Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 72856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Actually,” I said. “That would be great. Do you have one?”
The man nodded vigorously. “I do. In my trunk.”
I waved him over.
He hurried back to his vehicle that’d been parked in the McDonald’s parking lot across the street and was back moments later as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Would appreciate it if you just scanned the entire area,” I said.
With swift, methodical movements, the man did what I asked.
And we found the ring less than ten minutes later.
“This it?” The man cried out.
I looked over at the ring, and a wide smile split my face.
“That sure as hell is,” I said, offering my hand. “Thank you.”
The man took my hand and then placed the ring in my palm before slapping me hard on the back.
“You’re welcome, man,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
***
“Did you think more on what I told you?” A-shift FAO, Ton Jackson, asked.
I thought back to what he’d told me that day.
“Fatbaby told me to tell you something,” Ton said.
I blinked. “Me?”
He nodded.
“He said something about his wife and that she was responsible for everything,” Ton explained.
My brows furrowed.
“We already knew that,” I said. “He was the one who told us.”
Ton nodded.
“I know that. I was just wondering…why would he say that when we already knew? Why wouldn’t he say something else? Possibly identify the car that hit him in some way?” He asked.
“I did. But I haven’t been able to come up with any other reason,” I said. “He’d already told us all of that. Maybe he was just saying sorry?”
Ton frowned.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”
I slapped Ton on the shoulder. “Thank you for telling me, though. I don’t think I ever said that.”
Ton’s lips lifted up in a small smile.
“Wish I didn’t have to tell you that at all, man.”
Me neither.
My hand tightened on the ring in the palm of my hand.
Fatbaby’s ring.
The same ring that’d been the reason for so many fights between him and his wife.
It was a big, bulky thing, and I wondered how Fatbaby had worn it throughout so many of the fires and calls we went on.
It seemed almost too big.
But I’d take it to his wife because it seemed so important to her.
And I wouldn’t yell at her or call her a bitch.
I’d be respectful.
I repeated this mantra to myself, over and over again, as I drove to their place.
The usual spot where Fatbaby’s Ford was parked, sat empty, and the garage was partially open.
Knowing that the front door wasn’t used, I slipped under the partially open garage door and came to a sudden, shocked halt.
There were two cars in the garage.
One was his wife’s. It was fine, it looked exactly like it always looked.
What wasn’t normal, however, was the old Impala that Fatbaby had bought to restore.
It was…broken.
Jagged metal was crunched in on one corner of the front bumper. Scrapes and dents dotted the sides.
And suddenly, it all made a sick, horrible sense.
Witnesses say it was a rusted up piece of crap. Something older and boxy. Massive. Said the car took the truck out with barely any warning, ran it into the side of that building, and then fled the scene.
Swallowing thickly, I backed out of the garage and then started walking to my truck.
I’d left my phone in the seat.
I’d just gotten to the driver’s side door when I heard the garage door start to go up.
I reached into the driver’s side window, grabbed my phone, and dialed 9-1-1 into the phone before the door reached its max height.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” Ellen, the dispatcher that worked on C-shift, asked.
“This is firefighter Taima Stoker. I’m at 4423 FM 2299 at firefighter Aaron Sim’s place. The car that was used during the hit and run that almost killed Aaron is in the garage,” I said urgently.
I hadn’t carried my gun on me today.
Normally I did, but today I’d gotten off shift, where I wasn’t allowed to carry it. I’d come straight here, and hadn’t even stopped by my place on the way home.
Which was why I was well and truly fucked when I looked up and saw Fatbaby’s psychotic wife staring down the barrel of a gun aimed directly at me.
My hands went up into the air as I stared at her.
My phone had dropped to the ground near my feet, and I hoped that they’d heard what I’d said about Lynn Sims.
“Why’d you come here?” She asked.
I looked up and down the street, half hoping that someone would step out and see what was going on, and the other half hoping that they didn’t come out just because I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
I swallowed.
“Found Aaron’s ring,” I said.
I made sure to call him by his real name. She hated when we called him Fatbaby, mostly because she was a bitch and had refused to return the boots that had given Fatbaby his nickname.