Pawnbroker: A Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

sister back home, but there had been no reply. She kept up the brave face, and she tried to keep believing that it was just some kind of mixup, some kind of delay, but she grew more worried by the day.
    Carmen stepped back from the mirror and looked, not at the glass now—it was immaculate—but at herself. Her black hair was thick and shiny, her eyes a strange light brown color. The other kids back in the village said her eyes made her look loco, but here in Mississippi, men looked at her all the time. Some of them said things, dirty things. She never made trouble, though. She couldn’t. All she could do was smile and leave. She turned sideways, straightened her posture. She rubbed her hand over her stomach, and looked closer. A soft beep sounded and Carmen looked to the plastic digital watch on her wrist. It read 9:13. She wheeled her cleaning cart out of the room, locked the wheels, and walked quickly to the elevator.

 
    Chapter 7
     
     
     
    We needed to get the blood out of the carpet, so I put a sign on the door saying we’d open at 10:00 instead of the normal 9:00. The spot fought off my and LungFao’s best efforts and left a stain, although it at least wasn’t red, just dark.
    At 9:40, I picked up the phone and dialed Bobby Knight’s office.
    “Detective Knight,” he answered.
    “Bobby, Gray here.”
    “Yeah.”
    “In the excitement yesterday, I forgot to even get this guy’s name.”
    “Excitement? That’s what you call it when someone dies?”
    “Give me a break, will you? You know what I meant.”
    “Right.”
    “What was the guy’s name?”
    “You know damn well who he was.”
    “The hell I do! You people—”
    “I don’t have time for your shit, Gray. The name is John Patrick Homestead.”
    Clueless as to why he was acting this way, I was trying to think of something else to say, when he, in a much lower tone of voice, said, “I know why you killed him, Gray.” Then he hung up.
    I stared at the receiver as if it might contain the answers to this crazy mystery. None came, so I dropped it back into the cradle, fired up my computer, and logged on to the internet. Homestead was an unusual name and I figured I might get lucky and pick up an article that mentioned him in an arrest report or crime story.
    I Googled his name as an exact phrase and got eight hits, but they weren’t arrest reports. Far from it. I heard RoboVoice in my head: You don’t understand what you’ve stepped into. That was an understatement.

 
    Chapter 8
     
     
     
    As I browsed the search hits on John Patrick Homestead, the police’s attitude with me started to make sense. Mr. Homestead was far from a street thug. He worked for the state police. I had killed a cop.
    All at once I felt guilty as hell. Way more than I did when I thought he was a thug. Then I felt guilty about the disproportion in the two levels of guilt. I was pondering the ramifications of being labeled a cop-killer when the mother of all questions slammed into my mind: Why was a cop trying to rob a pawn shop in Montello, Mississippi?
    At 10:00, I switched on the neon OPEN sign and unlocked the front doors. Traffic was high that morning, and every soul who walked in wanted to talk about the robbery. Was I okay? What did it feel like? Was that carpet spot where he bled? Sheesh, what was wrong with these people? Most of them acted like I had won the lottery. One asked if I was going to write a book about it. I pointed out that it was a small Mississippi pawn shop that the guy had tried to hold up, not the presidential motorcade. He seemed disappointed and left. Maybe he had hoped to be my agent.
    Most of them were supportive. About time somebody made a stand. Hell yes. Damn right. Just let them know if I needed any help. Yessiree. It’s been my experience that such promises are made quickly, but it still felt good to have so many townspeople make a show of concern.
    Our pastor, Richard Bowman, known affectionately around town as Brother Rick, showed