Shadow Boys Read Online Free PDF

uniform steps into the room.
    “What in the hell is going on in here?” He looks at the cop with the pockmarked face.
    The cop doesn’t say anything.
    “Is that a gun on the table?” The man in the uniform points to the battered revolver. “You brought a firearm into an interview room?”
    “I’m in the middle of questioning a suspect.” Pockmark points to the door. “Why don’t you give us a little privacy until we’re done?”
    “The hell you say. A suspect ?”
    No one speaks. The feeling in the room is tense, but Raul is relieved to see the man in the uniform.
    He is in his forties, with lots of ribbons and badges on his shirt. His hair is cut short like an army man. His Texas accent isn’t as thick as Pockmark’s.
    More important, his eyes are not like those of the man with the scarred face. They are angry now, but they also appear to have a hint of kindness, of concern.
    The man with the pockmarked face has eyes like a dead fish. Empty but scary, all at the same time.
    “You’re done now.” The uniformed officer points to the door. “Get out.”
    Pockmark, with his dead eyes, stares at the officer for a moment. Then he says, “My boys ain’t gonna take the fall for this.”
    “One of your boys shot an unarmed juvenile.” The uniformed officer shakes his head. “There’s gonna be hell to pay for that, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

- CHAPTER FOUR -
    I parked the Navigator in a gravel lot, underneath a billboard advertising discount lap-band surgery.
    Cop bars. What an interesting concept.
    Angry people with guns and badges, drinking.
    One of the main watering holes for the Dallas PD was an ugly concrete building a few blocks down from the county jail. It was on a street that used to be named Industrial Boulevard but was now called Riverfront Drive in an effort to spur redevelopment of ugly concrete buildings.
    Sam Browne’s sat between a strip joint that featured dollar drink specials and a place called Jimmy’s Bail Bonds and Title Loans.
    The rebuilding push wasn’t working so well on this section of Riverfront/Industrial.
    Sixty minutes after Deputy Chief Raul Delgado disappeared down the Grassy Knoll, I pushed open the door to Sam Browne’s and stepped into a narrow room that stunk of cigarettes and pine disinfectant.
    Smoking is illegal in restaurants and taverns in Dallas, but hey, what are you gonna do, call the police?
    I carried Tommy Joe’s laptop in one hand. It wouldn’t do to get it stolenfrom my SUV. Theo Goldberg would probably have an aneurism.
    The bar was at the back, presided over by a cop whose real name nobody remembered since he’d opened a bar called Sam Browne’s. Now everyone called him Sam.
    The place had a couple of pool tables with some booths along one wall, tables in the middle, and a jukebox by the front. The decor was a combination of sports memorabilia and pictures of John Wayne being a Real American. The big-screen TV by the door was tuned to a rodeo, bull riding.
    I let my eyes adjust to the darkness after the noon sun outside.
    Maybe ten customers. A group of exceptionally fit men with long hair and beards—the narcs. Three or four uniformed cops at the bar, working on shots and beers, their faces flushed and veiny.
    And a woman in a booth in the corner, sipping a cup of coffee.
    She was in her early thirties, a willowy five foot eight.
    Even though we’d known each other for years, the first glimpse of her face always managed to make my heart catch in my throat just a tiny bit.
    Piper Westlake. Currently a sergeant with the Dallas police, assigned to the property unit, otherwise known as the “department they stick you in when they don’t know what else to do with you.”
    The bartender nodded hello and kept polishing beer mugs.
    I ignored the day drinkers and wandered over to where Piper sat. She looked up, a faint smile on her face.
    “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I slid into the opposite side of the booth.
    She tapped