Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
"You get the equipment you asked for?"
"Yeah, shit. Thanks." January will probably be pissed when she finds out I set up cameras around her house, but I'll cross that moat when I get to it. I need her safe more than I need her to be happy with me. She might not see it that way, but she'll get over it.
Fuck, I hope she gets over it.
"You doing okay?" Ames asks me.
"Fucking dandy."
He snorts.
There he goes, speaking volumes without saying a word again. One day, I'm going to ask him how he does that shit.
"I'm good, Ames," I tell him, only partially lying. "I'm working my shit out."
"Right," he mutters.
"No, seriously. I worked out all kinds of pent-up aggression today. Even shed a tear. You and the shrink would be proud." The tear might have been because a gnat flew into my eye, but whatever. Still counts.
"You going to tell me what you're doing with Curtis Kaleo?" he asks, not buying my blasé attitude for a minute. Not that I thought he would or anything. He sees through me better than most and has zero problems calling me on my bullshit.
"No," I say, being completely honest with him this time. "Trust me, Ames, you don't want to know about this one. Just consider it community service or something and leave it at that." The last thing I want is for him to get caught in the middle if Kaleo manages to drag me down with him.
I might fuck with Ames and push his buttons, but he's a good guy. He could have tossed my sorry ass in a jail cell when he found me dragging motherfuckers in off the streets like some vigilante, but he didn't. For some reason, he saw something in me, something worth saving, and has made it his personal mission to keep my ass alive. We both know I don't make that shit easy for him, but he does it anyway. Even when he'd rather shoot me himself than deal with whatever I need at any given moment, he gets it for me. He complains like a motherfucker about it, but he does it.
"Is this about your girl?" he asks.
"Yeah," I mutter, not lying to him about it even though I don't want to talk about January right now. He knows more about her and my past than most do. I certainly didn't tell him, but he's smart enough to put together the pieces. "Kaleo wants her block, and she's fighting him to get it. I'm dealing with the situation."
"I'll let you get back to it, but Kincaid?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let him be the reason you lose what matters most. You're a good cop. We need you. And call me if you need anything. I mean that."
"See you tomorrow," I mumble, not making him promises I may not be able to keep. He might think I'm a good cop, and maybe I am awesome at making the world a little bit safer, but I'm not one of the good guys, and I don't pretend I am. I'm not like him. I never will be.
I hope like hell he never finds out what I did because his opinion is one of few that actually matters to me. Losing his respect isn't something I look forward to, but if I don't take Kaleo out before he parades out the skeletons in my closet, that's exactly what will happen.
I slip the phone into my pocket before climbing onto my bike. It's almost three in the afternoon. Which leaves me plenty of time to track down Quan and find out what the fuck he's doing running around with Kaleo.
I drive around for over an hour, hitting all of his old haunts, but don't find him.
It's eerie how little this part of South Los Angeles has changed since I left. It's still run down and falling apart. Very few new businesses have moved in. A few of those who were around back then have closed their doors and shuttered their windows. The vacant buildings are spray-painted with gang signs and crude statements.
It's depressing as hell.
Eventually, I head back toward our block, figuring I'll find him at his mama's house. Instead, I find him at the park on the corner. I'm not surprised. He always spent most of his time here. His mom was an addict with a long line of abusive boyfriends before she finally got clean. When we were kids, hanging out at the park kept him away from whatever drama of the day was going on at his house. As soon as he got his first bike, there was no stopping him. He was never home.
He's pushing a little boy on the swings. He looks good, like life's been kind to him and he's kept his nose clean. The little boy is maybe four or five. He's cute, with a tight fade, big ears, and an even bigger smile. Quan's clothes were always hand-me-downs and castoffs, but his kid is dressed in name brands and Jays.