Free Perilous Curves Collection (BBW Romance) by Christa Wick Page A

back down. "You remember when?"
    "Friday, round midnight." He gave a little whoop at the memory. "Boy was I glad! Didn't make it to the shelter before curfew."
    I smiled, sharing the story of his lucky find. "What day is it today, Max?"
    The old man's eyes narrowed again. "Tuesday. You aren't on the pipe or anything, are you girl?"
    I shook my head, still smiling.
    I knew Briggs had been in the drunk tank after the murder, sobering up some so the detectives could get a legible signature on the witness statement. That meant sometime between eight P.M. and midnight, Ray's killer had likely visited the Arby's on Packard long enough to at least dump the jacket. If Alex was lucky, the killer dumped the phone there, too, and left his prints behind this time.
    Craig came back in with a heavier denim jacket and I quickly filled him in. Taking the jacket, I showed it to Max. "I need to trade jackets with you, my friend."
    When he shook his head violently and wrapped his arms around himself again, I wrinkled my nose. "Max, your jacket stinks and I'm afraid Pastor might make you leave if you keep wearing it."
    While the jacket did smell like someone had thrown up on it, I felt like a bitch for scaring the old man. The tactic, however, worked like magic. Max immediately started to remove it.
    "Hold on, Max." I needed him to stay in the jacket for a bit. "I think the cops will want to take it over to Arby's and see if the owner needs it back."
    As soon as the word "cops" left my mouth, the old man spit at the floor. I raised my hands to calm him. "Now, you don't need to worry about the cops--"
    Max spit again and I smiled. Clearly the old man had more than a little history with law enforcement. "Just don't peel it off yet, okay? Pastor is cool for now and Craig here is going to stay with you until we can swap jackets."
    When I stood, Craig pulled me aside. "Just how do you plan on getting the lead dicks out here? I thought Corbin wouldn't okay it?"
    I threw Diamond a wink and started walking across the bay, keying in the number to the Masonville crime tip line. Diamond was right -- if Corbin thought the jacket would help Alex, he'd never send the detectives out. But if the homicide unit got an anonymous tip that they thought would help convict Alex, they'd make it to the shelter in far less than the 30 minutes it had taken me to reach the place.
    ********************
    Twenty minutes later, I stood outside the building, pleading on my cell phone with the Arby's manager for the woman to put a lock on the dumpster until I got there. Finishing the call, I turned to see an unmarked police car roll to a stop behind my sedan. There were two cops inside, the driver probably in his late thirties and clearly the junior of the two.
    The window on the car was down. I could hear the older detective arguing with his younger partner.
    "You know the Serrano kid did it! Just look at his old man..."
    I spun until I faced the shelter's front window, pulled my cell phone out and turned the recorder on before cranking the microphone up to full volume. I was less than three feet from them and the older guy had a loud mouth -- I just hoped it was loud enough to pierce the street noise.
    "Just because your mother-in-law has to live with you now doesn't mean the kid's a killer, Hicks."
    I watched their reflection in the shelter's front window. They had gotten out of the car and were casually inspecting my damaged bumper.
    "Davies, Serrano kicked all those old people out--" Hicks argued.
    "C'mon, your old lady's mom has been living with you since the building's owner went bankrupt couple years ago. Serrano's owned it, what, six months?"
    "He could have let them move back in..."
    "It's a shithole! Nobody's been in it except for scavengers and meth heads for almost two years."
    Hicks shook his head. "Look, Davies, all I'm saying is that rich people like Serrano and his kid don't give a shit about people like me and you, the vic, or that hot little piece of dark meat