“I’m sorry, Bill. I had to. Gibby was there when Jason shot Darius Simms. He was in the room, an accessory.”

“Accessory to what?”

“Multiple assaults? Attempted murder? The DA has it under review, and is keeping his cards close. What we know for sure is that Gibby helped Jason carry off the guns and cash, and load it all in the van. And don’t argue with me, Bill. His prints are on the guns.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It gets worse. He was seen at Sara’s condominium. Today. This morning. Martinez found a witness.”

“Who?”

“You know better than that, Bill.”

“How solid is the ID?”

“Bulletproof. I’m sorry…”

“Who is this witness?”

“Come on, Bill. I’m over the line even being here. You know that.” The captain reached for the drink, waiting for French to shake his head, and stare off into space. Seeing what?

His wife, when she heard?

The ruin this would cause?

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Only that two others were with your son when he entered Sara’s condominium, a young man we believe to be his friend Chance, and a young woman we’ve not yet identified. It’s also possible that Ken Burklow made an appearance. I’m dragging my feet on that, but Martinez is foaming about it. I think Ken will be okay, though. The witness is barely twelve, and every white man over fifty looks more or less the same. The rest of it, though … The wheels have to turn.”

“Those unfortunate wheels, yeah.”

“Do you know where Gibby is now? You don’t have to answer. I’m here as your friend. It’s just that, well, I was there on the day of his christening.”

“He’s upstairs. Asleep, I hope.”

“You might want to talk to him. Prep him for what’s coming.”

“I’ll give him tonight. Best for both of us, I think.”

“If Martinez asks…”

“You were never here.”

“Well.” Captain Martin offered an expression of unusual helplessness.

“Yeah.” French patted him on the shoulder, and guided him to the front door. “That about sums it up.”

33

Sara was awake, but afraid to open her eyes. If she did, it would be real: this place, the helplessness. But hours had passed. Her knuckles were bloody, her fingernails torn.

How long since she’d risen from that horrible, skinny, metal-railed bed?

Beyond hunger and thirst, she had no way to tell.

Where was he?

That was the worst.

What was this place? What did he want?

Him.

He.

Asshole motherfucker.

That was all she had, rage and fear, back and forth. Tears had fallen and dried, but that was over. She’d decided. She looked for more of that courage, and a sound escaped her lips, the smallest thing.

I will not be weak.

I will not die like Tyra.