Free Blackman's Coffin by Mark de Castrique Page A

door.
    “Wait,” I said. “Get a bottle of root beer.”
    “You still thirsty?”
    “No. An attitude adjustment for Peters. How can a man stayed pissed off if you hand him a root beer?”
    Nakayla smiled. “I can tell you’re a cheap date.”

Chapter Six
    “Stay here. I’ll get the car.” Nakayla started down the front steps of the Kenilworth.
    “No. I’ll walk.”
    She turned around. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes. I’ve got you to lean on, don’t I?”
    Her perfect teeth sparkled in the sunlight. “Of course. But I suspect you’re a pretty independent guy, Chief Warrant Officer Blackman.”
    Nakayla understood me. I didn’t want the police detective to see her go for her car and then chauffeur me across the parking lot. We began walking, Nakayla holding back to match my pace.
    “And don’t tell Peters about the journal,” I said. “He’ll take it in as evidence.”
    “He’ll need to know sometime.”
    “Not till after I’ve finished reading it. And I want to look at the files on the table. Your sister had them out for a reason.”
    “Maybe some of the files are missing,” Nakayla said. “I plan to give Armitage a list.”
    “Maybe. But whoever broke in pulled books off the shelves even though the files were in plain sight. I think your first instinct was right. They wanted the journal.”
    Detective Peters had parked his unmarked Crown Vic behind Tikima’s Avalon. He was bending over the rear tire, probably collecting a specimen of the sandy soil I’d discovered. We were about thirty yards away when he stood up. He must have been six feet tall and thin as a bayonet blade. He was at least fifteen years older than me but his hair didn’t have a hint of gray. It was the same sandy-brown color as my own, and with the weight I’d lost in the hospital, I could have passed as his younger brother. He wore a lightweight blue suit and white shirt with a paler blue tie knotted around the unbuttoned shirt collar. Peters could have been a Public Defender or a Clerk of Court—he had the off-the-sale-rack wardrobe that met the minimum standards—except the heavy black shoes branded him as a cop. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes, and Peters was looking at mine.
    I saw his expression change. He’d arrived pissed off, ready to put me in my place. As I lumbered toward him like an arthritic bear, he looked momentarily confused, then pissed off again. Except now he was pissed that he couldn’t chomp down on me. Picking on cripples hadn’t made for promotions since Nazi Germany. I had a leg up on him and I saw no reason not to kick him with it.
    I extended my hand carrying the root beer. “Here, Officer Peters. I thought the mountains were supposed to be cool.”
    He took a sip and relaxed. “Pretty good. Thanks.” He leaned back against the Avalon, then remembered it was evidence and rocked forward on the balls of his feet.
    “We can sit on the lawn.” Nakayla pointed to a group of Adirondack chairs clustered on the parking lot’s grass perimeter.
    “I’d like to get off this leg,” I said.
    “Sounds good to me.” Peters gestured for us to lead the way. “Mind if I ask how it happened?”
    “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Iraq was the wrong place and the wrong time was any and all the time.”
    We settled in the chairs and I stretched my leg. The tender stump tingled as weight came off it. The doctors had been right about one thing. Wearing the prosthesis cut down on phantom pains. It replaced them with real ones.
    Peters took a gulp of the root beer and set the bottle on the wide wooden arm of the chair. “So, what’s the military angle on this case? I thought Tikima had been discharged.”
    “I’m not authorized to comment on what may or may not be the military’s interest.”
    “But you are a Chief Warrant Officer, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. Most recently with the Criminal Investigation Detachment in Baghdad.” I looked over at the Avalon. “I’m more