“Oh, wonderful a psycho with ADD. Anyway, get to work on that gun and let me know what you find.”
On my way to my desk, I bump into Ingrid. She is wiping tears from her eyes. “Devi, please tell Jason I am sorry about his family. If Jason needs anything, tell him to please call me.”
I grip the side of her arm gently. “Will do, Ingrid.” Since Jason has gotten here, Ingrid has seemed to have a thing for him, but she never acted on it because he was married.
“Hey, can you do me a big favor?”
“Sure, Devi.”
“I need you to drop these casings off with the lab geeks and see if they can pull a print from them.”
She takes the baggie from me. “Sure, anything.”
Till 8 am, I need to try and get a fix on David Drake. I call dispatch’s number on my cell. “Dispatch, I need you to put an APB for a possible Moonlight Killer suspect by the name of David Drake. He’s a white male, about 5’8 blond hair, blue eyes and he has a tan; he’s athletic build—you know what, scratch that. Cancel the APB for now.”
“Okay, Detective,” he says.
Putting an APB out on this asshole may cause him to go deeper into hiding. And as good as he’s been at covering his tracks, I really don’t want him to completely ghost himself, especially if he turns out to be the Moonlight Killer.
I try to call Jason to check on him, but his phone doesn’t ring it goes right to voicemail.
I hope you’re not doing anything stupid like nibbling on the barrel of a gun.
I’m going to head down the street to Kavanagh’s 24-hour diner to get some coffee and food to kill time. I grab my coat and leave my office.
I never liked the coffee they have in the breakroom. It tastes like Mississippi mud water.
Chapter 7
Street lights pierce through the morning fog as I drive down the empty well-lit streets, puffing on a Marlboro. I find myself wondering if this case is going to end up being snatched from me by the FBI. Heh, typical feds swinging in and hogging all the glory and giving none of the credit to us cops.
The diner is empty except for a few elderly port security guards along with a father and his daughter. Judging by all the tourism pamphlets sprawled out on the table, I’d say they are out of towners judging by their Swedish accents. The diner has black and white checkered tile floors and red leather booths and a long bar in the center of the restaurant. I slide into the stall and order a cup of coffee black. “Catch any wicked people tonight, lass?”
I look up from my cell and see an old geezer pouring me a cup of coffee. “No, Mr. Kavanagh. Afraid not, but I’m working on it.” Mr. Kavanagh used to be a Vice cop back in the 70s and 80s out in Los Angeles. He retired here in the late 90s and did some PI work and then started up this diner. Nolan is a damn good cook; he makes the best-corned beef Reuben’s on the planet. The man loves working in this business.
Mr. Kavanagh sits my coffee down and my usual Cinnamon scone and coffee cake. “Alright, you jumped up little shit. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Nolan? Enough with the Mr. Kavanagh shite.”
I snicker at him as I sip my coffee. “Yes, sir, Mr. Kavanagh, I mean Nolan.”
He shakes his finger, trying to hold back a grin. “Devi, keep it up; you may get a little something extra in your cuppa.”
I always have to give the old man shit. It lights up my day after all the dead bodies I’ve seen.
I glance at the time on my cell, and the time says 7:30 am. I key into my phone’s internet search engine for local gun shops near my location, and two of them come up within a six-mile radius. The Internet on my flip phone is slow as shit, but it looks up what I need. I refuse to get one of those smartphones because the touch screen seems to screw up when you’re in a hurry, or you get something on your hands.
A shotgun cocks, drawing my attention to the door. “Alright, you old motherfucker! You know what this shit is, open the goddamn register.” Two disgusting wild-eyed meth heads. One is aiming a big ass six-shooter at Nolan, and the asshole with the 12 gauge is on crowd control.
I am so not in the mood for this shit this morning.
Nolan frantically opens the register, and the man with the shotgun becomes enraged and snatches him by the collar. “What the fuck is this shit!” He growls.
“That’s all I have in the register. I can get ya some money out of the safe, lad.” His voice trembles.
“Well, take your old ass back there and get it. And be fucking quick about it!
He limps toward the back.
He shoves the shotgun toward him. “I said, be fucking quick about it!” The shotgun blasts a gaping hole in his back. Sending spatter across the grill along with his body tumbling to the floor. My ears ring from the roar of the weapon. His friend shoves him. “Whoa, man. The fuck you waste him for, you psycho. Now we’ll never get his paper.”
He cocks the shotgun and glowers at the customers. “Old bastard was moving too slow. You know what, fuck it, let’s rob the customers and take whatever he had in the register, and call it a fucking night.”
He was going to give them the money, but he’s too tweaked out of his mind for patience.
