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“Yes, Sir,” a male voice said. “This is J.D. Street. I’m a valet at the Purple Pig. You gave me your card last night.”
“Sure, J.D. I remember you,” Jack said. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard about Darnell on the news and that he’d been arrested,” he said. “I wanted to see if there was anything I could do. Pay bail or something. I’m telling you there’s no way that kid was any part of this. He’s just young and dumb. I’ve been around awhile, and I’ve learned how to assess people quickly. He’s good. And not just a little good. He’s good to the depths of his soul. No way he’d hurt anyone or cause damage to someone’s property.”
“We’re actually on our way to try and talk with him now,” Jack said. “He’s not been arrested so there’s no bond. But he lawyered up so we can hold him for seventy-two hours.”
“Lawyered up?” J.D. asked, the surprise evident in his voice. “That kid is so broke his bills have bills. No way he could afford a lawyer.”
“Alex Denaro provided him with counsel,” Jack said.
There was nothing but a heavy silence on the other end.
“You know why he’d do something like that?” Jack prodded.
“Mr. Denaro knows what he’s about,” J.D. said. “He must have thought Darnell needed a heavy hitter to help him out of this. Sorry to waste your time, Sheriff.” And then he disconnected abruptly.
“Well, that was interesting,” Jack said. “It’s like everyone is privy to an inside joke and we’re on the outside. I have to say I don’t care for it.”
“Welcome to my childhood,” I said, smiling and then I exited the Tahoe.
I didn’t know the night sergeant on duty when we walked into the sheriff’s office. He was middle aged with a blond mustache, thinning hair, and his uniform seemed a little tight around the collar. There was a tan line on his ring finger.
“How’s it going, Whipple?” Jack asked.
“Quiet night, sheriff,” Whipple said. “Don’t usually see you in this late. Everything all right?”
“Just tying up some loose ends,” Jack said, and typed in the code to take us back to the bullpen.
The night shift lieutenant was at his desk in his office and Jack waved at him as we passed by. But the rest of the desks were empty. Jack didn’t like his cops to spend their shifts sitting at their desks or hanging out in the squad room. He wanted them out in the streets. A visible police presence made citizens feel safe and criminals think twice about doing something stupid.
The smell of burned coffee was saturated into the carpet and walls, and there was an underlying smell of disinfectant. Someone had tried plugging in an oil diffuser but it just gave the coffee a slightly sick smell.
I followed Jack to a thick metal door that led to the holding cells, and watched as he typed in another code. The holding area wasn’t real jail. It was where they brought those they were waiting to process or someone who was waiting on bail, and I figured Martinez and Cole left Darnell in holding because of his age and the fact that he’d never been in trouble before.
The cells were all empty except for the one on the end, and Darnell Watkins was sitting straight up on the narrow cot, his hands on his knees and his eyes on the blank wall in front of him.
“Darnell,” Jack said, tapping his keys against the bar to get Darnell’s attention. It was like he was in a trance. “It’s Sheriff Lawson and Dr. Graves. You remember us?”
Darnell looked at us and nodded, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I don’t like it here. I want to go home. I didn’t kill anyone. Bobby is dead.”
Jack sighed and unlocked the cell door. “Let’s go talk about this somewhere more comfortable.”
“I can’t stop seeing him die in my head,” Darnell said. “He was right there. And then he wasn’t. And then there was all that blood.” He shuddered, and I knew exactly how he felt.
“I can give you the name of a good counselor who can help you with that,” Jack said. “What you saw today is never easy.”
“You’ve seen it before?” he asked.
“I have,” Jack told him. “No one should have to experience that kind of trauma. But sometimes there isn’t a choice. It’s just what we do after the trauma that shapes the rest of our lives. Go to the counselor. Let him help.”
“I don’t have the money,” Darnell said.
“You don’t need any money,” Jack said. “Dr. Gomez likes to help out the department. He’ll help you too.”
I knew that Jack would foot the bill for however long it took to get Darnell help, and he’d keep lying about the cost to save Darnell’s pride.
“Okay, thanks,” Darnell said.
