Falcon's Run. Aimee Thurlo

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      “Fix it how?”

      “Catch the bad guy before she freaks out. I can help. Carl and I were buds.”

      “Okay. Let’s start at the beginning. First of all, what were you doing here so early in the morning?” Preston asked.

      “I always come in super early because my foster father—Mr. Jack is what we call him—drops me off on his way to work. He has his own janitorial company, and some of the places he cleans want everything done before they open for business.”

      “Okay, that answers that. So what do you usually do when you get here?”

      “I say hi to Abby, then go help Carl feed the animals. He starts work even earlier than my foster dad.”

      “Tell me what you saw this morning,” Preston pressed.

      “I was going past the pens when I saw him just lying there on the ground. I saw the blood on his clothes and got scared so I went to get Abby.” He paused, then looked up at Preston. “The horses weren’t anywhere near him.”

      “Tell me more about Carl,” Preston said.

      “Carl was really old, like sixty. What I liked most about him was that he treated me just like he did everyone else,” Bobby said, then looked away and wiped a tear from his face with a swipe of his hands. “He never gave me that ‘poor kid’ look. To him I was just me.” He stared at his right leg, which was encased in a brace.

      Bobby became quiet and Preston didn’t interrupt the silence.

      “Carl didn’t have a lot of friends, kinda like me at the foster home.” Bobby looked up at Preston and met his gaze. “He talked to the rest of the staff and all, but they weren’t really his friends. He only had one other friend besides me and Abby. Rod Garner, Lightning Rod, who used to be in the NBA. Carl liked going over there and playing one-on-one with Lightning. Mr. Garner’s got a huge basketball court—six goals. I’ve never been there, but Carl told me about it.”

      Preston nodded, beginning to understand Bobby more. “So what else did you two talk about?”

      “Stuff,” he said with a shrug. “We were always solving puzzles and riddles like real spies, you know? That was fun. Carl liked games where you had to use your head, not your thumbs, and hated games where you had to trust your luck.”

      “You mean like gambling?”

      “Yeah, like that. I tried to give him a buck once so he’d buy me a scratcher, but he wouldn’t do it. I said I’d split the money if I won, but he still said no. Told me gambling was like throwing your money away and I was too smart to fall for stuff like that.”

      “He was telling you the truth. The odds always favor the game, not the gambler. Lottery, scratchers, casinos—they’re all the same except for the odds.”

      “Don’t you think that sometimes you just have to take a chance?” he said.

      Preston didn’t answer. “What would you have done with the money had you won?” he asked, trying to get a better handle on Bobby.

      “Give it to Abby,” he said without any hesitation. “She needs the money to keep the ranch and help kids like me. I wish she could find a rich guy to marry—someone who could help run the ranch and pay the bills. Do you know any rich guys?”

      Preston heard coughing—more like choking—and Abby walked in a heartbeat later. From all indications, she’d been listening.

      “Michelle’s here, Bobby. She can give you a ride back home.”

      “Not now. Let me stay and help. You’ll need to look in Carl’s office, and if I go with you I can tell if anything’s missing or been moved around.”

      Abby looked at Preston. “Bobby’s got a photographic memory—really,” she said.

      “Not just that. I rule when it comes to puzzles and problem solving, too.” He looked at Preston. “You don’t believe me? Okay. I’ll prove it.” He gave Preston a once-over. “Betcha you spent some time outside working earlier this morning.”

      Preston smiled slowly. “How do you know that?”

      “Your boots are real dusty but the dust is darker than the ground around here. You also have some red horse hair on you and we don’t have any red horses. You were probably chopping wood or weeds or working real hard without gloves, ’cause the palms of your hands are all scuffed up. Maybe rope burns?” Bobby offered.

      Preston smiled slowly. “Good observations. You might be another Sherlock Holmes someday, kid.”

      “Maybe. So can I stay?” he said, looking over at Abby. “Please?”

      “Okay, but I need to speak to the detective alone right now. Go help Michelle feed the llamas.”

      “Sure.” He turned to Preston. “We’re counting on you, okay?” he said, then walked slowly out the door, closing it behind him. Abby waited several seconds before speaking. “I was eavesdropping because I didn’t think it was a good idea for Bobby to speak to you alone. You don’t know a thing about that boy.”

      “That was the purpose of talking to him.”

      “I still think you should have had an adult present.”

      “He found the body, but he’s not a suspect,” Preston said. “You seem to have heard pretty much everything we talked about, so why are you worried?”

      “You don’t understand. Bobby sometimes comes across as a tough kid and in a lot of ways he is, but he’s been betrayed and abandoned by people all his life. Carl was one of the few adults he trusted. Now he’s gone, too. Can you imagine what he’s going through? You have to cut him some slack and be careful what kind of questions you ask him. It’s important that he continue to remember Carl in a good way.”

      What touched Preston most was her protectiveness. When he’d been Bobby’s age, he, too, would have gone to the wall for anyone who’d cared enough to defend him.

      “I have no intention of doing anything that would hurt Bobby. I’ll be careful around him, but I’m here to do a job. That means digging for the truth even if it turns out to be something you don’t want to hear.”

      “All right. The truth doesn’t frighten me. How can I help you find answers?”

      “Let’s start with some straight talk.”

       Chapter Four

      Abby watched Detective Bowman as he checked his notes. He was handsome in a tough, streetwise way. Somewhere along the way he’d shrugged out of his police-issue jacket and was now wearing a navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

      He looked muscular, like a man used to hard, physical work. His shoulders were wide, and his chest was as broad and strong as she remembered from this morning. She suppressed a sigh. He wasn’t a pretty boy. His nose was a little crooked, like he’d broken it at one time, but that just heightened his appeal.

      Detective Preston Bowman СКАЧАТЬ