Free The Disposables by David Putnam Page B

matter,” I said, “I still killed a man and I had to pay my dues.”
    Robby saw my dilemma and nudged my shoulder. “Come on, let’s eat. Thanks, Cleevon.”
    I followed Robby over to an outside table so we could keep an eye on his car and the thugs across the street on the other side of the wrought iron fence who milled about in gang attire, watching our every move. Robby took off his suit coat, which exposed his shoulder holster, let the thugs see it. He also didn’t want to get the messy chili on it.
    The smell of the spicy food made my stomach growl. I’d been so busy, I couldn’t remember when I’d eaten last. Robby was always hungry and never put on an extra pound. He had that kind of metabolism. We ate in silence. He finished off his link and half the fries before he pushed them away and took up his Coke.
    We’d missed the rush. Inside at the counter the line grew until it snaked out the door.
    Without preamble, Robby started in. “The first victim was a good-for-nothing coke whore over off of Long Beach and Elizabeth Ave. The patrol deputy heard what he described as screeching. He turned the corner and saw Keeshawn Wilkins burning like a fresh-lit match, writhing in the street. When she saw the patrol car she yelled, “Help me.” That was it. She collapsed and burned out. I talked to the deputy personally.He admitted to me he was shook by it and all he saw was the burning woman. If there were wits in the area, he wasn’t aware, couldn’t remember. He said he never felt so helpless. I think it actually fucked him up in the head. He put in for a transfer to Malibu station.”
    Barbeque hot link was a poor choice for lunch. But then anything would have been a bad choice. I pushed my half-eaten sandwich aside and washed it down with a lot of Coke.
    â€œThe next one, Devon Sherman, he was already a smoldering heap on the sidewalk when someone, an anonymous tip, called it in. That one was right out in front of the church over off Aranbe, you know the one. The press got a hold of it and tried to make it look like some kind of hate crime. We weathered it pretty well until the third one. Rasheen Patel, a motel owner over on Atlantic Avenue just north of Taco Quickie. He was robbed. And if you ask me, it looked like a copycat, which is going to make things more complicated when we do catch the guy.
    â€œThe fourth one, you’re really going to like this one. Late last night, not even in this area, up north of here, Central and Twentieth Street. Same MO, only this time it was the field representative for County Board of Supervisor Kendrick, name of McWhorter. You can imagine what a circus that turned this thing into.”
    The tables around us started filling up, and Robby felt uncomfortable talking about the sensitive case. He looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Back in the car, he took out a pack of Dentyne from over the visor, unwrapped a piece, put it in his mouth, then offered me the pack. I waved him off.
    He chewed and looked at me. “Well, what do you think?”
    â€œWhen you first told me about this the other night, you saidthe guy used a coffee can to hold the gas, tossed the gas, held up a lighter, and demanded money.”
    Robby smiled, reaching over to lightly punch my arm. “That’s why I need you on this. You don’t miss a thing. Rasheen Patel was braced by the suspect out on the side of his motel when he was taking the trash out.”
    â€œWhich motel?”
    â€œThe Sands.”
    â€œYou have a witness from the second story who was looking out the window.”
    This time it shocked him. “How did you know that?”
    â€œHow else would you have that kind of detail without a witness? The suspect wouldn’t do it with anyone standing close. And I know the Sands and where the dumpster is around back. Why do you think this one’s a copycat?”
    â€œBecause the first two had