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“Ricky Ahumada.” Her tone turned flat instantly. A look went through her eyes he couldn’t identify. “He preferred Ricky. I knew him, dude. Well, I’d met him a few months before I moved down here for good. When I was visiting my sisters and skateboarding in that area. He was a nice kid. Respectful, and damned good on a board. We struck up a conversation about the size of my wheels. I was trying to get him to come to the youth center I just started volunteering at, for tutoring, when he died. So he could get his grades up—he’d told me he struggled.”
That gibed with what Miguel already knew.
“They could have helped him out, paid for some of his college—if the grades…I was going to help him get his grades up so he could have a chance. He had a future. I was going to put him in touch with some skateboarding sponsors. It’s how I helped pay my way through school. It wouldn’t have been great money—but it would have paid for some community college, at minimum. I was working him up to it. He was found dead down by south Boethe a week before I moved down here, where it meets Forty-Sixth. The former head of Homicide when I spoke with him the day after I found out what had happened didn’t seem that interested in finding his killer. That old dude basically patted me on the head and told me not to worry my little self about a thing. The kid was clean, Miggy dude. Newcomb was too busy to deal with a case that cold. It had been cold three weeks, then. I spoke with Jack MacGregor, too, and he said he’d look into it that same week. I don’t think he ever did. Don’t even get me started on Detective Wright.”
That anger was in her eyes. It was anger Miguel felt himself. That boy had deserved far better—and Miguel wasn’t giving up. “I know. MacGregor said he misplaced the initial files, then passed the buck to Newcomb, saying he thought the supervisor took care of it. Newcomb apologized, blamed it on his sudden transfer to Wichita Falls, and said he’d left it with Wright. I call bullshit on that, brat. Don’t call me Miggy. Ever. And I am not like the former head of Homicide, am I?”
“I don’t know. Are you? Something bad happened to this kid. His parents have four other kids, and I’m not sure his father’s papers to be here are legit. They deserve answers. I can’t find anything Newcomb and MacGregor did more than an initial canvas. Wright definitely didn’t seem to do anything. Still doesn’t. Waste of a desk here, if you ask me. I’m still…searching the vault for Ricky’s clothes and personal belongings. I can’t find them either. His mother wants his necklace back. It wasn’t with him when they claimed his body. I have seen that necklace before. It was special to them all. I’d like to find it for her, if nothing else.”
She leaned forward, grabbed his favorite pen off his desk. And fidgeted with it. Miguel yanked it back. That was his favorite pen, he didn’t want it lost or broken. The pain in the ass just kept moving.
Hell, did she need a damned fidget toy or something?
“So what do you need to know?” she asked.
“Everything you know. Because when I go down there, no one tells me a damned thing.” They clammed up. No matter what. The instant Miguel said that kid’s name.
She smirked again. “Of course, they don’t. You are the man, you know. Not like the rest of them.”
“And you are?” She didn’t belong on Boethe Street. That was why she’d stood out to him to begin with.
“No. That I’m not. I’m a Hick from the Sticks to most of them. A newbie, or fresh meat—I’m not stupid. And I know exactly what I look like.” Those big dark eyes stared into his for a moment. Weighing, judging. She had…hypnotic eyes. No denying that. All of the Colesons he had met did. “Heather just said you’re legit. And that you were Nick’s friend. He was one of the three greatest men I have ever known, you know. That’s the only reason I’m telling you this at all. And you have the tools to help me find what I need. It stays off the record?”
“I’ll do what I can with that. Until I need to do differently. Don’t like it, too bad.”
Brown devil eyes snapped fire at him. Fire that touched pale cheeks. She had freckles over the bridge of her nose. “That’s just not good enough. I’m not having my hard work disappear from this place. We both know it has been happening. You live up to what my sister says—and I’ll share my cookies. But…you don’t make trouble for the Ahumadas with ICE, or the deal is off. That family has had enough problems, and they don’t deserve that at all.”
She held out one small hand in his direction.
Miguel half feared he was making a bargain with the devil, but he wrapped his fingers around hers. And sealed the deal.
He’d probably just given the little beast his damned soul, but…a sixteen-year-old kid was dead. His family deserved answers. Miguel was a father—he couldn’t imagine anything worse than losing one of his kids.
“As for you, Coleson, no more hanging out in the forties and Boethe alone. A woman like you makes a damned good target. You could disappear forever down there. Far too damned easily for me to think about.”
Hell, someone could yank her off that damned skateboard and just carry her away without much struggle. No matter how much he suspected she’d fight. He probably bench-pressed more than she weighed—and did it one-handed.
“That’s a lesson you don’t have to tell a Coleson girl, man. And I can take care of myself. Besides”—there was that smile again—“anyone gets too close, I’ll climb on my board and just take off. Not very many can keep up with me, you know? You definitely couldn’t, old man. See you around, Miggy. See you around.”
She took her precious skateboard and was gone. Just like that.
It was half a minute before he realized he hadn’t asked her his questions.
But he knew where to find her now.
And Miguel had to go. Heather wasn’t the only one who had kids to pick up tonight. His trio of monsters were waiting.
It was time to put Cop Miguel aside. Dad Miguel was clocking in.
29
Sol was still edgy that night after his shift ended. Probably the blood that had been on Callum's wife. This was their second kid. She'd had a girl the first time, he thought. About a year or so after the storm. Right before the choir shooting.
Sol felt sick to his stomach as memories of that night filled his head.
Some monster had hurt that girl today. But he was the monster for those other girls. And they didn't even know it. Just right there, working next to him every day. Little Madison had processed the damned scene right there in that vault this morning. With Sol standing guard over her himself. He’d been there protecting her today. The irony had almost made him sick to his damned stomach.
Hell, if he was any kind of man he'd go straight to Erickson and McKellen and Marshall and confess what he had done. Tell them. Give them what they wanted.
