Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“You’re saying you’re trying to feed me a dinner with no dressing, no bread, and no meat?”
I nod, not understanding why he seems to be getting upset.
He scoots his chair back and stands.
“Okay, Pixie, some things we need to get clear. I’m a man. A red-blooded, all-American man. I eat meat. I eat bread. I eat just about anything that doesn’t eat me. I appreciate you trying to make good on the little bump, but sugar, it’s done. I’m trying really hard to be nice here. I wasn’t hurt, you weren’t hurt, there wasn’t a single bit of damage. I don’t think I even have a scratch on my bike.”
I gasp, wondering if I really did scratch his motorcycle.
“We’re even. Now, stop looking into me. Stop following me. And please, stop trying to feed me. I’m gonna leave and have the biggest, greasiest cheeseburger I can find. Not trying to be a dick and not trying to hurt your feelings, but I can’t eat like this.”
He makes his way to my door as I jump up and rush to follow him. Once he opens it and gets ready to exit, he looks down at me.
“We’re even, Pixie. Let this go. Enjoy your meal.” He walks out, closing the door behind him.
I can’t help letting the tears fall.
I messed up.
Again.
Chapter Seven
~Coal~
I follow Ice into the black hole that is Screech’s office. I call it a black hole because, once you step in there, it’s like you get sucked into a different time or place. He’s got shit everywhere—monitors, desktops, laptops, surveillance equipment. Every inch of surface area is covered in something, even if it’s just his fucking candy wrappers. How the man lives like this, I will never know.
Ice gets straight to the point. “Tell me you have something on this sick fuck.”
Screech looks at both of us then lays it out. “I finally got my hands on the autopsy reports. There’s only one thing all of the victims had in common: their stomach contents.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“All the victims ate from the same restaurant before they died.”
Seeming surprised, Ice asks, “How the hell did you figure that out?”
Shrugging as if it was no big deal, Screech answers, “Through their financials. Every victim had a charge from Billy Bob’s Barbeque at least seventy-two hours prior to their death. But there’s more, boss man. I went to the place and did some investigating. I found out through one of the waitresses that all the victims were regulars there.”
“What are we going to do, track down every regular the place has ever had and ask them if someone is tryin’ to kill them?”
Screech snorts. “I think I have a better idea. There was one more thing the waitress told me.” Pointing at the computer screen where all the victims’ pictures and names are listed, he says, “Every single one of these customers complained about their food.”
The weight of what his words imply seem too ridiculous to be true. In all the years, we have seen many sick fucks. I can’t imagine someone would be this sensitive over a food complaint. Then again, not much surprises me anymore.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re trying to tell us that these people were killed because they didn’t like their food and said something about it?”
Nodding somberly, Screech adds, “The reason I called you back here is because I’m afraid there’s about to be another murder.” Reaching over to a pile of papers on his desk, he hands the sheet to Ice, who takes a quick look at it then hands it over to me. It’s the driver’s license of a man. “That’s Tom Johnson. From what the waitress told me, he complained about his food yesterday.”
“Fuck!” Ice explodes. “Do we know if the address on that license is up to date?”
“Yes, sir.” Screech reaches over and picks up another piece of paper, handing it to Ice. “And this is where he works just in case he’s not home.”
Ice hands me the second piece of paper as he turns to walk out of Screech’s office. “Good work, Screech. We’re out of here.”
I follow Ice out the door and down the hallway as I look at the second piece of paper with the address on it. “Want me to call Hammer in?”
He shakes his head. “He’s over at Alibi, talking to his brother about something. You and I will check out the house first, then go to the workplace if necessary. We’ll call in backup if we feel something is screwy.”
Quickly, we make our way through the club, ignoring those who call out to us. Once outside, we climb on our motorcycles and haul ass out of the parking lot and onto the road that will lead us to this guy’s house.
Before I know it, we are pulling up at the residential address to a small shotgun house in what looks like a decent neighborhood. We both take notice that there are no cars here, and no garage to put one in.