Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I pointed over my right shoulder, and she understood that the line formed behind me.
Washington was released from the hospital, and I took custody of him, then waited on SOG to move him to the marshal offices in a caravan of black SUVs and squad cars that looked like the president was visiting. Upstairs, I took him to the large conference room, and we waited for the seats to fill up.
Miro Jones, director of Custodial WITSEC—which took care of all persons under the age of eighteen—leaned in, smiling at me. “You hungry? I’m ordering food.”
“I’m hungry,” Washington chimed in.
“I’m getting Mexican. You want some carne asada tacos?”
“Yes, please,” he nearly whined.
“I’ll get you sides too,” Miro promised, then looked at me. “You want your regular ulcer-inducing burrito?”
I smirked at him. “Really? That’s what you’re going with when your guy gets death on a plate from that other place?”
“Death on a plate,” he muttered under his breath.
“And yes, I want my burrito, and I want extra salsa verde.”
He was mumbling about intestinal damage when he closed the door.
“What’s gonna happen now?” Washington asked me.
“Well, first another marshal is gonna come in here and ask you a lot of questions and do a lot of typing, and after an hour of that, we’ll be joined by detectives from Narcotics and you will spill your guts to them. Then as soon as that’s done, the FBI agents will come and talk to you, and tomorrow at this time, you, your mother, your sister—”
“And my dog, Greta—”
“And your dog, Greta,” I assured him, “will be on your way to a new life.”
“What about Greta’s microchip?”
It was a valid question.
“Greta will be reported to the company who monitors the chip as having died, and then that number will be reregistered with the marshals service as belonging to your new name.”
“I bet you guys didn’t use to take animals, huh?”
“As a rule, the marshals service does not move pets, but you so happen to be in Chicago, which is run by Chief Deputy Sam Kage, who believes that causing witnesses, like yourself, who are helping to apprehend criminals, any additional stress by separating them from their pets is bad.”
“I like him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just eat your food when it gets here and answer all the questions, all right?”
He nodded quickly.
“You look like shit,” I told him.
“I was beat up today,” he reminded me. “That damage could possibly be part of the problem.”
“You’re a wiseass.”
“It’s been noted,” he agreed.
Several moments went by.
“No?” he prodded me. “Nothing else? No witty comeback?”
I grunted.
His smile was warm. “You’re a strange man, DUSM Redeker.”
“Listen, when you get moved, you need to do exactly what you’re told, all right? Don’t fuck around or be an idiot. Don’t be you. Think of your mother and sister.”
“Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, Miro brought food in, which I was so happy about, I could’ve kissed him. Anything to get Washington to stop telling me about his day-to-day activities in jail. My brain was turning to mush.
It was nice that Miro took a seat with us and ate his food, which consisted of some sort of bowl that had a lot of green in it that looked decidedly healthy. Not long after, he was joined by Ian Doyle, his husband, my boss, deputy director of the Northern District of Illinois, who was scowling. Not that this was any big change. As far as I could tell, Doyle had a singular facial expression, and that was the one. It was his default to be irritated.
“Is that your regular?” I asked him.
And then, out of the blue, amazingly, I got a grin. “Yes, it is,” he said proudly.
“What is it again?”
“That, my friend, is the Diablo Burrito with fire sauce from Fuego, two blocks away.”
Of course he hadn’t gotten his food from the same place the rest of us got ours. That would be too easy.
“I’ve never been to Fuego.”
“Yeah, well, you’re missing out,” he said with a shrug. “I like all my food hot.”
“Too hot,” Miro commented, shaking his head.
“Jesus, I can smell that from here,” I said, concerned that he was going to put that in his body. “Why is the sauce so dark?”
“Ghost peppers,” he replied as if bespelled.
“Is that a good idea? It looks kinda dangerous.”
“No, it’s great.”
I glanced at Miro, checking to see if he looked concerned, and found him squinting, probably from the fumes getting in his eyes. I returned my gaze to Ian. “Aren’t ghost peppers the ones chefs have to wear respirators when they cook with them?”
“I’ve never heard that,” Ian said, “but Jameson Reyes did say it was one of the hottest things he’d ever eaten.”
“The Jameson Reyes?” I was stunned.
“Who’s Jameson Reyes?” both Miro and Washington asked.
“Who’s Jameson Reyes?” Ian and I answered, both horrified.
“I hate it when you do that,” Miro told us.