Cash Burn by Michael Berrier Read Free Book Online

appeared to force the faucet handle further. But the water was already off. “Well. Thanks for coming by. I appreciate it. I’ll keep in touch.” She stepped past him, and he followed her to the door.
    “I’m thinking of bringing on Brenda Tierney while you’re out. You know her?”
    Kathy was in the dark foyer now, reaching for the knob, cranking it and pulling the door open, letting the light stream in. She leaned against the edge of the door. For the first time, Jason noticed that she stood stooped, her neck at an angle, as if the thoughts and sorrow in her head carried too much weight.
    “Of course. She works in HR.” Kathy reached out, put a hand on his shoulder, and brought her face up next to his. Her lips touched his jaw briefly, and she withdrew. “Good-bye, Jason.”
    No words occurred to him. Even after all she’d done for him, all the days she’d covered for him and planned for him, propped him up when he was dragging. After all the ribbing and laughing. After the tears when she confided in him through her divorce and Greg’s rebellion. After strings of ten-plus-hour days. She had worked for him and stuck by him in every downturn and upswing for four years. All this, and no words of support entered his mind.
    “Call me when you’re back,” was what he said. “There’ll always be a spot for you.”
    As if that would help.

10
    Tom Cole’s pate tingled with the beat of the sun. Even this early the Hollywood air was stiff with smog.
    He’d spent way too much time on Flip since seeing his bruised hands, but what could he do? Of all his parolees, this one disturbed him most.
    Now Tom was back for another official visit. As soon as he mounted the stairs, the little men with pitchforks got busy in his knees. They jabbed with every step, and he cursed them silently, pulling himself up by the banister. His steps were slow, tired.
    He’d been up since 3:41. The homicide dick had apologized for calling him at home so early, but Danton couldn’t wait until a decent hour after finding the flag Tom had placed on Flip’s information in the Law Enforcement Agencies Data System. Tom had stared at the clock, watching the digits turn as he talked to Danton, nagged by the image of Flip’s damaged hands.
    A teenager. Beaten to death and dumped behind a gas station. Last Tuesday.
    They had gone over the evidence. The stolen car with the teenager’s blood in it had been left three miles south of where the body had been found. No fingerprints other than the owner’s. All the blood in the car belonged to the kid. The techs were still working on the fibers recovered from the kid’s body, but the only conclusive findings matched what was in the car or the last places the kid had visited.
    Nothing put Flip at the scene. Tom’s gut told him with absolute assurance that Flip had done this, but with no evidence, Danton wouldn’t haul him in just to listen to him lie. Danton knew interrogating a convict like Flip was pointless unless you had something on him, and even then he’d deny it. All Danton said they could do was watch him and hope he made a mistake.
    Sure Flip was going to lie. Tom had been at this long enough to know that. But there were other potential victims out here, and maybe if Flip knew he was suspected, he’d lie low. Maybe it would keep some other teenager alive. It was worth a try. If Danton wasn’t willing to do it, Tom would do it himself.
    Tom’s nostrils tingled with the dust floating in the air in the hallway. A radio played a tinny version of Tom Petty singing about refugees. Behind another door the senseless music and audience uproar of a game show blared. Finally he came to number 312. He waited for a moment, listening. No voices, no movement inside. The game show noise from down the hall reached a crescendo and was abruptly cut off by a commercial jingle.
    He knocked.
    The door opened and the man stood before him. Flip turned his back and marched away to collapse onto the sofa. Dust