Free Isabel's Run by M. D. Grayson

felony charges—a real microcosm of life on the “outside.” Mostly, these people were either hooked on drugs or they were looking for an easy way to get rich—sometimes both. With only a few exceptions, most of these people weren’t out to hurt anyone, but they were damn sure dangerous when you tried to put them in jail.
    But with all these bad guys to choose from—overseas and domestic—the ones I grew to hate most were the soulless pricks who seemed to get off by preying on people less powerful than they were—what I call the law of the jungle predators. These guys have no grand political or religious objective. This makes them worse than terrorists in my book. Most of them don’t care about money. This makes them worse than your typical criminal. Here’s an interesting example that’ll make my point. Pretend, for a moment, that Ted Bundy isn’t being slowly roasted in the pits of hell. Pretend, God forbid, that he’s still here with us and that he’s at a game show. Ted gets to choose between two doors. And he gets to know what’s behind each before he does. Behind door number one is a big bag of money. Behind door number two, a helpless twenty-two-year-old co-ed. Which door do you think Ted chooses? I rest my case. These sick bastards have an insatiable need to satisfy their own lusts. Nothing else matters. They don’t care about their victims—don’t even think about them, actually. The fact that the victims are people with hopes, dreams, and aspirations doesn’t even enter their sick, twisted little minds.
    Another thing I’ve found is that there are different degrees of predator depravity out there. Some like to torture and kill their victims—the Bundys, the Ridgeways, the Ramirezes, and the like. Some don’t kill—they just rape their victims and throw them away, leaving them for dead. Another variation is the guys who beat their wives or girlfriends—just because they can. Others get off on stealing the pure innocence of a defenseless child. All of these so-called people are really not people at all in my book. They’re monsters, and they’re a despicable waste of air and space. I hate ’em all.
    And this guy Tracey Webber appeared to fit into at least two of these categories at the same time.
    * * * *
    The closer we got to downtown Seattle, the tougher the traffic became. Finally, we slowed to stop-and-go. At five thirty, we exited I-5 at Mercer Street. “If you don’t have to go to the office,” Toni said, “Let’s just go to your place. I’ll cook.”
    My place. There it was again. The idea of Toni fixing dinner didn’t sound bad at all. Dinner would be nice. After dinner would probably be nicer—maybe much nicer. And then, she’d pack up and go home. To her place. And that would be painful. But still, what can I say? When it comes to Toni, I’m a junkie—I can’t get enough. Even if it might be bad for me later.
    “I already talked to the guys in the office,” I said. “Doc said they’d lock up, so we’re good to go. Do we have everything you need?” Doc Kiahtel is an associate of ours.
    “We’re good,” she said. “I went shopping yesterday.”
    “Excellent.” I studied the traffic. “Looks like we’re going to be a while. What do you say we give Dwayne a call and ask him for some advice? Maybe he can turn us on to the person we need to be talking to.”
    “Good idea,” she said.
    I had Dwayne on speed dial. I punched in the number and a second later, he answered.
    “Special Investigations, Lieutenant Brown.”
    “Dwayne—it’s Danny and Toni.”
    “Hey, guys!” he said. “What’s up? Sounds like you’re in the car.”
    “We are. We’re three-quarters of a mile from home. Shouldn’t take more than another half hour or so.”
    Dwayne laughed. “You should just pull over and walk.”
    “Exactly,” I said. “Hey, thanks again for lunch today. That was nice.”
    “It was our pleasure. Besides—it’s your birthday. Or it will be soon. And