Читать книгу Winterkill - P.H. Turner - Страница 5

1

I met him for happy hour at the Yella Feather bar over on the south side about 5:30 on a hot August evening. He was dead by 6:15. Ours was a short relationship.

Lieutenant Deaver was one of the old guys with the San Antonio PD. He strolled in with the coroner, finding me where the first responder had put me. Over in a corner holding up a yellowed wall that reeked with years of stale nicotine.

“You okay?” Deaver asked.

“Yeah, think so.” I took a weak swallow of warm Coke.

“What happened?” He pulled out a rickety chair and sat down.

I slumped into a seat beside him. “I didn’t see the killer. My back was to the door when I heard the sound of a round chambered. Right in front me—Rodriguez was talking to me—a small, round hole drilled into his forehead. I heard the door bang shut and a car squeal off, but by the time I made it outside there was nothing to see and only cordite to smell.”

I looked around the bar, broken-down scarred tabletops, wobbly chairs, flaking vinyl floors with duct tape covering the cracks. The stink of disinfectant and stale grease mingled with gun smoke. Helluva place for a kid to die.

“How long you known him, Cahill?” Deaver asked softly.

“I’d say about forty-five minutes, give or take.”

He scratched his left armpit, his face screwed into thought. “What were you doing with Rodriguez? Source of yours?”

“Yeah, for a Latin Kings story. I’ve been trying to get in front of him for weeks.”

“Looks like your time with him is over. You get much outta him?”

“Not much more than I already knew.”

“Which is?” Lt. Deaver probed.

“He and his older brother live two blocks down in the Oleander Projects with their mom. No dad around. He denied he was a King. Claimed he was twenty-one and an unemployed high school dropout. Just another guy from the south side.”

“Hell, that’s a lie,” Lt. Deaver grunted. “He’s a King just like his brother. Rodriguez isn’t—wasn’t— eighteen. Let me know if you come up with anything else.” He shifted his bulk in the chair. “Why don’t you get a job fitting a woman, Ms. Cahill?”

“What job would that be?” I tossed over my shoulder watching Deaver zeroing in on the bartender. I stepped out of the grimy bar into the oppressive heat, popping the lock on my Laredo.

Rodriguez was just a kid, with scarcely a twist of beard masquerading as a goatee. My hands began to shake. I pulled over to the side of the curb, wrenched opened the door and puked on the street. When my head quit spinning, I slammed the door shut and hit the automatic lock. Air conditioning cooled the sweat on my upper lip. Easing the Jeep back into the San Antonio traffic, I headed toward the station. Maybe Deaver was right. Sawyer Cahill, you need to look at that job offer you have sitting on your desk.