it.”
“Stevens?” Rick puffed on the stubby cigarette, and coughed again. “You mean that Stevens? The one coming this way with his tail between his legs?”
Dev looked up and cursed. “Son-of-a-bitch. Now what?”
Rick snorted. “Guess she gave him the slip.” He started to amble away, then stopped. He spoke without turning around. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If she wanted you to see that DVD so badly, why didn’t she want to give it to Stevens?” With that, he disappeared into the shadows.
“Uh, Detective,” Stevens said, his voice apologetic.
“What happened?” Dev barked. “Didn’t I tell you—” he stopped. There was no reason to beat up Stevens just because Connor had pulled a number on the guy. Had Dev really expected anything different?
Stevens swallowed audibly. “Ms. Connor disappeared while I was rounding up a car. Want me to find out where she lives and—”
Dev leveled him a quelling look. “Never mind. Get that crowd dispersed.”
“Yes, sir.” Stevens slunk away.
Dev stood there a while longer, watching the deceptively calm surface of the treacherous Mississippi River and mulling over the meager facts of the case. Two kids connected to the center, dead within less than two weeks. Same weapon, same MO. No leads.
He considered Connor and her DVD. Rick obviously thought the same thing he did. For whatever reason, the reporter considered the DVD important. But if she wanted Dev to see it, why give Stevens the slip? And what the hell had Rick been implying?
Dev rubbed his forehead as Thibaud’s voice echoed in his head. People’s a lot like the river, cher. There’s the surface, and then there’s the depths. What you see on the surface is one thing. But it’s the depths you need to study. Don’ make the mistake of judging somebody ‘thout looking at him from the inside out.
He silently acknowledged the wisdom of the man who had saved his life. Then he turned and headed back to the crime scene to offer his help to Givens.
Tomorrow he’d go see Connor and find out what was so damned important on that DVD.
…
Two hours later, Dev unlocked the door to the Thibaud Johnson Center for Homeless Teens, wearily flexing his shoulders. It had been a long night. He doubled his fist and lightly punched at the wall, showing, he thought, admirable restraint. He itched to connect with the wood paneling at about ninety miles per hour, but Thibaud’s name shining from the plaque just inside the door stopped him. Etched into the brass were the words, It don’t help to run when you’re hauling around what you’re running from. The words reminded him of the promise he’d made to the man. He hadn’t always kept that promise, but he always remembered it.
You’re strong and you’re smart, youngster, Thibaud had told him time and again, and those black eyes of your’n are damned intimidatin’, I’ll guarantee. When you grow into that temper, you’re gonna be a mighty big man. So be sure you’re as big inside as you are outside. Be right before you begin. Think, son, before you hurt somebody.
“Give me a few more years, Thibaud,” he whispered, rubbing an imaginary smudge off the plaque with his thumb. “Maybe I’ll get better at being the man you thought I could be.”
Old grief mingled with new to gnaw at his gut as he looked around the big front room. In the glow of the night-lights he saw a few kids sacked out on the couches or curled up on the floor with blankets. That meant the upstairs was full. He’d converted the second floor into a large dorm room that held four bunk beds for the males. His bedroom, and the suite where Penn, his “surrogate” sister, and her daughter lived, were on the third floor, along with a room that held three single beds for females, plus another room with a double bed and two fold-up cots.
He wondered how many of the kids knew about Darnell. If they didn’t yet, they would soon. Information traveled fast in this close-knit community
“Stevens?” Rick puffed on the stubby cigarette, and coughed again. “You mean that Stevens? The one coming this way with his tail between his legs?”
Dev looked up and cursed. “Son-of-a-bitch. Now what?”
Rick snorted. “Guess she gave him the slip.” He started to amble away, then stopped. He spoke without turning around. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If she wanted you to see that DVD so badly, why didn’t she want to give it to Stevens?” With that, he disappeared into the shadows.
“Uh, Detective,” Stevens said, his voice apologetic.
“What happened?” Dev barked. “Didn’t I tell you—” he stopped. There was no reason to beat up Stevens just because Connor had pulled a number on the guy. Had Dev really expected anything different?
Stevens swallowed audibly. “Ms. Connor disappeared while I was rounding up a car. Want me to find out where she lives and—”
Dev leveled him a quelling look. “Never mind. Get that crowd dispersed.”
“Yes, sir.” Stevens slunk away.
Dev stood there a while longer, watching the deceptively calm surface of the treacherous Mississippi River and mulling over the meager facts of the case. Two kids connected to the center, dead within less than two weeks. Same weapon, same MO. No leads.
He considered Connor and her DVD. Rick obviously thought the same thing he did. For whatever reason, the reporter considered the DVD important. But if she wanted Dev to see it, why give Stevens the slip? And what the hell had Rick been implying?
Dev rubbed his forehead as Thibaud’s voice echoed in his head. People’s a lot like the river, cher. There’s the surface, and then there’s the depths. What you see on the surface is one thing. But it’s the depths you need to study. Don’ make the mistake of judging somebody ‘thout looking at him from the inside out.
He silently acknowledged the wisdom of the man who had saved his life. Then he turned and headed back to the crime scene to offer his help to Givens.
Tomorrow he’d go see Connor and find out what was so damned important on that DVD.
…
Two hours later, Dev unlocked the door to the Thibaud Johnson Center for Homeless Teens, wearily flexing his shoulders. It had been a long night. He doubled his fist and lightly punched at the wall, showing, he thought, admirable restraint. He itched to connect with the wood paneling at about ninety miles per hour, but Thibaud’s name shining from the plaque just inside the door stopped him. Etched into the brass were the words, It don’t help to run when you’re hauling around what you’re running from. The words reminded him of the promise he’d made to the man. He hadn’t always kept that promise, but he always remembered it.
You’re strong and you’re smart, youngster, Thibaud had told him time and again, and those black eyes of your’n are damned intimidatin’, I’ll guarantee. When you grow into that temper, you’re gonna be a mighty big man. So be sure you’re as big inside as you are outside. Be right before you begin. Think, son, before you hurt somebody.
“Give me a few more years, Thibaud,” he whispered, rubbing an imaginary smudge off the plaque with his thumb. “Maybe I’ll get better at being the man you thought I could be.”
Old grief mingled with new to gnaw at his gut as he looked around the big front room. In the glow of the night-lights he saw a few kids sacked out on the couches or curled up on the floor with blankets. That meant the upstairs was full. He’d converted the second floor into a large dorm room that held four bunk beds for the males. His bedroom, and the suite where Penn, his “surrogate” sister, and her daughter lived, were on the third floor, along with a room that held three single beds for females, plus another room with a double bed and two fold-up cots.
He wondered how many of the kids knew about Darnell. If they didn’t yet, they would soon. Information traveled fast in this close-knit community
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