Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- 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
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
No reaction for a second, and then her expression changed, softening a little—surprise maybe that the contrition was so short-lived, and maybe a little amused, too. She was about to say something—he saw the line form in her eyes before it formed on her lips—and then Vincent’s phone buzzed with a call.
In the quiet room, they both heard it.
He answered. ‘This is Vincent.’
‘This is Colton Locke. I think we need to sit down together.’
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FOUR
They met in a diner on Santa Monica, not far from the hotel. The place looked like a well-preserved relic of the 1950s. It had a big plate-glass window with an arch of text that said COFFEE, and below it a little frilled curtain with red-and-white checks suspended on elastic cord, the curve sufficient to give the place a smile.
Vincent’s entry was announced by a ding from a bell above the door, and he saw the Marshal at a table with a cup of coffee. Locke raised his mug in greeting and took a sip as it came past on the way down.
Vincent sat opposite. He said, ‘I can’t see the door from here. Are you going to keep an eye on it, or do we need to move to another table?’
Locke was quiet for a moment, just looking at him, as if the question were yet another piece in a private Vincent file he was building in his mind. He said, ‘We’ll be okay here.’
No suit today. He was wearing jeans and a blue cotton sweater, and a Lakers cap. The eyes behind his glasses were a little bloodshot.
Vincent said, ‘I thought you’d want an interview room, rather than a coffee shop.’
‘Why? What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing. What have you been doing?’
Locke took a packet of sugar from the holder in the middle of the table and waved it a few times, tore one end and tipped half the contents into his mug. He tidied up the empty length of paper with a crisp double-fold and set the half-full packet beside his saucer. Then he said, ‘Tell me about yesterday morning. You met Sylvester Crow in the restaurant, and then the four of you walked up to the train station.’
Vincent said, ‘What’s happened?’
A waiter came over and asked if they’d like to order anything. Locke shook his head. Vincent asked for coffee. The waiter moved on and Vincent said, ‘Is this a social chat, or something more serious?’
Locke ran a hand around his lower jaw, as if checking he were still in one piece. ‘What happened in the parking lot at the train station? You had some kind of altercation that left blood on the trunk of the car.’
Vincent said, ‘Maybe I should leave you to it.’