Free A Killing Rain by P.J. Parrish

dressed in his shirt and jeans, his shoes still on. He grabbed the phone, struggling to sit up.
    “Susan,” he said. “Have they —-”
    “It’s me, Joe Frye.”
    He pulled himself all the way up, squinting at his watch. Four-thirty A.M.
    “Yeah,” Louis said, running a hand over his face. “What’s happened?”
    “You need to come down to the morgue.”
    “Oh, no,” he whispered.
    “I got an unidentified black juvenile, about ten or eleven. He was found in a drainage ditch out near Opalocka.”
    Louis couldn’t get a breath.
    “I should’ve taken the picture,” Joe said. “I could’ve done this for you. Sorry.”
    “It’s okay. Give me directions.”
    Louis scribbled them on a hotel pad, and pulled himself off the bed. He walked numbly to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. Grabbing a towel, he wiped his face and leaned on the counter, head down.
    He didn’t know if he could do this. But there was no one else. He straightened, drew in a steadying breath, and left the room.
    The early morning was cold and dark, filled with sounds he didn’t really hear. His body was tight, every muscle on fire, yet he felt strangely numb inside, like some weird force was at work keeping the fear shoved way down deep where he couldn’t feel it.
    It had rained and the streets were slick and dark, the damp night air misty with the eerie orange glow of the street lights.
    She was waiting for him outside the morgue. It was a big, ugly building, the concrete sides stained with Spanish graffiti. She was wearing jeans and the leather jacket, this time with a gray wool scarf wrapped around her neck. In the harsh light, he could see her face for the first time —- angular, hooded light gray eyes, with a spray of fine lines that hinted at her age as somewhere in her mid-thirties.
    “You look frozen,” she said.
    He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
    She turned and led him inside.
    Their footsteps echoed in the long, sterile hallway. Everything seemed oddly white and clean, so different from the outside. He glanced up at a clock on the wall. The numbers were big and black, the face of the clock bright white. Like it was made that way so people didn’t mistake what time it was when they made the long walk down the hall.
    They walked. More halls. More lights. More clocks.
    Finally, she paused in front of a large window. The vinyl drape behind it was closed. He knew she was waiting for him to tell her he was ready. That’s how it went. They always waited so you could prepare yourself. If that was even possible.
    He gave Joe a small nod. She tapped on the glass and the curtain scraped open.
    Louis’s eyes moved over the boy in one quick sweep. He saw ragged black hair, full lips, and chubby dark brown arms.
    His breath came out in a rush. “It’s not him. It’s not Benjamin.”
    Joe motioned to the man and the curtain closed. Louis turned away, leaning on one arm against the cool tile wall. He felt her hand on his back.
    “Okay, we’re out of here,” she said.
    They walked in silence back out into the hallway. Joe took her car keys out of the pocket of her leather jacket and started away. Louis paused, wiping a hand over his face. It came away wet. He didn’t realize he had been sweating.
    Joe turned back. “You okay?”
    “Yeah, yeah,” he said. He was looking around the hallway, like he didn’t know where to go next. Joe saw it and came back to him.
    “I found out a couple of things,” she said.
    Louis focused on her. “What?”
    “Wallace Sorrell had three broken fingers.”
    She was trying to take his mind off the boy back there behind the curtain by talking about the case. He felt a surge of gratitude.
    “They wanted something from him before they killed him,” she said.
    “Did the office have a safe?” Louis asked.
    “Yes, but it was still closed and locked. Had more than two thousand bucks in it.”
    “Find any drugs?”
    “Not yet. Narcotics is on it.”
    “I don’t think Austin