Retirement Plan Read Online Free PDF Page A

about six inches and a boy peeked out.
    “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want none.”
    Morgan held up her shield and said, “I’m a homicide detective. We’re canvassing the neighborhood, trying to find someone who may have seen or heard something last night.”
    The boy swung the door open. He was tall and thin with a blond buzz cut and a tattoo of some kind of lizard beneath his left ear. His loose-fitting jeans were cut off at the knees, and his T-shirt was the type that kids these days called “wifebeaters.” Morgan guessed him at seventeen or so, but when she took down his birthday and subtracted, she realized he was a month short of fifteen.
    Joby indicated that she should follow him. They walked through a somewhat messy living room, then dining room, and into the kitchen. The layout of the house was similar to Ingram’s.
    “Is your mother here?” Morgan asked.
    “No, but she told me someone might come around. I was having dinner. You want some pizza or soda or something?” He motioned toward a chair opposite his half-empty box of take-out pizza. “I got coffee, if you want, or more Red Bull.” He picked up his can and drank from it.
    “I’m fine,” Morgan said, sitting. She would have preferred that the kid’s mother be present, but it was late, and she didn’t want to come back if the kid didn’t have anything.
    He met her eyes for the first and last time, and said, “Well, we sure had some excitement next door, huh?”
    Morgan nodded. His skin was pale and his eyes were bloodshot. She wondered how much caffeine he’d had. “Would you rather come downtown with your mom and talk to us tomorrow?”
    Joby shook his head.
    “Your mother told an officer she might have heard a shot.  Did you hear anything?”
    He took a bite of pizza and started chewing. Then he nodded.
    “What happened?”
    He picked up his drink and washed the pizza down. “I heard the shot. And it sounded like a shot.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Good and loud is what I mean. My room’s right up there.” He pointed straight up. “I can see the neighbor’s backyard from my window. So I shut off my own light and looked out. At first I couldn’t see anything. The place was dark. I thought it might have come from somewhere else. Then the security light came on and I saw a guy, carrying a rifle and heading toward the alley.”
    “You heard a shot and saw a stranger next door, and you didn’t call the police?”  This was irrelevant, of course, and a mistake. But it slipped out.
    Joby Pratt squared his shoulders defensively. “I was supposed to be in bed. I have an early class. Besides, I didn’t really think someone had been shot. I just sort of, you know, figured all that stuff happened to other people. I thought a gun went off by accident or something. I didn’t know about Mr. Ingram until I got home this afternoon and Mom told me.”
    Morgan checked her notes. “Can you describe the man you saw?”
    Joby shrugged. “An old guy. Square-built. Kind of short, I think, but from this angle it’s hard to be sure.”
    “How old was he?”
    “How should I know? I didn’t card him.”
    Morgan reminded herself she was talking to a fourteen-year-old who had some important information—the only information. She softened her approach. “If you had to guess…”
    The kid seemed to consider this. Morgan expected him to say thirty-five or forty, which would seem old to a teenager, but he surprised her.
    “His hair was all white. Short, but, you know, not like kids wear today. He moved a little slow considering the light came on and all. My grandpa’s fifty-eight and he walks faster than this guy did.”
    “More than fifty-eight, then?”
    “Yes, a little more, I think.”
    “Could you describe him to a sketch artist?” Morgan asked hopefully.
    “Naw, I was looking at that rifle. Then he was gone. But the guy was short and old, with white hair. Glasses too.” Joby took another bite of pizza as if to say that