Random Victim Read Online Free

squeeze of her hand, and wondering if their paths would cross again.

CHAPTER THREE
    Return to Mecca
    As Leal walked out of the Criminal Courts building and descended the pebbled series of cement steps he marveled at how nice
     the day had turned out. The bright sunshine he’d seen through the sixth floor windows of the grand jury room had burned off
     the low hanging clouds that had darkened the sky as he’d driven in earlier. Scattered groups of people milled about on the
     various flattened sections and stairs. A group of blacks, their hats all cocked the same way to signify gang unity, sat impassively
     on the cement bench. There seemed to be a constant stream of coppers going in and out.
    I wonder how many people we’ll indict today, Leal thought as he stopped to buy a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the “meat wagon”
     parked in front by the curb. The Dominican vendor always did a bang-up business there and Leal chatted with him in Spanish
     for a moment before moving across California Avenue toward the grassy island of trees that separated the avenue from the boulevard.
     A young woman had her canteen truck parked there, but she seemed more intent on soaking up the sun in her red halter top than
     selling anything.
    “The business is better right there in front,” Leal said, holding up his cup.
    “Yeah, I know, babe,” she said, smiling at him. “But what ya gonna do? Carlos got here first.” She cocked a thumb at the parking
     garage behind her and said, “I’ll get the next wave when he runs out.”
    Leal nodded approvingly, fishing for the keys to his Chevy Monte Carlo. The car had been red once, but it had clearly seen
     better days. As he got in he glanced around to see the young woman still checking him out. Then she tilted her head and grinned.
    “I know,” she called out. “Your other car’s a Mercedes, right?”
    Stung by her remark, Leal snorted as he got in and slammed the door.
    Screw her, he thought. Like she’s the queen of Sheba working a vending truck in front of the county jail, for Christ’s sake.
     Then he reflected that the Chevy did look like a wreck. It hadn’t seemed an issue when he was in MEG because of the endless
     supply of pristine, confiscated cars that he always used. He seldom even drove his old Chevy. That was part of what was so
     great about working undercover. The cars, the clothing allowance, the freedom of developing your own cases…But there
     was also the pressure to get results, to take more chances, to make the big arrests…You got caught up in the lifestyle,
     but still had to keep your lifeline attached, lest you get swept up in the maelstrom.
    Is that what happened to me? he wondered. Is that why I’m here now, at the top of the department’s shit list, divorced, separated
     from my kids, hating everybody, and driving a beat-up old Chevy that I should’ve traded in years ago?
    He hadn’t been back since the shooting. Everything had been handled via the phone while he proceeded with his recovery. Johnny
     DeWayne had been given a meritorious promotion to investigations for his role in the incident. Leal envied him momentarily,
     then reflected that Johnny deserved it. Just like Leal deserved getting kicked back downstairs to uniform. Hell, he’d blown
     the case, gotten shot, lost one of his partners, and smarted off to a judge in court. What did he expect? A ribbon for being
     an asshole? For blowing the case? Was that why it happened? Had he failed somehow to see it coming?
    Leal decided to stop doubting himself and concentrated on the driving as he cut through traffic and headed toward the Eisenhower
     Expressway. Self-doubts were the quickest way to get yourself killed in this business. He knew that. And, what the hell, he
     thought. Maybe it is time for a change.
    Leal made good time exiting the Eisenhower at First Avenue, but caught the lights at Harrison and then again at Maybrooke.
     He watched the heavy stream of cars turning into the court