The Betrayed by David Hosp Page B

demanded.
    “We found it right next to Elizabeth Creay’s body, and do you know what? It’s got your fingerprints all over it.” Jerome Washington’s eyes widened and he muttered something under his breath. “That’s right, shithead,” Cassian continued. “How hard do you think it’s going to be to get one of your homies to confirm that this lighter is yours? Nice little skull face on it and all—it’s pretty distinctive.” The room was silent for a moment or two as everyone looked at the pocket torch, still resting between Train and Washington.
    It was Train who finally spoke. “I’d like to help you here, Jerome. I really would. This is a serious mess you’re in. D.C.’s federal jurisdiction, and between the rock under your chair and the way you burned the woman, the feds will probably want to take over and go all the way with you. You’re not just looking at jail time—you’re looking at the needle.” Train rubbed his hand over his bald head. “I don’t want to see that. I don’t want that for your mother. We knew each other growing up. We’re from the same neighborhood. I want to see if we can save your family the pain of going through an execution, but the only way to be sure is for you to come clean on all this now.” He leaned forward and looked Washington in the eyes. “If we’re gonna save your ass, you’ve got to start talking to us. Tell us what happened.”
    Washington looked away. He was tempted to keep quiet. He had some idea what the cops were after, and he knew he was probably screwed, but the gambler in him wanted to take a chance. “You’d never believe me,” he said after a minute.
    “Try us,” Cassian shot back.
    Washington looked at Train. “It wasn’t me,” he said.
    Train sat back in his chair. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Who was it?”
    “I don’t know the man’s name or anything like that, but I can describe him,” Washington said. “He bought a rock off me yesterday morning.” He nodded toward the plastic bag on the table. “Bought that torch, too.”
    “Is that the best you can give us?” Cassian jeered.
    Washington ignored him and focused on Train. “It’s true, I swear. Yesterday morning, I was sitting on the stoop at G Street, and this car pulls up to the curb, and a guy waves me over.”
    “What kind of a car was it?” Train asked.
    “I don’t know,” Washington said. He saw Train’s eyes roll. “A sedan,” he ventured. “It was a sedan. Nothin’ fancy, at least nothin’ I noticed. It was dark, though, maybe blue.” Train was paying attention again, but Washington could tell he was making little headway. “So the car stops and the guy waves me over. I walk up to the car, and the guy tells me he’s lookin’ for some rock. I tell him how much, and he says fine. I thought it was weird because he didn’t look like any kind of doper. But then, I know some people—the rich white kind of people—that have their chauffeurs or whatever buy for them. So he and I make the deal, and I start walkin’ back to the stoop, but he calls me back and asks me if I got anything to spark it with. I tell him no, but he says he’ll pay a C spot for any butane I got lyin’ around.” Washington’s eyes were focused on Train as he spun out the story, trying to gauge whether the detective was buying it. “Well, y’know, I liked that torch there, but a hundred’s a hundred, so I give it to him. He gives me the money and drives off.” He paused, breathing heavily. “That’s the last I saw him.”
    Washington finished speaking, but kept his eyes on Train.
    “You got anything else?” Train asked, his face unable to conceal his skepticism.
    “Like what, man?” Washington asked. “What more can I tell you? That’s the God’s truth.”
    Train rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “Well, what did this guy look like, for instance?”
    Cassian shifted his stance against the wall, grunting slightly. “We really going to listen to this crap,