A Night at the Shore (The Nameless Thief Book 3) by Tony Knighton

Author:Tony Knighton [Knighton, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books
Published: 2024-01-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The homes in these blocks were mostly big triplexes. The builder had packed them in as tightly as he could. There was room enough between them for a family to walk to the back door if they traveled single file.

I ducked between two. Billy’s phone came to life without a pass code. As I’d imagined, his last text read, He’s here. He’d sent it to a group of six—three phone numbers and three names, Lloyd, Robby and Bluff. There were other messages, the last from Bluff, that read, APB out. We need 2 B 1st. I thought about that and didn’t like it, but it wouldn’t change what I had to do. I looked at Billy’s earlier texts, but none seemed significant.

There was a blue plastic five-gallon recycling bucket in the walkway. I turned it over and sat. Even cold and wet, it felt good. Too good. I’d stiffen up if I sat too long. I ran my hand across face and shook water from my fingers. I was angry but only with myself, and only because I hadn’t prepared. Buddy had made no bones about not knowing more than he’d said. I’d had two days to learn what I should have known about Picozzi before I came here, tonight, but I hadn’t. I’d let my personal life intrude upon business.

A small part of me wanted to be angry with Susan for that, angry because she’d sprung this, no notice, no real discussion. Realistically, a discussion wouldn’t have resolved anything. She hadn’t kept me from preparing.

The more I rested the better I was feeling. It was likely that no amount of homework would have prepared me for tonight’s police response. It was odd that a bunch of ranking state cops were taking in a local department’s routine dispatch, and on the night of a bad storm. Alarm systems were scut work—lots of cops sought promotion to avoid those calls.

I was about to pitch the phone when it occurred to me that I might have a way to improve my chances—maybe even end this nonsense entirely. It might have been my underlying foul mood that gave me this idea, but it felt like a good move. If I was right, I’d have to work quickly.

A house on the next corner was dark on all three floors. I banged on the door to the first-floor apartment, waited a few seconds and kicked it in. I tried the light switch; the power was on. The apartment seemed furnished in a combination of Ikea table and chairs and a yard-sale sofa. There was a cheap floor lamp in the front corner of the living room.

I put Billy’s phone on the coffee table, picked up a few cardboard coasters, wedged shut the front door, and pulled on it, as a test. It held well enough in the ruined doorframe. The floor lamp’s cord was long. I pitched its shade, set the lamp in front of the door and switched it on.

In the kitchen, I turned the stove knobs full open, past the clicking quartz lighters.

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