Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

“But my dad couldn’t prove it?” It was more a statement than a question.

“The thing is, Jack and Martinez were both damn good at their jobs. In some ways, they were a lot alike. Both highly trained, ambitious Marine brothers until the end of time and all that jazz. They were tight. But the way they did things couldn’t have been more different. While Jack was all letter of the law , Martinez was all spirit of the law . Martinez bent the rules, did things his own way, and Jack didn’t like it. Jack thought he could change Martinez. That as his partner, it was his duty or some shit…pardon my French. But obviously, that didn’t happen.

“While Jack made his way up to Sergeant fairly quickly, Martinez built a reputation as a dirty cop. About a year ago, your pops allegedly began suspecting Martinez of suspicious dealings with a few drug rings.” Sammy paused to make a full-circle motion with his chubby hands, then said, “So, when I heard Martinez’s name came up in the personal complaint Jack filed the month before his death, I couldn’t help but wonder—”

“Wait,” I said. “My dad filed a report against Martinez one month before he died?” I couldn’t believe the vast amount of information I didn’t know. It kept falling on top of me like an avalanche.

“No, the report wasn’t filed against Martinez. Remember, I said the complaint was against someone else—someone from both of their pasts. Somebody I don’t know about, unfortunately. But Martinez was a witness to threats against Jack. Apparently it would’ve taken a lot more than a nearly wrecked marriage and an almost-destroyed career to break the Marine bond they shared. Water under the bridge.” Sammy stared with skeptical eyes at the water slamming against the Pier’s beams.

I shook my head in astonishment. Was he insinuating that Martinez didn’t hate my dad anymore? That they made up, and he was actually helping my dad, trying to protect him from someone—maybe the same someone who’d been setting me up? Could I believe this dirty little slop of a man? Had I misinterpreted Martinez’s concern all this time? Was he trying to protect me against the same man who murdered my father?

“Look, kid…” Sammy paused and glanced around nervously. “I gotta go, but don’t forget to call. Remember, I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

The only thing I wanted to scratch was my skin in case some of his head lice had jumped onto my body.

But he really did know my dad—and in a way I never had.

I was supposed to go see Dr. T at 3:00. First, she pushed the appointment back, which I thought was lucky since that was the time Sammy had wanted to meet. But while I was on my way over to her office, she canceled altogether, saying she wasn’t feeling well. That had happened like two times ever. Snow at the beach was more common. I wondered if I’d told her too much. If she was distancing herself from me because of what she knew I’d done.

I would’ve considered it another stroke of luck that the house was empty when I got back, but who was I kidding? My mother was never home.

I pulled the pictures out of the envelope and thought about burning it in the trash can to make sure all Sammy’s slime was gone. But that would raise flags I didn’t need, so I put it in the kitchen trash compactor and washed my hands four times. Just to be sure.

He had four pictures of the van. Clear, digitally enhanced photos. I pulled open my dad’s database again and plugged in the plate number.

One name popped up: D. Silver. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. D. S. now had a last name and an address: 4081 Royal Hill Bay, Newport Beach, California—only twenty minutes from here.

Now I wished Liam wasn’t away at his game. I shouldn’t go—no, I couldn’t go—to Newport without him. And yet it would be virtually impossible for me to sit here alone and twiddle my thumbs all night. Surely doing a simple drive-by would be a safe enough activity in my Mary Poppins–equipped Big Black. We could just go check out the address.

I closed out my dad’s computer and headed over to his gun safe, putting in the pathetically simple code—911. The safe door creaked open, and I stared at the racks of weapons like a kid at a candy store. Since my handgun, Smith, had gone into the LeMarq evidence logs, never to be returned, I wanted something similar. Hanging on its hook was my dad’s nickel-plated Glock, but I could barely stand to look at it, let alone touch it. Maybe I shouldn’t be taking a gun at all.

I’d been somewhat successful at blocking out most of what happened that night at the warehouse. Liam and I had an unspoken agreement not to talk about it. But now, as I stared at the Glock, I couldn’t help feeling the darkness of those deaths creep over me again. Why had Silver returned my dad’s gun to me?

The only reasonable choice seemed like my mom’s Ruger pocket revolver. It was tiny enough to seem like middle ground between a real gun and nothing at all. The only reason we even had it was because my mom once told my dad she wanted a gun small enough to fit in her small Coach purse, and he bought it for her anniversary present. She got so mad that he’d dared offer it in the place of a “real anniversary gift” that she never picked it up. I couldn’t tell if it had ever been used. I knew my dad wouldn’t have been caught dead with a little thing like this.

And I hoped I wouldn’t be, either.

I slid it into my jeans pocket, next to the Challenge Coin I now carried with me at all times. As I was about to close the safe, the hilt of a knife caught my eye. It was one of those Rambo-type blades, with a leather holder that strapped on to the leg under clothing. I pulled up my jeans, tied it above my boot for good measure, and heaved a big sigh of relief.

I finally had a lead.

I could barely make out the faded address sign on the decaying post at the entrance of the marina. “Bayside Buccaneer Yacht Club” had seen better times. Half of the old-fashioned street lamps were burned out, and half cast a faint Halloween-orange glow that did nothing to illuminate their surroundings. The place was littered with garbage, and the bitter reek of fish seeping through my rolled-up windows made it feel more like a deserted shipyard than a yacht club.

Aside from a few old beater cars lining the street, several abandoned-looking RVs in the parking lot, and a small office near the docks, no other evidence of life existed. This place was totally isolated. Even half of the boat slips were empty.

Could Silver live on one of these eyesores? It seemed unlikely considering his profile. Yet, as I sat safely inside Big Black watching a lonely plastic bag blow down the planked walkway toward the water—which I told myself didn’t look like a ghost floating in the darkness—it started to make sense. This might be an ideal place for a criminal to hide. Nobody around except for the rotting fish.

The lights in the small office down the walkway flickered, catching my eye, and I toyed with the idea of jogging down there just to verify that D. Silver really did have a registered slip. But it was dark. And Halloween night. And logic told me to wait for Liam.

Except, logic also told me that I was fully capable of walking a hundred yards to ask one stupid question. Especially with the heat I was packing in my pocket. I grabbed my phone and quickly typed a message to Liam, telling him where I was and what I was doing, just in case. But as soon as I pressed “Send,” the message came back undelivered with a huge exclamation point indicating no service. Just perfect.

I turned off the engine and reached down to make sure the knife was secure under my boot-cut jeans. Reminding myself of all my dad’s training, I turned up all my senses as I walked across the parking lot and onto the creaking wooden causeway. I could do this.