Lucas took over. “See, the thing is, Izaac, you shoot someone one time, I can understand it. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe the gun went off accidentally. Who knows, maybe you never intended to kill anyone. Truth is, somewhere buried in amongst all those maybe’s, there might be a way out of this mess for you. But when you shoot someone over and over and over, that tells me there is anger. That tells me that it’s personal, that tells me you wanted Rontel Clayton dead!” Lucas pointed at the image of Clayton, repeatedly pressing his finger on his face.
“Proves nothing,” Arceneaux replied, shaking his head.
“Nothing? Let me break it down for you. Cases like this come down to evidence. I know it and, Izaac, I think you know it too. The evidence can be anything - a fingerprint, video footage, a witness -”
“Even DNA,” Renner added.
“You got none of those.”
“But we do have the shooter wearing a vintage Cleveland Indians shirt.” She slowly slid a still captured from the footage across to Arceneaux.
As he looked up, his eyes locked with Renner’s for a split second. The play was high risk and the evidence circumstantial at best, but it achieved its means – he hadn’t expected it and she could see he was rattled. It was a fleeting moment but she read his tell.
“So what, plenty of Indians fans out there.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s not all, Izaac. I have to give it to you, though. You thought of pretty much everything. The mask, the gloves, burnt out the car. You’re smart - you even took out another victim to throw us off track. Looked for all money to be a hold up. Well, at first, anyway.”
“Even took the time to pick up all the ejected shell casings,” Lucas added.
“Except—” Renner added, “the breached round.”
Arceneaux paused before his head dropped to the table.
Renner could sense he was processing this new information. She stepped it up a gear.
“Ballistics recovered a partial print off the round.”
Arceneaux sat silent before speaking.
“That dumb motherfucker,” he muttered under his breath.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Renner said. “We talked to Ke-shaun. You know something. His girl was pregnant when he was sentenced. He didn’t know. She agreed to help and gave him an hour with his new baby son. He named you as the guy he passed the gun to. Didn’t hesitate for a second.”
“Tell me, Izaac, how does that feel?”
For the first time, Renner saw the anger starting to manifest itself. Arceneaux rattled the handcuffs on the table as the reality of his fate began to sink in.
“You know what else?”
Arceneaux shook his head. “What?”
“Your own sister. She confirmed you dated Shantay.”
“So Shantay breaks if off with you and starts seeing Rontel. It’s not a stretch to make the connection.”
“What connection?”
“Hey, I get it, Izaac,” Lucas said. ”You’re off fighting for your country in a fucked-up war. People blowing each other up for reasons none of us understand. He’s back here, and moves on your girl.”
The room fell silent, broken only by the sound of Arceneaux’s handcuffs scraping against the desk.
“Hey, we got all night, Izaac,” Renner said.
Arceneaux replied through gritted teeth, “He disrespected me.”
She nodded.
“He disrespected her,” Arceneaux continued; this time quietly, as he looked up and made eye contact.
“It not right, I agree. That said, it doesn’t give you the right to kill both those men,” Renner said.
Once again, the room fell silent.
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“Nothing?” Lucas asked.
“Nothin’. Seems like I don’t feel no more.”
Lucas stretched his arms. “You want the final nail, Izaac?”
Arceneaux stared back, eyes wide.
“Phone records, matched your number. Two calls, a month ago. That’s solid, Izaac. It proves you lied to us and it proves you knew Clayton. It’s the end of the road for you Izaac. You’re done – finished!”
Arceneaux dropped his head onto the backs of his hands.
“Give us a minute.”
They both left the room and Renner locked the door. She threw up a high-five.
“Good work. We’ll charge him with Murder One. Considering the premeditation, the DA may try for Capital offence.”
“It won’t be straight forward. Even with a confession, defense attorney will play for PTSD, and plea to a lesser charge.”
“At least he’s off the streets.”
“And I can catch the end of the game on Tivo.”
“Save you the time, Red sox win.” Lucas replied as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the fifty-dollar note. He held it up. “Double up – Yankees and Blue Jays?”
“It’s your money,” she replied. “You walk Arceneaux to the lockup and you got a deal.”
“All right, this time Renner, I got a feeling.”
“So have I,” she replied as she turned and started to walk away, without looking back, “It’s called lack of sleep.”
***
Thank you for reading Bodega.
If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?
***
Here is a sample from my next short story
701
A Detective Sarah Renner Short Story
By Stephen Johnson
It was the perfect combination edgy and gross and the kind of dive bar you had to go out of your way to find. Nestled on the shoreline of the Industrial Canal, two blocks from the Claiborne Avenue Bridge it was surrounded by potholed streets lined with derelict abandoned houses. Some of the lots were so consumed by weeds it was like a cancer as a cruel second act to the storm. The pool table in the corner of the room and Saints game that glowed on a screen hung precariously above the entrance seemed to draw in the loyal few who chose to stay like mosquitos to a Louisiana porch light.
The kitsch, dimly lit interior of the bar created a place to retreat and go unnoticed. It almost concealed the dark smear that ran down the tiled wall to the victim who sat slumped, hands loose on his chest. His lifeless eyes stared outward as if he was questioning his abrupt end. No answers came. Picture frames knocked from the wall had settled in the blood that had pooled around his body and tracked along the joints between the floorboards.
Detective Sarah Renner scanned the room and stopped on a paramedic shuffling paperwork on a nearby counter.
“Hey. This how you found him?”
“Expired on arrival. We didn’t attempt to resuscitate.” Eager to get away, he did not look up.
She knelt and leant in to take a closer look. The cool air from the fan above washed across her back and cut through the sticky heat that hung in the room. Light from the bar flickered and reflected off the resin like sheen from the sweat coating his dark skin.
“Who’s our victim?” Renner asked.
“We’re done here,” the paramedic interrupted. “You’ll arrange someone to collect the body?”
Renner nodded as she reached into the pocket of her dark grey trousers and retrieved a pen.
“Sure, go.”
She positioned the tip under his black t-shirt and lifted it to expose his torso. A heavy gold chain that hung around his neck settled into the loose fabric.
“No entry wound.”
She looked up at her partner.
“Nothing? Must be at least six pints of blood on the floor,” Lucas replied.
In his late thirties, he stood taller than Renner; lean with short hair, sideburns, and stubble. His time working homicide in New Orleans was starting to show in his face.
She looked around and waved a uniform over.
“Where’s the M.E?”
“En-route.”
Lucas looked down at the body.
“S
ee those tattoos?” he said, pointing at the victim’s left forearm. “Means he runs with the F’n’M Nines. They have network of dealers that distribute Schedule One between Flood and Marais.”
Over the next minute, he brought her up to date on the background of the gang. As she listened, she tried to make sense of the raised scar tissue that surrounded the main logo.
“Look at those markings. They look amateur. Like they were done in prison.”
Instinctively, she traced her fingers over the vine of a floral tattoo that wrapped her upper arm. Body art was personal and there was always a deeper meaning embodied in the detail of the ink.
Lucas went on. “We bumped heads with these guys all the time when I worked Narcotics. Can’t say I recognize our man here.”
“You think it could be gang retribution?”
“It is part of their M.O to meter out violence on anyone who breaks the rules,” he replied. “I’ll run his photo past the contact I still have.”
She looked up and across at the bar’s owner who stood in the corner of the room. She waved him over.
“You know this man. Is he a regular?”
***
If you liked this sample the story is available to download free via the link below:
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends