Murder on Bamboo Lane Read Online Free

those multiple smog checks.
    And even though its body is like a plate of armor, there are no protective air bags. Benjamin calls it “the Green Mile” because riding in it may be the last mile of any passenger’s life. I feel that riding my bike and taking public transportation most of the time allows me this tangible connection to my grandfather, my own indiscretion.
    Anyway, tonight I get off at the Highland Park station and walk down a couple of blocks, one hand in the pocket of my special fanny pack for my Glock when I’m off duty. According to Nay, it’s a fashion disaster, but I need to make sure that I can easily get to my gun when I need it. Right now it’s already dark and my neighborhood isn’t the safest.
    I’m a few yards away from my small rental house when I see that the bedroom light is on. Not only that, the window is open. My heart begins to race. The first thing I think about is my dog. I can’t help but worry that something’s happened to Shippo; there’s no way he’d be quiet if an intruder had come into my house.
    I hug the outside wall with my back and edge over to the window. The curtains obscure my view inside, but I can see the shadow of a head. I sniff. Definitely pot.
Piece of trash druggie robber
. I tear the curtain down. “Police!” I shout as I squarely aim at the person in front of me.
    It’s my teenage brother, Noah, his hands in the air and a joint falling out of his mouth.

TWO
    AVENUE 26
    “Man, I almost lost it there. You were pretty scary,” Noah says with what sounds like renewed respect. Guess I should pull a gun on him more often. “I thought maybe you might be at a stakeout or staying over at Benjamin’s.”
    “Noah, I’m on the bicycle unit, remember?” Although we do come across drug deals, it’s more by chance than anything planned out. I don’t mention anything about Benjamin. My family adores him—sometimes, I feel, more than they adore me. I know we’re over for good this time, but I can’t say it out loud to my family yet.
    “I didn’t give you a key to my place so that you could randomly come over and smoke weed. It was only for emergencies. To take care of you, huh, Shippo?” I look down at the only male creature in the house whom I can presently stand. Shippo wags his crazy corkscrew tail. “Call or even text me next time. And keep your pot out of my house. How much of this do you smoke on a regular basis anyhow?” I pick up the half-burned joint from the hardwood floor and aim it toward my toilet.
    “Hey, hey!” Noah calls out. “That’s domestically grown. All organic.”
    I miss the bowl, and Shippo makes a dive for the joint.
    “No, Shippo, no!” I grab the joint in time to properly flush it down the toilet.
    “You could really get me in trouble,” I scold Noah.
    “I’m sure there are plenty of cops who smoke weed.”
    I ignore Noah’s comment. “Where did you get it?”
    Noah leans back on my retro beanbag chair. His eyes are completely bloodshot. “Simon Lee. His brother grows it right there in his mom’s greenhouse. She has no idea what it is. She thinks it’s a varietal of the Chinese money tree.”
    “You know what marijuana will do to your brain.”
    “I know, I know. Cause paranoid schizophrenia. A gateway drug to ecstasy. You’re almost worse than Mom and Dad.”
    “I suppose you have them all fooled with your straight A’s,” I say.
    “I just give them what they want. It’s a fair trade.”
    I stare at Noah in disbelief. I don’t understand how he got so worldly, but Catholic boys’ school probably has something to do with it. I remember how adorable he was when he was five or six. Strangers always thought that he was Latino—“cute little Mexican boy.” Then they would see him with Mom and get totally confused.
    “I don’t think Mom and Dad know what you’re getting away with in this deal.” I take my fanny pack off and return the Glock to its special firearm compartment. “How did you get here,