Hickham turned to Cole. “You got any personal beef with this kid? Any reason to believe he was one of the ones that jumped you?”

Cole shook his head. “Nothing personal. There were three of them, but only one of them spoke. It’s like I said before: he threatened me, then threatened the team. I think he said something about loving to put the hurt on candy-ass quarterbacks, something like that.”

Savannah looked up. “He said that?”

“What?”

“That he loved to put the hurt on quarterbacks? Candy-ass quarterbacks. That’s exactly what he said?”

Cole shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe not exactly, but something like that.”

“Mind if I use your computer, Sheriff?”

“What for?”

She crossed behind the desk and sat before Curtis’s desktop. She punched a few keystrokes, found what she was looking for, and turned the monitor around to face the room.

“I’ll be damned,” Curtis said.

On the screen was a sports-page article from the Elmwood Tribune dated six weeks before. There was a picture of Booker Flamont standing on the Badgers’ sideline, a smear of blood across his jersey. The caption below the photo read: Star middle linebacker Booker Flamont speaks his mind—“I like nothing more than putting the hurt on candy-ass quarterbacks!”

Cole’s eyes shifted from the screen. “Where’s my bike, Curtis?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curious.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Nowhere. Home.”

“Cole, remember what I said. You are not to get involved in this.”

“I’m just going home, okay? I swear. Is my bike here?”

“We’ll have someone drive you.”

Cole went to the window and looked out to the parking lot. Over his shoulder Savannah saw the motorcycle parked among the squad cars.

“Is it running?”

“I said we’ll have someone drive you.”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

He grabbed his jacket off the chair and started for the door. Curtis called after him, but Cole was already gone.

The motorcycle roared seconds later. Tires skidded across the pavement.

Curtis pressed the intercom button on his desk and ordered that Cole be followed.

Savannah knew he wouldn’t be caught.

CHAPTER 17

MANNY gave Booker a high five. “That’s sweet, bro. So then what happened?”

“Then she touched my balls.”

“She touched your balls?”

“No lie,” Booker lied. “Nina can’t get enough of my balls.” He took a bite of his breakfast burrito.

“That’s because she’s a skank,” Manny said.

Booker grabbed Manny by the back of the neck. “You say another thing like that about my girl and I’ll kick your ass across this parking lot.”

The tarmac at the Circle K was empty save for an old man pulling his Chevy away from the pump.

Manny held up his hands in surrender. “Chill, bro. I’m just jerking your chain. And since when is Nina Hernandez your girl?”