At Their Own Game Read Online Free

I knew I had to shake that. I had to deal with our problem for what it was and leave the philosophy for later.  
    The drive to the river took ten minutes, dropping straight down Driscoll to the TJ Meenach Bridge. I took the exit to the small road along the river and headed west. Bowl and Pitcher was technically a state park, but it was inside the city. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes it was like no one else was alive in the world. Given the clouds in the sky and the threat of rain, I was hoping for the latter.  
    Brent’s Camaro was already there when I arrived.  Out of habit, I parked on the opposite side of the small lot of packed dirt. Then I headed up the trail to the picnic area. Off to my left, the rush of water over rocks created a wall of sound. The powerful, constant roar was comforting.  
    Both Matt and Brent were sitting on the table, their feet resting on the bench seats. From a distance, they gave me the same impression as a couple of teenage kids. Matt seemed like he was striking a pose, being a little defiant of the rules as he messed around on his phone. Brent looked at ease, smoking a cigarette. As I got closer, both appeared more relaxed than I felt.  
    “Hey, Boss,” Brent greeted me.  
    I nodded, then turned my attention to Matt as he slid the phone into his pocket. I looked for a sign that something was up, but he seemed his regular, affable self.  
    “You’re out early,” I said. “You get time off for good behavior or something?”  
    He chuckled. “Nah. Jail sergeant figured out that my warrant wasn’t extra ditable.” He winked at me.  “So they had to let me out. I didn’t even have to see the judge.”  
    “He didn’t figure that out last night?”  
    “That was the night shift guy. This was a different sergeant, the day shift one. A woman.”  
    Matt would notice that. “What time did they tell you this?”  
    “I dunno. About eight-thirty or nine?”  
    Shift change used to be at seven. If the sergeant was reviewing all of last night’s bookings, then catching Matt’s as being on a non-ex warrant, plus the time to confirm it and give orders to contact the prisoner….yeah, that could take an hour or two.  
    “When’d you get out, then?”  
    “A little before eleven.”  
    “That’s long for processing.”  
    “Nah, they processed me quick. That only took about twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”  
    “Then what took so long?”  
    “I did like you said. I talked to the detective.”  
    I nodded slowly and took a few steps to a stump nearby. I sat down, leaning slightly forward. I could feel the handle of my .45 poking out of the jeans at the small of my back.  
    “And what did he want?” I asked.  
    “He was one fishing motherfucker,” Matt said, smiling. “He asked me about everything under the sun, from dope to swag to running rum with Al Capone.”  
    “How the fuck do you know who Al Capone is?” Brent asked, his low voice quizzical.  
    Matt smirked at him. “HBO. Duh.”  
    Brent shook his head and took a drag on his cigarette.  
    “Never mind the History lesson,” I said to Matt. “This detective, did he ask about me?”  
    “Nope.”  
    “What about Brent?”  
    “Not a word.”  
    “Did he know anything about any of the things we’re into?”  
    Matt shook his head. “Nothing specific.  I mean, he asked about stolen property, and he asked about drugs, but he didn’t know any body or any thing specific.”  
    “And what did you tell him?”  
    “Not a thing,” Matt said proudly. “I just walked around the park with him, tried to draw him out, y’know?”  
    I thought about what he’d said. Then I asked, “What’s this detective’s name?”  
    “He gave me his card.” Matt reached into the back pocket of his jeans and handed me a cream-colored business card. I took it.  
    Next to the black and white representation of the SPD badge, I read “Detective Kyle Falkner.”  
    My stomach fell.  
    Shit.