Chasing China White by Allan Leverone (best time to read books TXT) 📗

Crowder’s eyes narrowed and Derek instantly realized he’d made a horrible mistake. “Not that I would ever say anything. Ever. Not to the cops or anyone else. Of course not. I just meant…I mean, you know, I’ve never shot anyone before and I’m a little…you know…I mean, what do we do now?”

9

“That’s a damned fine question,” Crowder said, his voice dripping with acid. “What do we do now, indeed?” He’d stopped thrumming his fingers on the desk when Derek handed over the murder weapon, but now he began again, that fucking miniature horse galloping through the fucking imaginary field for all it was worth.

Derek decided he would be thrilled if he never had to hear that sound again. It was an earworm crawling into his brain and infecting it and combining with his heroin jones to drive him to the edge of insanity.

He realized Crowder had said something but with that invisible horse galloping around inside his head he’d completely missed it. “Excuse me?”

“I said did the girl hear your conversation with McHugh?”

“The girl?”

“Yeah, you know, the eyewitness to the double homicide you committed. The one who could send you to death row.”

There it was again. Send you to death row. For the second time, Crowder had left himself out of any reference to the McHugh situation. As hot as he’d felt a moment ago, Derek now felt every bit as cold. It was a chill unrelated to the temperature, a feeling like all the blood had been drained from his body and replaced with ice water.

And it wasn’t a good thing, like Yeah, that dude has ice water running through his veins. He’s one cool customer.

It was more like when his family had gone to Wells Beach in Maine one summer when he was a little kid, long before he’d alienated everyone who’d ever loved him with his drug use and its attendant lies and deception and thievery. He still remembered his dad carrying him out into the water and then dropping him into the Atlantic, and even though it had been mid-July, the hottest time of the year, the water had been ice-cold, frigid, and it had enveloped him and he’d felt paralyzed, constricted, like his muscles had turned to stone and he couldn’t move or even breathe. His dad had had to rescue him before he drowned.

That was how he felt now, with Crowder distancing himself from the situation and leaving Derek drowning in the Atlantic.

It was a terrifying feeling and he was confused and upset, and damned if he hadn’t forgotten—again—what Crowder just said.

Get ahold of yourself.

He swallowed and the conversation came back to him and he said, “No, I don’t think she heard me talking to McHugh.” His answer came out sounding weak and fearful, which only made sense because if there were two words that would form a perfect description of Derek right now, one would be “weak” and the other would be “fearful.”

“You don’t think so? What the fuck does that mean? She either heard you say who you were working for or she didn’t. Which was it?”

“I-I don’t think I ever said your name specifically. I think I just assumed McHugh would realize why I was there.”

“Again, you’re saying ‘think’ instead of ‘know,’ and that’s not good enough, goddammit.”

And then Derek remembered. The ear buds!

“No,” he burst out. “I’m certain she didn’t hear anything I said to her father. She was wearing ear buds when she charged into the living room, which meant she’d been listening to music, so there was no way she could have heard anything I said, even if I mentioned you specifically by name, which I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

He forced himself to stop babbling, but it was hard to do. He wanted so badly to tell Crowder what he wanted to hear, because that icepick stare was creeping him right the fuck out.

Obviously the man was worried about being implicated in the murder of the girl’s parents, and while Derek wasn’t happy about having to shoulder that particular burden all by himself, right now he wanted nothing more than for Crowder to stop staring at him like a specimen under a microscope.

This news should at least accomplish that goal.

But Crowder’s expression never changed. If anything, the man’s cold fury seemed to be worsening. He thrummed the desk and he stared at Derek with a thoughtful look in his eyes, and suddenly, without warning, Derek realized the significance of the chill that had enveloped him. His body knew where this line of questioning was going even if his heroin-addled brain didn’t.

Crowder was going to kill him.

He’d disarmed Derek, and then he’d questioned him to be certain the law wasn’t going to come knocking on his door, and once he received the reassurance he was seeking, he would force Derek into a car and drive him somewhere secluded—a construction site in Dorchester or a landfill in Charlestown or a fucking vacant lot in Revere—and he would pump a couple of 9mm slugs into Derek’s skull and then he would bury the body where it would never be found.

Next to the murder weapon, maybe, wherever that had gone.

Derek tried to think but it was so fucking hard. He needed a clear head but his mind was spinning. Everything was a blur, from being yanked out of the abandoned car this morning to being presented with an ultimatum this afternoon to fucking up at McHugh’s house tonight to receiving the third degree right now, things were out of control and moving too fast, and Derek just couldn’t think straight.

“So I’m thinking it might be good to get a little fresh air,” Crowder said. “You know, maybe take a drive and clear our heads. It’s been a long day and a difficult one, and the air sometimes gets stuffy in here and it’s a beautiful cool night. Whaddaya say? Want to go for a ride? We