The Storm Murders Read Online Free

shoot me with that thing—I mean, how many cops do you know just by their names? I never showed you my shield, because you’re right, I don’t have one, I’m retired. But shoot me? Oh man. Do you have any idea the grief that falls on your head for that? Brought on by cops. By prosecutors and judges. By the man in the street, even. Your own family might not forgive you. With so many cops in jail now, you might not get a break on the inside. Don’t count on it. Cop killer? You want that on your sheet, do you?”
    The thief’s posture and expression indicated that he didn’t, not really. But he came up with an idea. “I could just wound you, like. Like maybe in the leg.”
    “Are you telling me that I won’t find your mug shot in a stack of jewel-thief portraits? Sure I will. No, if you’re going to shoot me, you want me dead.”
    Cinq-Mars won that argument as well.
    “So, you know, this is like none of your business,” the thief maintained, as if to appeal to his sense of fairness, if not of justice.
    “That’s where you’re wrong. I know it’s unfortunate, this is bad luck for you, but I saw you put my watch in your bag. It’s in for repairs. I’m here to pick it up. I could tell you that it has sentimental value, but that would be a lie. Still. It’s my watch. Not yours.”
    Barely into his thirties, the man’s hair was noticeably thinning. As an adolescent he had bad skin and coming of age he did some time, Cinq-Mars could tell, just by the look of his face, the pallor and texture. Twin gold rings graced an earlobe—enough of an identifier to get him back into prison for a future crime, if the guy proved smart enough to abandon this heist.
    The owner of the store, bent behind a counter, seemed baffled by the exchange, but acquiesced to allowing it to play out.
    “So. Why don’t I just give you back your watch then? We forget about it.”
    A relatively generous offer. Cinq-Mars weighed it quickly. “At my age? I’m not going to start taking bribes now. Not after all these years. Just leave everything behind and we’ll let this one pass.”
    “All of it? You want me to give back—”
    “You might be holding the bag, friend, but the contents don’t belong to you.”
    The crook seemed to consider his circumstances. “Then what?”
    “Then walk out of here.”
    “I get to walk?”
    “Run, even. That’s up to you. I don’t have a gun. Or a badge. I can’t arrest you. Put the bag down and none of this ever happened. If you don’t put it down—do you think I don’t have connections? Do you think the whole police department, or any police department anywhere in the world, won’t come down on you like a ton of bricks?” He didn’t like that analogy so took a second stab at it. “Like a stampede of wild horses?” He didn’t like that one either but gave up. “Cops gave me that watch. They won’t be impressed with you. I know you’re not too bright but you can still make a half-assed smart decision, can’t you?”
    The man agreed that he could do that. He also wanted to argue the issue of his intelligence, and Cinq-Mars was thinking that that was a low blow, one quite possibly untrue, but in the end the crook let it go and put the bag down.
    Cinq-Mars stepped aside.
    The thief couldn’t believe it and, not fully believing it, when he got outside, he ran, kicking up his heels with something akin to glee, as if he was stealing the Crown Jewels when really he wasn’t swiping a thing. In terms of his profession he was having a bad day at work, but that perception hadn’t dawned on him as yet.
    More joyful still was the jeweler. Five-two, he was barely visible above the countertops. He came out from behind their shelter and embraced the towering ex-cop, his head merely halfway up his midriff. Then he held him by the biceps at arm’s length. Gazing up at him with supreme happiness and an abject adoration, he offered him dinner. Hockey tickets in the reds. Italian wine, but more