The Night Charter by Sam Hawken Read Free Book Online

kitchen.
    “Dad?”
    Lauren appeared at the door and leaned against the frame. She played with her hair the way she did when she was nervous. Parker went to her and hugged her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
    “I shouldn’t have let him in.”
    “It’s all right. He didn’t…do anything, did he?”
    “No! Nothing. He’s just a creep.”
    Parker stroked her hair. “Yeah, he’s a creep. I know. But he’s gone now.”

Chapter Eleven
    I GNACIO M ONTELLANO APPRAISED the sandwich before him. It was pressed and still hot, layers of ham and roasted pork and cheese and pickles all laid in precisely as they should be. The thing was big, a two-handed affair if it hadn’t been sliced down the middle, and he was prepared to wash it down with a large Diet Coke.
    He sat in the detective’s bullpen, his desk among a broad gathering of other desks. Most were empty for the lunch hour, but there were a few holdouts that took their meals in front of their computers, catching up on work or simply fooling around on the Internet. Ignacio was not a workaholic, so he did not touch his caseload during the appointed sixty minutes, but he felt more comfortable in the A/C in his own chair than he did eating behind the wheel of his idling car.
    The first bite was perfection, flavors blending into flavors, the sour pickle kick-starting a new flow of saliva. He chewed thoughtfully, in no hurry to see the moment pass, before finally swallowing. A hit from the straw in his Coke cleansed his palate for the next mouthful.
    He saw Pool coming with a plastic bag from Subway. Pool caught his eye and angled his way. “Hey, Nacho,” Pool said. “How’s it going?”
    “Fine,” Ignacio said. “How about you?”
    “Good, good. You know, if you keep eating stuff like that, you’re gonna pop.”
    “I have a good healthy weight.”
    “Yeah. Okay. Listen, I didn’t catch you this morning before I had to head out on that robbery-homicide with Elmore. I had something I wanted to tell you.”
    “What?” Ignacio asked.
    “You’ll never guess who I saw yesterday when I was on my way home.”
    “Who?”
    “Matt Clifford.”
    Ignacio put the sandwich down. “Are you sure it was him?”
    “Oh, definitely. I saw him walking out of a 7-Eleven with a Slurpee. He could use the sugar, too, because he’s as thin as he always was. Hasn’t put on a pound as far as I could tell.”
    “Whereabouts did you see him?”
    “I can write down the address for you.”
    “Yeah, would you do that?”
    “No problem.”
    Pool left him, and Ignacio turned to his computer. He plugged in CLIFFORD, MATTHEW, and after a second he was looking at the booking photo of the man himself. Matt stared out of the screen as if he was challenging the camera, and maybe he was. He was that kind of guy.
    A string of charges and convictions stretched out beneath his vitals. Ignacio scanned these, less interested in the closed cases than in the one left open. He found it and clicked the folder open. Immediately details leaped to mind, though they were four years out of date. The pawnshop and the three dead men inside: Joel Berlanga, Gerard Castanada, and Julián Moscoso. Berlanga was the one found by the open and empty safe, a single bullet in the back of his skull. Moscoso had been bludgeoned to death with a heavy object, probably a baseball bat. And Castanada had been shot through the heart. Three gone and no witnesses. Even the security cameras’ tapes had been taken.
    Pool returned with an address scribbled on a Post-it. Ignacio looked at it. “This is way out in Hollywood,” he said.
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “Now I have to get them involved.”
    “Not if you’re only asking around. Besides, I have one better.”
    “What?”
    Pool produced a second Post-it. “This is Clifford’s address, fresh from the DMV. He registered a 1970 Dodge Charger and listed this as his place of residence. I don’t know where a guy like him gets the money to buy a classic like that, but I can