A Cup Full of Midnight by Jaden Terrell Read Free Book Online Page A

gone?”
    He still spoke in the present tense, as if he hadn’t fully processed the fact that Razor was dead.
    A mechanical whirr interrupted the conversation as the coffin began its descent into the grave. The crowd began to disperse, and Elaina gave us a narrow look before Heath guided her away.
    “She hates me,” Byron said. “I don’t know why. I didn’t kill him.”
    “No,” I agreed, though I had no idea if this was true. “But you probably know the people who did.”
    Keating shifted forward so that one shoulder edged into the space between Byron and me. Protecting a troubled kid, or staking out his territory? He said, “And you are?”
    “Jared McKean.” I extended my hand. His grip was firmer than I’d expected. “I’m investigating Razor’s murder.”
    “You’re a homicide detective?” His speech sounded unnaturally formal, as if he’d learned English from a dictionary. No trace of an accent. I figured the formality was an affectation.
    “Private investigator. I’m working with Laurel O’Brien’s attorney.”This was not entirely untrue. “Is Byron staying with you?”
    There must have been a note of menace in my voice, because both Josh and Byron turned startled faces in my direction. Keating shrugged and forced a smile that was more grimace than grin. “Everybody’s got to be somewhere.”
    “You know he’s a minor.”
    “So for that, I should make him sleep on the streets?”
    Behind us, the Bobcat rumbled to life. Even amidst the subdued chatter of the retreating mourners, it sounded obscene. Harsh and ugly as death itself. Fitting, maybe, for this death, which had been especially ugly, but in general I preferred the respectful sound of shovels crunching into earth. It seemed a small enough concession, for a man’s grave to be dug by human hands.
    Though in Razor’s case, it might have been more appropriate to dump the body in a landfill and cover it with compost.
    Keating looked over my shoulder toward the sound, and his expression changed. Wary, with a touch of pity.
    I turned to follow his gaze. A woman in a gray wool coat had made her way down the icy embankment and was watching us in much the way an injured bird will watch a cat.
    She looked to be in her early forties. A thatch of gray-streaked curls framed a square-jawed Mediterranean face. Her deep-set eyes were the color of moss.
    Keating’s nod was almost imperceptible. “Mrs. Savales.”
    Josh and I must have registered somewhere on the edges of her radar, because she flashed us a distracted, fleeting smile as she passed. Then she leaned forward, puckered her lips, and spat onto the toe of Keating’s expensive Italian shoe.
    He tilted the toe up and waggled it from side to side. “I hope that made you feel better,” he said.
    She wiped angrily at her eyes. “What would make me feel better . . . But you can’t give me that, can you?”
    “No,” he said. “I wish I could.”
    Her shoulders jerked as if he’d struck her. Then she turned and picked her way up the slope, purse clutched against her stomach, back straight. She walked stiffly, pausing between each step to pull the pointed heels of her pumps out of the ground.
    “Who was that?” I said.
    His smile was wry. “A fan.”
    “I can see that.” A dozen questions tumbled into my mind, but Josh was shivering violently even beneath my coat. I took a note-pad and a ballpoint pen from my jacket pocket and handed them to Keating. “Mind giving me an address and a number where I can reach you?”
    “Do I mind?” Ignoring my utilitarian Bic, he drew a gold Mont Blanc pen from his pocket and scribbled something on the back of a business card. I swallowed my annoyance and tucked my disposable pen back into my jacket, letting the lapel fall back slowly enough to give him a glimpse of the shoulder rig. His eyes flicked to the gun, then back to my face. “Somehow,” he said, “I don’t think that’s really much of a consideration. Whether or not I