Free No Hero by Mallory Kane

Including an abrasive personality.”
    When he started the engine, she was a little surprised to hear it purr like a sleek race car. But maybe she shouldn’t have been. She’d already begun to think that if she were able to peel away Dev’s tough-as-nails exterior, she might find it hid something surprisingly tender beneath.
    As he pulled away from the curb, she reached behind her for the seat belt. She groped for a few seconds, then twisted in her seat to look. “There’s no seat belt. How can you drive without a seat belt? Doesn’t Louisiana have a law?”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “What am I supposed to do without a seat belt?”
    “Guess you better sit tight, cher.” He shot her a grin.
    …
    Ten minutes later, Dev parked in the WACT studio parking lot and walked around to wrench open the passenger door for Connor. That damn door had been out of kilter ever since he’d smashed the car into a warehouse wall in pursuit of a punk dope dealer. The grinding protest it gave almost drowned out the sound of his cell phone.
    He looked at the number display. Givens. A cold, sick certainty settled under his breastbone. “What is it?” he barked as his brain queued up a slideshow of all his kids, and did its best to place the last time he’d seen each one.
    “Thought you’d want to know,” Givens said. “I just got a report of a body floating in the Canal up around Chef Menteur Highway.”
    “Chef Menteur? Wh—?” His mouth started forming the word before he could stop it. He knew there was only one reason the police out there would call the Eighth District station.
    No. Not another of my kids.
    “Yeah. Black male, late teens to early twenties. Throat’s slit.” Givens’ voice held the careful detachment that law officers learned to draw upon so that they could do their jobs.
    For the past week and a half Dev had been losing that ability. Right now, the slideshow in his head was whirling out of control. There were nine boys who regularly slept at the center, another five or six who hung around for meals or to use the free-access computer Dev had set up, or just to have a place to crash for a few hours. More than half of them were black.
    He pushed the grief and rage as far back as he could, which wasn’t very far. He had to stay focused or he was going to fall apart. Swallowing against a swelling lump in his throat, he got the pertinent information and dropped the cell phone back into his pocket. It wasn’t until then that he realized Connor had gotten out of the passenger seat and was searching his face, her eyes filled with a mixture of dread and curiosity.
    “Get in,” he said shortly. It was all he could do to keep from smashing a dent into the hood of his car. He had to get out to Chef Menteur as fast as he could. As he rounded the front of the car, the slideshow kept stopping on the same face. Oh, hell no .
    “That phone call,” she said, “surely, it wasn’t—?”
    He ignored her. He didn’t want to talk—wasn’t sure he could. It had been a long, long time since he’d let himself cry. Hell, Devereux Gautier had never cried. But the stinging behind his eyes belied his attempt at control. Because he was dreadfully, terrifyingly sure he knew who this body was.
    “Dev?”
    Shut up, Connor. He glanced in the rearview mirror, then over his shoulder, before pulling out onto the street. His face must have given him away.
    “Oh Dev. Where?”
    “Out Chef Menteur. I’ll take you home first,” he said, starting the engine.
    “No. It’s too far,” she returned. “You’d be backtracking. You need to get over there.”
    The rage was fighting its way up to the forefront of his brain. “Got an urge to see another crime scene, Connor? I guess you’ll have a front row seat for this one.” He knew he was being mean, but damn it. If the body was Jimmy Treacher’s, his next Safefutures Scholarship recipient, he wasn’t sure he could bear it. Please don’t let it be Jimmy .
    He realized Connor