Page 93 of Body Count

And then the front door of the apartment crashed open.Rory flinched.My hand went to my side, reflex and instinct, but I was wearing a tee and shorts—no utility belt, no gun, nothing.

“What the fuck do you mean you’ve got a picture of me?”Eddie Wheeler’s shout sounded unhinged.“How fucking stupid are you?”

If I’d thought I’d seen fear in Rory’s eyes before, it was nothing compared to the panic shining in his face now.He looked almost mindless with it: his jaw hanging open, his eyes wide, as he tried to shrink in on himself.He scuttled backward—away from the front door—until he hit the kitchen counter.Then he slid along it, his eyes locked on where I figured Eddie had to be standing.He was trying to talk.He also looked like he was doing what small children and animals did when they were frightened—backing himself into a corner.

“You took a picture?”Eddie’s volume continued to rise.And then there was a loud crack, like a hand slapping against wood.“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Rory made a squeaking noise as he continued to weasel away.

I stepped out of the bedroom.

Eddie wore his Highway Patrol uniform.His face was shiny with sweat.More sweat made dark rings under his arms.He must have left the hat in his cruiser, but he had the rest of it—the belt, the holster, the gun.He looked at me, and his eyes narrowed.“You.”

“Hi, Eddie.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Asking Rory some questions.What are you doing here?”

Eddie’s panic seemed to charge the air.

“He took it,” Rory babbled.“He took it.The photo.He’s got it.That’s why I messaged you.He was going to take it, and I knew you wouldn’t want that!”

“Stop talking,” Eddie said, but he didn’t look at Rory.He looked at me as he continued speaking to the boy.“You fucking idiot.What the fuck did you do?”

“I was trying to help!”

Once again, he seemed to lose control of himself: his gaze was unseeing, and muscles corded in his neck as he screamed at Rory, “I said stop talking!”

A moment passed.And then another, the silence settling like dust.He wiped his face with one hand.The other hand hung next to his gun.

“All right,” he said.His tone was weary, almost resigned.He held out his hand and made agimmegesture.

I shook my head.

“He has it!”Rory’s voice was thin and trembling.“He took it from me!I didn’t tell him, Eddie, I promise!”

“Give it to me,” Eddie said to me as though Rory hadn’t spoken.

“No,” I said.“Get in your cruiser and drive away before you do something stupid.”

Eddie’s hand stayed where it was, inches from his gun.He might be a shit shot.He might be a great shot.It didn’t matter, not at this distance, when I had nowhere to run.My best bet would be to hole up in Rory’s room and call for backup, but I wasn’t sure I’d be fast enough.

But all Eddie did was wipe his face again.Hot, sticky air drifted into the apartment through the open door, carrying the smell of hot tar and exhaust and Eddie’s sweat.

“You’re not leaving with that photo,” Eddie said in that same tired voice.

“It’s evidence,” I said.“He killed your son.”

Eddie looked like he hadn’t heard me.And then he turned toward Rory.

“He’s lying!”Rory’s voice was shrill.“He’s making it up!”

But Eddie, for all his faults, was a cop, and the longer he looked at Rory, the darker his expression got.He shook his head slowly.

“Whoever killed Tip,” I said, “they were angry.We’re not talking premeditation; this was rage.Someone got so mad they grabbed the first thing they could find, and they stabbed Tip in the back.And whoever it was, they knew about me.What had happened to me.The fact that I’d taken an interest in Tip’s case.They knew about Darnell, about that story Tip and Jordan made up.It had to be someone close to the investigation, or they wouldn’t have tried to frame me and Darnell.Hell, I told Rory myself that those detectives were looking at me as a suspect.”

“It could have been anybody,” Rory said.“I never would have hurt Tip.He was—he was like a brother!”

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