Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
"Kincaid," Hernandez says once they've got me settled in an interview room. Like most interview rooms, this one is complete shit. The floors are scraped to hell, it's stuffy, and the table is about two good pushes from collapsing. The room is clean, though, almost like the guys who call this station home actually give enough of a shit to slap some Pine-sol on the floor and run a mop through it every few days.
"Hernandez."
He drops a case file onto the table in front of him and then straddles a chair. He eyes me for a minute like he's trying to get a read on me. Octavio Hernandez isn't sure what to make of me. I don't think he likes that much.
Sucks for him, though, because I'm not even sure what to make of myself most days, and I've lived with my sexy ass for twenty-nine years. If I haven't figured myself out by now, I don't think an hour or two in this room will do it for him, either.
It frustrates me that he's trying. Most people don't bother. They see what I want them to see and move along. Not Hernandez though. He's peeling back layers with those eyes like I'm Shrek and he's Donkey.
"Let's get this over with," I mutter and kick back in my chair, taking a power position. Nobody does chill like a teenage gangbanger. They perfected that shit decades ago, and I was a quick study.
"We received a tip that you were involved in the murders of three members of the Southside Diablos seven years ago," he says, cutting to the chase.
"Good ole' Curtis Kaleo," I say with a chuckle, giving nothing away. "That motherfucker never did know when he was beaten. I'm guessing since I'm here, you actually believe his bullshit."
Hernandez cocks a brow but doesn't acknowledge that Kaleo's the one who passed along their tip or that he believes him. I know the drill, though. You don't pull cops into interview rooms without a damn good reason…and Curtis Kaleo isn't exactly a reliable witness. Hernandez has something else on me.
"Where were you the night of February 3rd, 2017?"
"No clue," I admit, leaning my forearms on the table. "My girl kicked me to the curb at some point that week. I spent a few days stumbling around this fine city like a lost puppy. Don't know where the fuck I was or what day it was until about three days after that."
"Can anyone confirm that?"
"Nah, but Nazario Leyva didn't know what to make of my stupid ass when he had to tell me the date on February 7th," I say. It wasn't exactly a proud moment in my life. But I don't actually know what day I killed those motherfuckers. I never cared enough to find out.
"Were you aware that Adams, Adcock, and Cortez were suspects in the murders of Titan and Jana James?"
"Nope. Last I heard, Detective Whitten was too busy stressing me to actually find out who murdered Titan and Jana. Matter of fact, the day January kicked my ass to the curb, he was on my doorstep, asking me the same bullshit they'd already asked me," I confess, holding his gaze. "I believe I told him to go fuck himself and get off my goddamn lawn."
Something like amusement rolls through Hernandez's gaze before that hard-ass mask snaps back into place. "Do you remember breaking into Curtis Kaleo's house?"
"Nope," I say, only half lying. Truth is…I don't remember much from that night. I know what I did, but I don't remember the particulars. As far as I'm concerned, I did what I set out to do, and then I walked away. Kinda like that Rehab song. My girl hated me, I was choking on my own guilt, and I was done letting people like Kaleo and the Diablos destroy innocent people. I had no fucks left to give. So I did what I had to do, and then I stepped away.
I've done what I've had to do ever since because someone had to do it. Most cops do the best they can with what they've got, but it's not enough. And cops like Detective Whitten damn sure weren't going to get their hands dirty.
"Do you recognize this?" Hernandez asks and slides a piece of paper across to me.
I glance down, studying it for a moment. It's a crime scene photo of a receipt for a little over six thousand dollars. My chest aches at the sight of it. I have to fight to keep from pressing my hand to my heart to try to rub away the ache.
"Yeah," I mutter and then clear my throat roughly. "I recognize it."
The day before Jana and Titan's funeral, I found Titan's drug money and the evidence he'd compiled against Kaleo. I took all the money and donated it to a gang prevention program. January wasn't ever going to touch it, and I didn't need it. I figured the best thing to do with it was to give it to someone who might actually be able to make a difference with it.