Cry Me a River by Nancy Holder Read Free Book Online Page A

to prevent them from blowing away. Grace visually traced a serpentine double line of them along skidding tire tracks.
    Bobby and Butch, who had trailed Jamal to a known Sixty-Six crib, had arrived at the H&R location two hours ahead of Grace. They’d been canvassing the neighborhood, asking locals if they’d seen anyone slam into Malcolm Briscombe, send him flying halfway down the block, run over him, and take off. Because cops were asking, the answer was always no. No one had seen so much as a cat trot across the blacktop.
    If just one person would come forward, say something,
anything …
But the locals believed the police were the bad guys. Always. If anybody was going to do anything about that poor child’s death, it would never be the cops. If looks could kill, Butch, Bobby, Grace, Ham, and the rest of the responding team would be lying in Henry’s fridge, waiting for their brains to be weighed.
    Grace pulled out a cigarette, not lighting it, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any further than the wind, the dirt, the dust, and the birds overhead, nearly shitting on her head. Cold anger kept her head clear. She let herself freeze a layer of ice over that, and she felt pretty much nothing at all.
    On the surface, at least.
    Two blocks southwest of the chalk outline of Malcolm’s final resting place, the minimart proper sat behind one line of two gas pumps. Tar shingles flapped like playing cards with the gusts; dusty windows advertised a special on cartons of cigarettes and liters of soda, and there was a faded poster for last year’s Tulsa Powwow.
    Rhetta came around the corner of the minimart with a young police photographer in tow—male, six-even, cute, intense, nervous. He must be new; Grace didn’t recognize him. He must be scared, waiting for someone to take a potshot at the cops.
    Rhetta was dressed for her brand of work: black OCPD jacket with her name embroidered on the left breast; latex gloves, work boots, jeans, and that plaid ruffled shirt. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and her thickly rimmed dark glasses rested on the crown of her head. Her face was drawn and there were circles under her eyes. She and Ronnie were losing the farm.
    She acknowledged Grace and Ham with a somber nod. “We’ve got some great tire impressions,” she announced. “Pickup truck, definitely. Also, a patch job on the right front tire.”
    “That’s six kinds of fabulous,” Grace said. “A distinguishing mark.”
    Ham nodded. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out, checking the caller ID. “It’s Indian,” he announced. Indian was their informant on the Haleem drive-by. So maybe there was more good news.
    He took the call, listening. “Yeah, good,” he said.“Cool, man. Sure. Alone. Of course.” He clicked his phone shut. “Indian’s hungry. I’m taking him to that coffee shop over by that strip club.”
    “They’ve got good onion rings,” Grace offered.
    “Why doesn’t Indian like you?” Rhetta asked Grace. Then Rhetta got a call, too, and opened her phone.
    “Maybe he’s a Longhorn fan,” Grace answered. “Or he thinks women shouldn’t be in law enforcement. I don’t give it much thought.” She made a face. “Have you ever seen him, Rhetta? His face is like a piece of leather, swear to God. And his
hair—”
    She fell silent as Rhetta held up a finger, asking for quiet. Her mouth dropped open.
    “Are you sure? Yes, of course I mean that rhetorically.” She listened hard, face going a bit sour. Then Rhetta flicked the phone shut.
    “Henry got three bullets out of the dealer,” she told Grace and Ham. “Ballistics has them.”
    “Three?” Grace echoed. “Guys on the night crew said one.”
    “The other two shots entered the body at an entirely different angle. Rooftop, most likely. We’re going back over there.” She looked perturbed; Rhetta prided herself on the Crime Lab’s thoroughness. This one was not Rhetta’s fault. She’d only had so much time to process the