Tough Love by Nancy Holder Read Free Book Online Page A

the vibration of a cell phone in his baggy-ass jeans. His masters, she guessed, tightening the leash. What incredibly bad timing. “"Gotta go.”"
    “"No,”" Grace said. “"Don’'t.”"
    But Jamal turned and ran down the street. Kicking at a bottle, she wheeled around and headed for the truck. Wind caught at the bottle, making it clink along the cracked sidewalk like a broken wheel.
    She called Butch, who answered immediately.
    “"Follow him,”" she said.
    “"On it,”" Butch replied.
    One block north, a battered gray Corolla started its engine and slowly moved from the curb.
    Standing beside the opened passenger door of Ham’'s GMC, Mr. Briscombe staggered in the direction Jamal had disappeared, one step, two, three …... and then he collapsed on the sidewalk, grabbing his heart and groaning. Gray face, extreme sweating.
    “"He’'s having a heart attack,”" Grace cried, racing to the stricken man. As she fell to her banged-up knees beside him, she felt a terrible sense of déejàa vu.
    Just last night, she’'d lost a citizen to death. Today, she sure as hell was putting up a better fight.
    “"Detective Ham Dewey,”" Ham said into his phone. “"We need a bus. Here’'s my location.”"
    “"You’'re gonna be okay,”" Grace promised Mr. Briscombe. “"You are.”"
    CHAPTER          FIVE
    Three hours later, Ham and Grace arrived at the scene of Malcolm’'s hit and run. It was a stupid potholed street two blocks northeast of an OK All Day minimart-and-gas-station combo. The water in the potholes fluttered with the wind. Yards of straining yellow caution tape and sawhorses cluttered the road, while uniforms waved motorists and pedestrians off. Evidence markers were anchored with weights 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