Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell Read Free Book Online Page B

poster boy for tells,” Mooney said. “What’s he hiding?”
    “Maybe he just doesn’t like being Q’d at his place of work,” Sandy said.
    “Why’d he get threatened by a guy with a knife?”
    “Does he have to know? Maybe it was random.”
    “It wasn’t,” Mooney said. “He saw the guy a few minutes before. Why’d that guy come after him?”
    “That doesn’t link him to Nunn’s death. If anything, it links the other guy.”
    “That’s what I’m saying. You put enough links together and you get back to Samson.”
    “A stretch,” Sandy said.
    “Then his house is on fire. Come on. I want to know what this guy’s into.”
    “This is homicide, remember?” Sandy said, her tone mildly rebuking. Mooney had to remember who was senior, who called the shots. “Let’s keep connected to our opens.”
    “What I’m doing,” Mooney said, with more snap in his voice than Sandy cared for. “But maybe we connect up a lot more. Maybe that makes us look very good.”
    “Don’t be so anxious to get down to RHD, Mark. You got time.” RHD was Robbery-Homicide Division, the elite of LAPD detectives, working out of downtown.
    “You could look good, too,” Mooney said.
    He gave her a sideward glance. Without him saying anything, Sandy knew what he meant by it. She was damaged goods and needed some rep polishing. She’d been sent to this far corner of the department after being on the Robbery-Homicide shortlist. Because they knew if she raised a stink about what her captain pulled on her at Central, she’d be seen as just another black shouting discrimination. They knew how to cover their collective butts, oh yes.
    She could have sued for the groping and the slurs, the private threats. Even without extrinsic evidence, she could have scored a nice settlement and retired.
    But she was a cop, and that’s all she ever wanted to be. She’d outlast them, outwork them, out-detective them. She’d show them in a way that could not be denied.
    Mooney was right, though. There were things Chuck Samson wasn’t saying. And she would look good if they uncovered more. It would be nice to stick something right back up the brass’s rectal canals.
    “Let’s talk about Jimmy Stone,” she said.
    “Oh yes, our little Westie,” Mooney said. “You think he ordered the hit?”
    “Don’t you?”
    Mooney shrugged. “Esperanza Gomez was into gangs deep. Who knows who did her?”
    “Jimmy Stone did, but the prosecutors had to drop the case.”
    “We can keep beating the bushes for one,” Mooney said.
    “Which means working with the narco squad.”
    “Or we can squeeze the stones of Mr. Stone.”
    “Hard core,” Sandy said.
    “Don’t get too excited.”
    “Please.”
    “Come on, admit it, working with me is—” Mooney tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. “Mooney . . . uh-huh . . .”
    He gave another sideward glance at Sandy. This one was full of promise and a half smile. Mooney looked like a kid with a secret, about to tell.
    When he clicked off he said nothing, but the smile grew wider.
    “Well?” Sandy said.
    “That was Friedman,” Mooney said. Bart Friedman was another division detective, working drugs and gangs.
    “And?”
    “And you are not going to believe what Mr. Chuck Samson is into.”

Chapter 14

    “Hello,” Stan said.
    The woman with the child nodded.
    Stan liked it when they nodded.
    He handed the woman a specials flyer.
    She said, “Thank you.”
    Stan said, “You’re welcome.” He smiled. It was easy to smile at moms with kids. They were always friendly. Unless the kid had done something wrong and was crying.
    A big man in a USC Trojans jersey came in. He was as big as a car. A very big car, if it was painted cardinal and gold. Cardinal and gold were the official colors of USC, the University of Southern California, located near the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, which was built in 1923. Stan knew that from a program when Chuck took him to a Trojans football game last year.
    “Hello,”