Hello, Little Sparrow by Jordan Jones (ebook audio reader txt) 📗

A millisecond of pain after a lifetime of agony. I could do it. My body would fall faster than the bullet that pierced DeAngelo’s carotid artery, and it would do something much more productive for Lincolnshire. Sure, it’d be news worthy for a few weeks, but then The Sparrow would strike again, and it’d slowly make it’s way to the back page, then I’d eventually be forgotten.

The cold Maine breeze sent a chill down my spine and I took a seat overlooking the entire city. The lights illuminated the cloudy sky, calling out to surrounding communities that we weren’t quite ready for sleep.

Time on my phone said 6:14 p.m.

I was fully awake after sleeping for the past fourteen hours, so sleep was out of the question. I couldn’t think, much less make myself functional. I opened a beer and chugged the bottle in thirty-seconds.

My life was a walking cliché and I had no answers. Shame…I had shame. Plenty of it.

Several minutes went by before I looked back at the table and saw another three bottles next to the first one. My body was feeling numb, finally matching my mind. I didn’t want to feel anymore. I didn’t want to examine what I should feel.

How I should feel.

Another beer down. A quick trip to the bathroom, then back on the balcony.

Another one down.

And another.

The more intoxicated I felt, the faster the memories flooded in, though distortions convoluted much of them. I wanted out of my body and into another.

In my drunken stupor, I texted Vivian after 7:30 p.m.

She didn’t answer so I called her and left a lengthy voicemail expressing everything I hated about her. I added some things that I loved about her and ended it with an apology.

Immediately after hanging up I regretted the call. That regret sent me closer to the edge of the balcony, but I knew I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was nothing I could do to bring DeAngelo back. There was nothing I could do to bring anyone back.

The police officers who let me in the apartment were out in the hallway keeping guard, and there were a few more posted in the parking garage. LT Anderson never told me I couldn’t leave the apartment, so I phoned an Uber and gave them the wrong address three times through slurring my words.

“It’s the tall apartment building on Parklane…Parkland. On Parkland Drive,” I told them. They informed me that I’d have to order the ride through an app, and that’s when I elicited the help from an officer outside. They shook their head and helped me call for the Uber.

“Do you know how long you’ll be, Detective?” one asked.

I shook my head. “I just t-t-took a long nap so it c-c-c-could be a while.”

“Just be safe.” The pity he took on me was undeniable, and my half-hearted presentation of an untucked button-up shirt and scuffed up loafers didn’t help my appearance.

We had a shortened, awkward conversation before my ride pulled up and I hopped in. She was messing around with her phone on her dash and I helped myself to a bowl of peanuts she had sat out.

“Whoa buddy…you live here?” she asked. “Smells like you’ve already been out.”

“Just trying to save some money is all,” I replied.

“Make sure you try to mask some of that smell before I drop you off. They want people to spend their money there, not get drunk at home and sip on a drink or two.”

We both laughed it off as she pulled away.

It was a fairly short drive before we arrived at Lucky Charley’s.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The violin solo rang through the speakers of Brooks’ red sedan.

Lincolnshire’s prestigious Theatre for the Arts was finally holding their grand reopening after being taken over by new ownership. It was the talk of the town, slightly overshadowed by the string of Brooks’ murders.

The new ownership took up a public plea for funding to remodel and repurpose the old movie theater. Now it was used for live musicals and orchestras, which was much more Brooks’ taste anyway. He couldn’t stand sitting for two hours to watch fake drama unfold on a screen.

He’d much rather see it in person.

Or, be a part of it.

The local radio station broadcasted the opening night festivities, introduced and DJ’d by Lincolnshire’s own DJ Ramon Heath. His voice came on the radio from time to time when Brooks left work or took late night drives. His voice was soothing, but his content he spewed into his microphone was vomit-inducing sewage.

The music was garbage and callers asked him advice in their failing relationships. He’d stab a joke or two at their expense, then offer up a superficial alternative to their problem and wrap it all up with his catch phrase, “Aaaand that’ll do it!”

Brooks shook his head, trying to enjoy the ending of Bartok’s Violin Concerto No. 2 before Heath interrupted the finale with some cheesy one-liner. Brooks had had enough.

The knife sitting in the passenger seat slid nicely into the sheath at his side. The knife itself was long enough to cause serious damage, but inconspicuous enough to be hidden in plain sight.

He agreed with himself that he wouldn’t act impulsively tonight, but Madison watched from the backseat and gave a glare in the rear-view mirror.

Brooks didn’t look up. He had to do things their way. Madison’s way nearly got him arrested. If the detectives had any stench of criminality on him, they’d jump. They were looking for anything and everything as an answer, and Brooks was ripe for the picking.

He saw Bryan and a friend get out of a dark blue SUV, parked across from Brooks. Brooks stepped out, double-checking his knife on the way.

“Brooks! You made it!” Bryan grabbed him