slitty, serpent-like eyes were colored fluorescent green. “He was so dirty when he came in that I couldn’t even see it.”
Dead, dirty, in the morgue. A bad end all around. Next time she saw Jamal, she was dragging him down here to take a look at what was in store if he didn’t shape up.
Maybe I’m his last-chance angel
, she thought, but she felt very cynical. She didn’t want to save him from going to hell. She wanted to drag him out of it. Maybe he was already in too deep.
Maybe he was just too heavy.
Maybe her hands were already too full.
“Tough times,” she murmured.
CHAPTER
SIX
After the morgue, Grace went back to the squad room with a brown paper bag in her grasp, to find a pair of white net wings dotted with white flowers taped to the sides of her chair. A halo was clamped to the back. Ham had phoned this one in, so to speak. She put down her bag, pried off the halo, and set it on top of her head. Pressing her hands palm-to-palm in prayer, she glided over to Bobby’s desk to see what was going on.
Both Captain Perry and Bobby were eating marshmallows as they watched some tape on a monitor. Bobby had on what Grace privately called his grandpa glasses. She had some old-lady glasses, too, which she used for sewing and reading late at night.
Grabbing a marshmallow, she looked at the monitor. The tape was on pause, revealing a section of badly lit street. It was time-stamped twelve twenty-three a.m. By the lividity of Malcolm’s corpse and the temp of his liver, Henry had put time of death after eleven thirty p.m. and before one a.m.
“This is the minimart surveillance tape from the camera aimed at the street,” Bobby explained. “Watch this.” He gestured with the remote.
Two white smears appeared—headlights—and she kept watching as a white blob turned into a white pickup. Looked like a Chevy. There were a couple of shapes inside the cab that were moving around. Driverand passenger. And there was a decal or decoration on the driver’s-side door.
“Stop,” she said, and Bobby, already anticipating her request, hit pause and typed a couple of keys. The image enlarged on the screen, but not by very much before it became a shimmer of pixels. On TV shows you got all the stylish close-ups, but not in real life, and not in the OK state. Bobby ratcheted it back down, and Grace made out a circle with rays emanating from it—a sun, or maybe it was a ring of fire, with 110–110–110 above it, in text that curved around the circle. Around the bottom, like a motorcycle rocker, SONS OF OKLAHOMA .
“That’s that crazy white supremacist group,” Grace said. “Bought up all that land off the 270 last summer.”
“And registered a lot of weapons,” Captain Perry added.
“Which means they’ve got ten times as many that they haven’t registered,” Bobby put in.
Two seconds later the truck whooshed out of frame. “All that movement inside the cab …” Grace pondered.
“We think they were cheering,” Bobby said. His voice smoldered with anger.
“For running over a kid?” Grace leaned in and scrutinized the monitor. “A black kid?”
Bobby reran the tape. “We’ve all been wondering when the Sons of Oklahoma would make their first move. This may be it.” Oklahoma City PD had talked about slipping someone in undercover to monitor the Sons. So had the Feebs—the FBI—but so far that had just been talk.
“Who gets the pool?” Grace asked. They’d all laid bets on when the Sons would break a law. Grace had figured they’d wait for something like the anniversary of Ruby Ridge. Today was just a blustery day in March.
“That’d be Butch,” Bobby replied. “Just under the wire. He said mid-March.”
“I had April Fools’ Day,” Captain Perry grumped.
“That’s all we need. A smug Longhorn.” Grace made the sign of the cross at Ham as he walked in. He grinned at her halo. He was windblown and drinking a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
“Hark,” she said.
Dead, dirty, in the morgue. A bad end all around. Next time she saw Jamal, she was dragging him down here to take a look at what was in store if he didn’t shape up.
Maybe I’m his last-chance angel
, she thought, but she felt very cynical. She didn’t want to save him from going to hell. She wanted to drag him out of it. Maybe he was already in too deep.
Maybe he was just too heavy.
Maybe her hands were already too full.
“Tough times,” she murmured.
CHAPTER
SIX
After the morgue, Grace went back to the squad room with a brown paper bag in her grasp, to find a pair of white net wings dotted with white flowers taped to the sides of her chair. A halo was clamped to the back. Ham had phoned this one in, so to speak. She put down her bag, pried off the halo, and set it on top of her head. Pressing her hands palm-to-palm in prayer, she glided over to Bobby’s desk to see what was going on.
Both Captain Perry and Bobby were eating marshmallows as they watched some tape on a monitor. Bobby had on what Grace privately called his grandpa glasses. She had some old-lady glasses, too, which she used for sewing and reading late at night.
Grabbing a marshmallow, she looked at the monitor. The tape was on pause, revealing a section of badly lit street. It was time-stamped twelve twenty-three a.m. By the lividity of Malcolm’s corpse and the temp of his liver, Henry had put time of death after eleven thirty p.m. and before one a.m.
“This is the minimart surveillance tape from the camera aimed at the street,” Bobby explained. “Watch this.” He gestured with the remote.
Two white smears appeared—headlights—and she kept watching as a white blob turned into a white pickup. Looked like a Chevy. There were a couple of shapes inside the cab that were moving around. Driverand passenger. And there was a decal or decoration on the driver’s-side door.
“Stop,” she said, and Bobby, already anticipating her request, hit pause and typed a couple of keys. The image enlarged on the screen, but not by very much before it became a shimmer of pixels. On TV shows you got all the stylish close-ups, but not in real life, and not in the OK state. Bobby ratcheted it back down, and Grace made out a circle with rays emanating from it—a sun, or maybe it was a ring of fire, with 110–110–110 above it, in text that curved around the circle. Around the bottom, like a motorcycle rocker, SONS OF OKLAHOMA .
“That’s that crazy white supremacist group,” Grace said. “Bought up all that land off the 270 last summer.”
“And registered a lot of weapons,” Captain Perry added.
“Which means they’ve got ten times as many that they haven’t registered,” Bobby put in.
Two seconds later the truck whooshed out of frame. “All that movement inside the cab …” Grace pondered.
“We think they were cheering,” Bobby said. His voice smoldered with anger.
“For running over a kid?” Grace leaned in and scrutinized the monitor. “A black kid?”
Bobby reran the tape. “We’ve all been wondering when the Sons of Oklahoma would make their first move. This may be it.” Oklahoma City PD had talked about slipping someone in undercover to monitor the Sons. So had the Feebs—the FBI—but so far that had just been talk.
“Who gets the pool?” Grace asked. They’d all laid bets on when the Sons would break a law. Grace had figured they’d wait for something like the anniversary of Ruby Ridge. Today was just a blustery day in March.
“That’d be Butch,” Bobby replied. “Just under the wire. He said mid-March.”
“I had April Fools’ Day,” Captain Perry grumped.
“That’s all we need. A smug Longhorn.” Grace made the sign of the cross at Ham as he walked in. He grinned at her halo. He was windblown and drinking a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
“Hark,” she said.
Similar Books
