Chapters (95)
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Eighty-Six
- Eighty-Seven
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by David Swinson
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
Looks like it was furnished by the owners, not a kid Jeffrey’s age. The small living room opens to a tiny kitchen separated from the living room by a wooden breakfast counter and three stools. A love seat flanked by two mission-style end tables is against the wall ahead of me. There’s a coffee table in front of it and an armchair to the side. A sixty-inch flat-screen television, along with an Xbox and several stacks of Xbox games, sits on another coffee table across from the sofa. A short hallway to the right of the kitchen leads to two doors on the left and one at the end of the hall, which is probably his bedroom. I scan the ceiling and the walls, including the entryway where I’m standing. Nothing that looks like surveillance. Don’t expect it, but you never know, especially when the occupant is a rich white kid dealing drugs. My little cousin: damn.
It’s messy, but the kind of messiness you’d expect from a kid his age living on his own—worn clothing hanging over the sofa; sneakers everywhere; couple of empty containers of Chinese takeout with plastic forks still in them; microbrew beer bottles on the coffee table and breakfast counter. Not close to looking or even smelling like some of the spots I’ve hit over the years, both in my current position and when I was on the job executing actual search warrants.
When I’ve taken in enough I walk down the hall toward his bedroom. I always start in the bedroom. That’s where I usually find what I’m looking for. Most of these boys like to keep the shit close.
The bedroom is messier than the living room. No family photos. Something happened there; probably the divorce. I look under the bed, lift the mattress, but don’t find anything. Find a couple of joints in an ashtray on the nightstand beside his bed. I put them in my shirt pocket. I search the drawers, then go to the closet. After a thorough search of the bedroom I return to the living room area and the small kitchen. I find some paraphernalia in a cabinet beside the stove—little Ziploc bags for quarter and half grams, a scale with residue on it, cutting agents, and that’s fucking about it. It pisses me off. I mean, who am I to judge? But shit, I don’t deal, and I certainly wouldn’t want to put my lifestyle on someone else, especially Jeffrey. It ain’t for everyone.
The apartment is so small it doesn’t take long. I’ve spent too much time in here already. He either took the shit with him or hooked up at the club and didn’t come home at all. Fucking waste of my time. Fuck.