Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

September sun beats into the car. “We’ve got time,” Zack adds. “Want to head for the beach? Find something near the pier?”
    Since we’re already close to Ocean Beach and it’s a blissful ten degrees cooler here than inland, I’m game. “I know just the place.”
    I drive straight to Poma’s and manage to score a parking place right across the street. The Italian deli located on the corner of Niagara and Bacon has been an OB fixture for nearly fifty years. Their meatball subs are amazing. If
I
can smell them a block away, Zack must be salivating.
    “Order whatever you want. I’m buying,” Zack says as he opens the door.
    His sour mood seems to have lifted. Perhaps it’s the salt air and promise of crashing waves. He admitted to me once that he moved to the beach partly due to nostalgia, memories of growing up in Hilton Head, and partly because the ocean soothes him.
    A memory of my own—a long walk on the beach—washes over me. It wasn’t that long ago we’d walked hand in hand along the ocean’s edge, sharing secrets and stealing slow, burning kisses. Once inside Poma’s, I push those thoughts and feelings aside.
    The small storefront is packed with beachgoers of all shapes and sizes. A raucous group of young men follows us inside. Zack scents the air. He’s subtle, but I noticeand understand. They don’t. They’re stoned and too busy cutting up and looking for something to satisfy the cravings brought on by their binge. One grabs a twelve-pack of Pacifico from the enormous cooler. Another dives into a large bag of chips. The old man behind the counter gives the guy stuffing chips into his mouth the hairy eyeball.
    “I’ve told you boys before. You don’t eat until
after
you pay!” he yells.
    “Keep your pants on, Pops. You know we’re good for it.”
    “Good for nothing, is more like it.” The man turns his attention to Zack. “What can I get you?”
    “Meatball sub, toasted, and a Limonata,” I chime in.
    Zack removes his jacket, giving the punks behind him a good look at his gun and his badge. “Make that two.”
    They may be stoned out of their minds, but they aren’t stupid. They don’t bother to wait and order sandwiches. They drop more than enough money to cover the chips and beer on the counter, and then beat it out of the store, leaving their receipt and whatever change they were due behind. Order is returned.
    When Zack tries to hand the man a twenty for our lunches, it’s refused. “On the house, Officer . . .”
    “Armstrong.” He drops the twenty into the tip jar along with his card.
    The gesture earns us a big smile. “We’ll give a shout-out when your order is ready. You’re number forty-two.” He hands Zack a receipt.
    Ten minutes later the two of us are strolling down Niagara toward the pier, subs in a brown paper sack, sipping our Limonatas.
    “The kids were stoned.”
    Zack nods.
    I glance up at him. “That’s the second time today you’ve let a bust slide.”
    Zack touches the side of his nose. “They didn’t have drugs on them. My guess is that those clowns smoked most of their stash. Small potatoes. I’ll turn Goldie’s name over to the DEA. No use getting sidetracked. You’ve got to pick your battles.”
    I wonder at his tone—thoughtful, introspective. Is he talking about more than work?
    I follow him down the steps to the beach. We find a place on the seawall in the shadow of the pier and sit side by side.
    We tear open the wrappers around our sandwiches. The rich marinara and spicy meatball concoctions take concentration to eat without making a mess. We dispense with the pretense of small talk. I know Zack has got to be thinking about the same thing I am. Johnson’s niece.
    I decide to wait until after we’ve finished to broach the subject. In between bites, I wipe my mouth with a napkin and hold my sandwich to the side to keep from dripping sauce on my slacks—my brand-new slacks.
    Zack isn’t as patient. After consuming the first