CHAPTER 9
Another precinct. God, Lucky hated police stations. They all looked the same, sounded the same, and struck fear in his heart that he’d find himself in a cell.
He sat in an observation room roughly the size of the interrogation area, watching the camera feeds on a TV screen while he waited for the show to start. In the old days he would’ve stood behind a one-way glass. The lowlife getting interrogated might never know how grateful he should be to have a solid wall separating them.
Lucky might never give up his laptop for a dinky little tablet like Bo carried, but sometimes technology paid off in ways he appreciated. The more distance between him and the shit-for-brains who’d tried to kidnap his sister, the better. Glass might not be enough of a deterrent to him beating his way into the interrogation room and giving the guy incentive to spill his guts.
Besides, multiple camera feeds gave more of a complete picture of what went on in the room.
The observation room smelled of dust, stale air, and old French fries. Bits of conversation rose and fell out in the hallway. He should’ve closed the door.
Bo strode into the room, ever-present tablet computer in hand, sank into the next chair, and nudged Lucky with his elbow. “Are you okay?”
Not a hug, not a kiss. Close enough. He’d take any contact at this point. “As okay as I’m going to be.” Lucky held up his phone. “The doctor said Charlotte is going to be fine.” No need mentioning that he’d also called Johnson to make sure his sister wasn’t lying to make him feel better. “He did tell her to rest. Johnson took her over to the Smiths’. Mrs. Boss will make sure she does.”
Lucille Smith. Small, yet fierce.
The boss’s wife loved to make a fuss over people. She’d make sure Char followed the doctor’s orders.
“I tried to find someone to take care of the front door, and left a message for a monitored security company.” Who’d have thought they’d need more security?
Bo glanced at the video monitors and back at Lucky. “Any word on Moose?”
Moose. Who’d been knifed trying to save Charlotte. “Salters texted. He’s had stitches, and the vet wants to keep him for observation.” Lucky’s glance at the monitor turned into a stare. Shouldn’t they be starting already? He needed to get home, see about his family.
“If you stare any harder at the TV, it’s going to shatter,” Bo commented.
“Good. Then maybe they’ll let me in there and kick that sumbitch’s ass.” Of course, Charlotte had done a fine job of that all on her own.
“Not our case. Now be good. They didn’t have to let us observe, you know. Walter called in some favors.”
Lucky grunted, all the answer he’d give.
The guy in the hospital hadn’t woken up yet. Never, ever, mess with a redneck mama with a baseball bat. Worse than a grizzly bear.
“Oh, look. It’s starting.” Bo nudged Lucky again.
The guy entering the monitored room in the company of a uniformed officer appeared smaller and skinnier than Lucky remembered. Same ridiculous haircut, same bruised cheek.You go, Charlotte.
The suspect—guilty as all hell—sat, or rather, slouched, knees spread wide, bouncing one leg.
A woman entered the room, dressed in a suit, hair pulled into a severe bun. In her hand she clutched a tablet similar to Bo’s. Lucky got thedon’t mess with mevibes from the way she carried herself, head high, shoulders back, exuding confidence. Cut from the same cloth as Charlotte, no doubt.
Her demeanor softened when she took a seat across from the kid. She might’ve been Lucky’s age, maybe a little older, with a few grays blending into her light brown hair. “I’m Detective Barfield.” She pretended to consult her tablet, though she’d never have entered the room without first knowing details. “You’re Jeffrey Marks? Can I call you Jeffrey?”
“Jeff,” the kid corrected, still in a belligerent slouch.
“Hi, Jeff.” The detective’s neutral expression gave away nothing of her mood. Professional, through and through. At least, Walter said so. “Do you live in Atlanta?”
“Yeah. On Ashwood.” The leg stopped mid-bounce and his shoulders relaxed.
Ashwood. Not the best of neighborhoods.
“Do you live alone?” Detective Barfield’s easy manner made the question more conversation than part of the interrogation.
“Nah. With my grandma and uncle.” The guy looked up now, showing his face. Good, the detective was slowly drawing him out.
“Are you in school or do you work full time?”