted in her seat. “Well, mostly, I guess I’m on the side of the parents who are trying to build something good out of tragedy.”
    “The donors’ parents.”
    “Exactly. If you delay, doesn’t that lessen the success of the surgery?”
    Carter couldn’t deny it. “The game is fraught with risk. All I need is one small miracle. Everybody is owed one of those in their lifetime.”
    * * *
    The crowd in Billy Yards’s pool hall was a little thin, given the weather and the time of day. Carter and Darla allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness before stepping beyond the entryway and the abandoned bouncer’s stand. This front room of Billy Yards’s was arranged in a large horseshoe, with the main entrance and the bar on the closed end, and the parquet dance floor on the open end. A cluttered stage spoke of a house band, which hadn’t yet arrived.
    In the late afternoon, it turned out, the real action hummed in a dimly lit room just beyond the dance floor, where half a dozen college-age kids were knocking balls around three of six pool tables. Darla led the way to the back, and as the two of them crossed the threshold, five of the six stopped playing, while one merely noted the cop’s presence with a crooked smile. Carter knew without asking that Mr. Cool was the one they were looking for.
    “Why, good afternoon, Deputy Sweet,” Peter Banks said. He sank an impossible shot into the side pocket, then moved on to his next.
    “We need to talk with you for a minute, Peter,” Darla said.
    To Carter’s eye, all of Peter’s remaining plays were scratch shots, but the kid seemed intent on a combination to sink the four ball. “ We need to talk to me?” Peter mocked. He lined up the shot. “Who’s the suit?”
    “Now would be a good time,” Darla said. “Let’s keep it friendly, okay?”
    With a stroke so smooth that it could have been in slow motion, Peter’s stick kissed the cue ball, which in turn kissed the two, which sank the four. He allowed himself a grin. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked. Compared to the nervousness around the room, Peter Banks seemed to be the only innocent party here.
    “That’s what we need to talk to you about.”
    Peter resumed sizing up the table. “Sounds like maybe I need a lawyer,” he said.
    “Only the guilty need lawyers,” Darla said, drawing a look from Carter.
    Peter laughed. “Oh, is that a fact? I didn’t realize that the Court was so specific in the Miranda ruling.” He decided on the one ball into the far corner and lined himself up. “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind, Deputy, and I’ll decide from there whether or not I should talk with you.”
    “It’s about the murder at the Quik Mart this afternoon,” she said.
    Peter let the words just hang there as he took his shot. Perfect. He looked up again. “And?”
    “And we want to talk to you about it.”
    Peter came around to their side of the table and offered his hand to Carter. “Peter Banks,” he said.
    “Carter Janssen. Mr. Banks, this is really very important.”
    Peter made a show of recoiling from his words. “ Mister Banks? You must be from out of town.”
    “New York,” Carter said.
    The next shot was a gimme. All Peter had to do was breeze the three ball into the corner. He flubbed it, sending the three into the cushion instead. He held his posture and shook his head. “I suck,” he said to himself. To one of the others in the room he added, “Your turn, Georgie.”
    He motioned with his head for them to follow him to a cocktail table just inside the threshold