I could tell Jefferson's interrogation was almost over.
He was comparing notes with me, rather than grilling me. "The passerby claimed a rusted-out black sedan sat at the far end of your block, the opposite end of your house, but on the corner, on the side street, so if you were standing in front of your place and looking left, you may have just been able to make out the front end of the car sticking out."
Jefferson leaned forward in his seat, genuinely curious, and maybe a little horrified.
"What did the guy see? Were they the guys who snatched my boys or maybe the guys who shot my man who was just trying to have a hotdog?"
"Second question, first: Whoever was in the black car couldn't have been the kidnappers, because the black car pulled away from the curb just a few seconds before the gray car, the kidnap car, came up your street. It crossed right in front of where the black car had been parked."
It was clear we both had drawn the same conclusion: Whoever was in the black car was involved, most likely as a spotter.
"No, the other witness did not get a make or model. As far as he knew, it could have been a Cadillac or a Honda Accord. He said he wasn't a car buff and wouldn't have known anything special about it. He did notice one thing: He hates cigarettes. He has allergies. So when he sees smokes he takes note and frowns on it. He said he thought he heard a slight commotion coming from inside the car, before the passenger window rolled down a crack and a lit but barely smoked black and tan dropped out and onto the curb."
Jefferson seemed disappointed, commenting that Menthols were disgusting, like licking a high-traffic sidewalk.
"That's it? Nothing else?"
"There's always something else, Junior. But these things are not hour-long TV procedurals. Solving real mysteries takes time."
He rose and smoothed the front of his jeans. "So you get now that this ain't about prostitution, right?"
"I know. Can't be."
"Let's go."
"Where," I asked warily.
The young crime lord sighed, his exasperation rising again.
"Devante give it to him," he snapped, gesturing to the giant in the corner.
They say when you're about to die you experience flashbacks. I envisioned Rice Crispies and cursed aloud that my last thought would be of crappy breakfast cereal.
I closed my eyes and braced myself, wondering if I should attempt to pray or whether that would seem disingenuous after about one hundred fifty consecutive weeks of avoiding the inside of places of worship, except for weddings and funerals.
A cold, smooth surface was jammed into my temple.
"You missed a call," Jefferson said. "I thought you'd want to hear the message and return it."
YOU ARE READING
Bad Break: A Novel
Mystery / ThrillerBlake Wilson is accustomed to plucking nerves. He's young. He's Black. He rarely bites his tongue. And he's a dogged newspaper reporter who lives by the mantra of comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. But when he catches a brutal...
