He’d heard the news this morning. He knew what the reporter had said. But he knew different. Holliday hadn’t committed suicide, not technically. What he’d done was react to the message Jackie had been sent to give him. Holliday hadn’t wanted to die. He’d just wanted to get away. Confined to a jail cell, he didn’t have many options as to how to do that. Holliday had chosen the obvious.

“It’s not my fault.” Jackie Warren sniffed and shivered. He wasn’t cold. He was scared. He was always scared.

The cops wouldn’t understand. He knew it. But he’d had to do it. He’d had to deliver the message. His source hadn’t given him any choice. And the cops didn’t know how bad he’d needed that fix. At the time, he’d have sold his mother for it. As it was, he hadn’t needed to. All he did was tell his source where Thomas Holliday was…and then deliver their message to him.

For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Holliday had become so all-fired important. First the cops had been looking for him and then—he shuddered.

“All I did was deliver a message,” he told himself. “It’s not my fault what happened. It’s not my fault. It’s not.”

If he kept repeating that, maybe someday he’d come to believe it. And then again, maybe not.

The back door to his house opened. He heard the hinge squeaking on the screen. It couldn’t be his sister, Nita. She was at work. It could only mean—

His eyes widened. His mouth dropped and he lifted a hand toward the man who walked into the room.

“I did what you asked,” he said quickly. “I delivered the message just like you told—”

“I know,” the man said. “And I’ve got something for you.”

Jackie smiled with anticipation. He died with a smile on his face.

*  *  *

“This is the address,” Rick said as Cole pulled up in front of the bungalow and parked.

The yard was in need of mowing. The shrubbery beneath the windows was overgrown and badly in need of trimming. Kids were playing in the yards across the street, and Cole frowned at their presence. If something went down, he didn’t want any innocent people getting hurt.

“What do you think?” Cole asked. “Do we go to the front door together or…?”

“You take the high road, I’ll take the low, my friend,” Rick said, smiling at his own wit. “From what the boys in vice tell me, Jackie Warren is the type to run. I’ll go around back, just in case, okay?”