pocket. Millett leaned back against the side of the trailer. “What’s gonna be over soon?” he asked as he absently reached down and began drumming softly, steadily on the metal lid of the trash can beside him—the trash can where Stokes had stashed the money.
“Not your business, Sergeant.”
“Who’s the ‘good girl’ you were talking to?”
“What?”
“You said ‘good girl.’ ” Millett noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the ground at his feet. He picked it up, uncrumpled it, and gave it a quick scan with his eyes. Stokes wasn’t worried about what was on the paper. Probably a bill. More likely an overdue notice. Either way, he wasn’t worried about what was on the paper. What he was worried about was what Millett was going to do with the paper, which he was crumpling again.
“This is my personal life, Sergeant.”
He held out his hand for the ball of paper. Millett looked at the hand, then reached down and lifted the lid off the trash can. Stokes focused all of his energy on not letting his eyes stray to the bag of money that he knew was fully visible now.
“In fact,” he continued, willing Millett’s eyes to stay locked on his own, “this is my property you’re standing on, not yours, so I’ll have to ask you to get off it. My feet are cold and wet. I need to put on some dry socks. Have a good night.”
He moved past the cop, hoping Millett’s eyes would follow him. An agonizingly long moment later, he heard the clang of the lid dropping back onto the can, followed by Millett’s footsteps behind him. As Stokes stepped up into his trailer, he expected to hear the cop say something like “I’ll be watching you,” but he said nothing. Probably thought it would sound like a cheesy line from a bad movie, which it would have. Stokes closed the door. When he parted the little curtain on the little window in his kitchen, he saw Millett walk over to his cruiser and lean against it, his eyes on the trailer.
Man, Stokes did not need this.
TWELVE
7:06 P.M.
STOKES FORCED HIMSELF NOT TO look out through the trailer’s curtains again. He didn’t want Millett to see him looking. Didn’t want to seem anxious. He was anxious as hell, of course. Anxious that Millett wouldn’t leave soon, because Stokes still had a lot to do to help the kid. Anxious that the cop would get bored simply standing out there staring at the trailer, and might start poking around, eventually looking in the trash can where Stokes had hastily dumped the backpack stuffed with money. That probably would have been an illegal search, as the cans were on Stokes’s property and not set out at a curb for pickup, but Stokes didn’t think that little inconvenience would stop Millett. Anyway, Stokes didn’t want to make Millett more suspicious than he already was, so he stayed away from the window, slipped into a pair of warm, dry socks, and popped the top of a Budweiser. Then he figured he should keep a clear head, so he finished only half of the beer—the first time he remembered ever doing that. While he puttered around, growing more anxious with every passing second, he listened intently for anything that sounded like Millett was rooting through his garbage. After fifteen minutes, he heard the powerful engine of the police cruiser as it roared to life, then listened as it grew fainter. Stokes peeked out the window and watched until the car’s taillights disappeared around a bend in the dirt road. The second it was gone, he burst from the trailer and hurried around the corner to his trash cans. He tore off the lid of one can, panicked when he saw nothing but his garbage inside, then realized he’d dropped the bag in the other can, where he found it safe and sound.
Stokes shouldered the backpack and walked up the dirt road, past a few of his neighbors’ places, and knocked on the metal door of one of the more dilapidated trailers in the park.
“Who’s that?” a man inside asked, his voice deep and gruff.
“Since
“Not your business, Sergeant.”
“Who’s the ‘good girl’ you were talking to?”
“What?”
“You said ‘good girl.’ ” Millett noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the ground at his feet. He picked it up, uncrumpled it, and gave it a quick scan with his eyes. Stokes wasn’t worried about what was on the paper. Probably a bill. More likely an overdue notice. Either way, he wasn’t worried about what was on the paper. What he was worried about was what Millett was going to do with the paper, which he was crumpling again.
“This is my personal life, Sergeant.”
He held out his hand for the ball of paper. Millett looked at the hand, then reached down and lifted the lid off the trash can. Stokes focused all of his energy on not letting his eyes stray to the bag of money that he knew was fully visible now.
“In fact,” he continued, willing Millett’s eyes to stay locked on his own, “this is my property you’re standing on, not yours, so I’ll have to ask you to get off it. My feet are cold and wet. I need to put on some dry socks. Have a good night.”
He moved past the cop, hoping Millett’s eyes would follow him. An agonizingly long moment later, he heard the clang of the lid dropping back onto the can, followed by Millett’s footsteps behind him. As Stokes stepped up into his trailer, he expected to hear the cop say something like “I’ll be watching you,” but he said nothing. Probably thought it would sound like a cheesy line from a bad movie, which it would have. Stokes closed the door. When he parted the little curtain on the little window in his kitchen, he saw Millett walk over to his cruiser and lean against it, his eyes on the trailer.
Man, Stokes did not need this.
TWELVE
7:06 P.M.
STOKES FORCED HIMSELF NOT TO look out through the trailer’s curtains again. He didn’t want Millett to see him looking. Didn’t want to seem anxious. He was anxious as hell, of course. Anxious that Millett wouldn’t leave soon, because Stokes still had a lot to do to help the kid. Anxious that the cop would get bored simply standing out there staring at the trailer, and might start poking around, eventually looking in the trash can where Stokes had hastily dumped the backpack stuffed with money. That probably would have been an illegal search, as the cans were on Stokes’s property and not set out at a curb for pickup, but Stokes didn’t think that little inconvenience would stop Millett. Anyway, Stokes didn’t want to make Millett more suspicious than he already was, so he stayed away from the window, slipped into a pair of warm, dry socks, and popped the top of a Budweiser. Then he figured he should keep a clear head, so he finished only half of the beer—the first time he remembered ever doing that. While he puttered around, growing more anxious with every passing second, he listened intently for anything that sounded like Millett was rooting through his garbage. After fifteen minutes, he heard the powerful engine of the police cruiser as it roared to life, then listened as it grew fainter. Stokes peeked out the window and watched until the car’s taillights disappeared around a bend in the dirt road. The second it was gone, he burst from the trailer and hurried around the corner to his trash cans. He tore off the lid of one can, panicked when he saw nothing but his garbage inside, then realized he’d dropped the bag in the other can, where he found it safe and sound.
Stokes shouldered the backpack and walked up the dirt road, past a few of his neighbors’ places, and knocked on the metal door of one of the more dilapidated trailers in the park.
“Who’s that?” a man inside asked, his voice deep and gruff.
“Since
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