Page 22 of Torched Spades
That’s exactly why I can’t tell him anything.
Besides, I’ve had my life upended once already. I’ll be damned if I’ll uproot again only to watch shit implode from a cottage in Bar Harbor, Maine.
Cursing, I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me and palm my neck just as it spits out a harsh ring. Tipping my head forward I tilt my chin to the side and stare down at the number flashing across the screen.
Private.
Every instinct in my body tells me not to answer, but they’re all overridden by that one voice in my head whispering…What if it’s Alice? What if Dice and Mac came back for her?
I can’t take that chance.
Hovering my thumb over the answer button, I drag the phone to my ear, then press down. “Yeah?”
There’s a hesitation, and then, “Is this Johnny Malone?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Detective Jack Ledger, Providence Police Department.” He pauses as if expecting a reaction from that announcement. When all I give him is dead silence, he clears his throat, dialing that snide cop arrogance back a few notches. “I’m calling to ask if you’d be willing to come down to the station this morning.”
Fuck. Should’ve listened to my instincts.
“Why?” I demand, bluntly, although I have a pretty good idea, and it has nothing to do with George Reese. I could easily spin this conversation in twenty different vague circles, but I’d rather rip off the Band-aid and sacrifice a few layers of skin than drag this shit out.
However, I’m also not about to walk into a trap.
“We responded to a call at four-forty-three this morning that gunshots were heard at the Port of Providence near cargo berth six.”
“Your point?”
“During our initial investigation, we found only three employees were working berth six during that time,” he says, the cadence of his voice slowing. “You were one of them, Mr. Malone. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I’m sure he would. I’m also sure he’d prefer if I were a complete fucking moron, too. “Am I being charged with anything?”
There’s a hesitation, and then, “Well, no.”
I kick my feet onto the coffee table. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Mr. Malone, we’ve spoken with Alice Iverson,” he continues, his tone less confident now that he’s grasping at falling straws. “Although she was most uncooperative, timecards and employment records are absolute and concrete, not hearsay and opinion.”
“Do you have a point to make, detective?”
“Running your name through our system will alert your probation officer, Mr. Malone. How soon he receives that alert is entirely up to you. Of course, you have every right to refuse our request…” He pauses before hitting me with his trump card. “Just as we have every right to offer a courtesy call to Owen Holmes and inform him of what transpired a few hours ago.”
My feet hit the floor. “You mother—”
“However, if you come to the station… Well then,when and whatyou tell him is entirely up to you, isn’t it?”
Bastard.
For a moment, I say nothing. In that weighted pause, I think of my old life. I think of how six months ago, I never answered the law; Iwasthe law.
No one questioned me because everyone respected me.
Revered me.
Feared me.
Then I let my guard down, and one mistake sent it all up in flames.
