The Stones Cry Out by Sibella Giorello Read Free Book Online Page A

let it go.
    "Your file cabinets are crammed with victims, but Detective Falcon wants to find out which con took out a confirmed sociopath?"
    He opened his hands, some kind of supplication.
    "No.” I shook my head. “I need better than that.”
    "Look, all I know is that when T got his date for the death house, Mike went to interview him. It's not like we can interview the guy after they execute him. And it was Mike's case, not mine. I just told you we didn't --"
    "Any notes?"
    "What?"
    "Did he leave any notes?"
    "We don't file paper every time somebody says hello."
    Another dig. And maybe I deserved it, picking on his dead partner. "I'm sorry. It's just --"
    "I get it, don’t apologize."
    I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It felt personal now, and that was wrong. "Any notes?"
    "I'll look around."
    I tried to gauge the sincerity. Maybe it was there, maybe not.
    We exchanged cards in place of good-bye and I walked down the hall of yellow tile, heading for the police chief's office to perform diplomatic duty. At the front desk, the policewoman said the chief would be ready in ten minutes. Which meant twenty.
    Near the entrance a small waiting room had more of the sulfuric tiles, only these were brightened by sunshine leaking through the high transoms above the door. The sunlight also fell on an elderly black man, sleeping on the plastic chair.
    Detective Greene's card was still in my hand, the paper edges curling from the moisture in my palm. As I was putting it away, I read his name again. He used a middle name for his first. J. Nathan Greene. J probably stood for some southern schoolyard horror. Junius. Jairus. I was sliding the card into my notebook when I saw the embossed lettering on the back. Words printed in blue. I ran my fingertips over the raised letters, taking in their bumpy relief.
    To the living, we owe respect.
    To the dead, we owe justice.

Chapter 8
    Hamal Holmes’ gym was located on Second Street, between Leigh and Marshall. When I stepped out of the K-Car, a rank odor rose from hot sidewalk. Quickly I fed quarters into the meter, trying to ignore the smells of baked garbage and urine, and crossed the street. But a young guy was staggering toward me, his eyes like pools of blood. When he opened his hand, I dropped the rest of my change into his palm, knowing full well where the money would go, but also certain that nobody’s belly ever got filled by my self-righteousness. He stumbled away with not so much as a thank you.
    I looked for a sign to the gym but there was nothing except a steel door matching the address I had. I opened it, climbed a flight of narrow wooden stairs, and follow the rhythmic sound of skipping ropes. Slapping leather. Grunting.
    Most of the large room was filled by a boxing ring where two black men were sparring. Or one was. The smaller of the two dangled on the braided nylon rope, shifting his head trying to duck his opponent's punches.
    On the other side of the room, a group of younger boys pounded speed bags and skipped the ropes. Talcum dust hazed the air which had the rank scent of male perspiration.
    I looked around, hoping to find somebody in charge, and caught the eye of an elderly white man. He was leaning on the boxing ring’s padded base but pushed himself off and shuffled toward me. Stooped as a vulture, his gray cotton sweats hung from his bony shoulders.
    He barely glanced at my Bureau ID.
    "Name's Ray Frey,” he said.
    His voice sounded like rusty chains dragged over gravel. He continued watching the ring, where the heavy fighter was still pummeling the smaller guy. "Hey, Mel! Watch his left!"
    "Are you the gym’s manager?" I asked.
    "Last week, manager. This week, owner – Mel, what did I say? His left! What's it gonna take, him rearranging your brain?" He looked over, running his eyes over my face. "Owner by default, you could call it."
    He turned back to the ring as the smaller boxer swung. It was a wild roundhouse, and it missed. He immediately covered