Page 38 of Prodigal Son

She hummed a chuckle as she watched him root around in the cupboard for a clean mug. “Uh-huh. He reminds you of yourself, doesn’t he?”

He heaved a put-upon sigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.” But a bolt of unpleasant energy shivered through his insides.

Sheknewhim.

“That’s fine,” she said lightly. “You can deny your romantic side if you like.”

“Romantic?” He turned to give her a cocked eyebrow. “Don’t be getting the wrong idea now, pet.”

She met his glance with a serene one of her own. “No, never. You don’t have aromanticromantic side. But you care about things. More than you let on. You believe in letting bad people do wicked things for a good reason. You believe in the crazy kids the rest of the world wants to throw away. You believe in second chances.”

The words went right through his ribs like clever knives. He swallowed. “Do you?”

And he wasn’t – he realized to his great mortification – asking out of idle curiosity. Fuck.Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that.

But Eden smiled again, melancholy this time. “That’s the problem, Charlie. I’m not sure I’ve ever known what I believe in.”

Oh. That was…

Phillip returned, Devin in tow. “Come on, it’s time.”

Fox set his tea down untouched.

Eleven

It went like this:

Devin climbed out of an unmarked club van, walked out of the alley, and then started down the agreed-upon street.

A seedy part of town, battered old furniture left out beside doors, free to whichever bad home wanted it. Garbage: crisp packets, and assorted soggy leaflets, and actual leaves, and slick puddles that didn’t bear looking at too closely. The cars parked on the curbs were all more than ten years old. There were witnesses: people propped in open windows, and walking down the pavements, and two kids with the papery skin of junkies arguing on a corner.

“Oi, Devvy, that you?” a smoke-hoarse voice called from a second-floor balcony.

Devin paused, shaded his eyes with a hand, and grinned up at the gray-headed fool peering down at him. “Aye, Willis, you old bastard, what’ve you been up to?”

The sound of a gunshot ripped down the street, a vicious crack. The blacktop erupted, a fat divot from a high caliber. Right beside Devin’s foot.

“Shit!” Willis shouted.

“Fuck!” Devin said, and ducked into a shallow doorway, hands coming up to cover his head.

Later, while the body cooled on the pavement, resting beneath a white sheet, and detectives canvassed the area for witnesses, both Willis and a woman watching from across the street would say that a red Honda motorcycle came tearing down the street shortly after the first rifle shot. That a figure all in black leather, with a blackout helmet, skidded to a stop and shot Devin Green three times with a handgun. The woman wouldn’t know what kind, but Willis would insist the gun was Russian made.

Albie Cross knew that the bike was stolen, and that it would later be burned and left in a warehouse parking lot, stripped of serial number, DNA evidence, and fingerprints. And he knew that the gun was one of his much-loved contraband Skorpions, because he’d done the shooting himself.

“I didn’t think it could be done,” Detective Hendricks greeted quietly as Albie approached the fluttering caution tape.

Albie gave her the barest scrap of a smile; he’d been told it looked more like a grimace. “It worked onSherlock, didn’t it?”

She chuckled. “Yeah, but your father’s no Sherlock.”

“No, he isn’t.”

He wanted to shake her hand, but there might be watching eyes – he guessed he should hope that there were. Instead, he said, softly, “We appreciate your help with this.”

Her grin was sharp, gaze troubled. “Better to dance with the devil you know, right? Just take care of those…people. Whoever they are.”

“Not sure they’re people.”

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