Cross Fire - James Patterson [19]
“Don’t be grittin’ on me in here, man. Get your fuckin’ eyes off me!”
Then he took a swing.
It was as if he didn’t even know how small he was. I had to block him and sit him back down by the shoulders. Even then, he tried for me again.
I pushed him onto the couch a second time. “No way, Bronson. Don’t even think about that with me.” I absolutely hated getting physical with him, given his history, but he’d crossed the line. In fact, it didn’t seem to matter to Bronson where the line was. That’s what scared me the most.
This boy was headed over a cliff, and I wasn’t sure I could do anything to stop him.
Chapter 21
“COME ON, BRONSON,” I said, and stood up. “Let’s blow this joint.”
“Where we goin’?” he wanted to know. “Juvie Hall? I didn’t hit you, man.”
“No, we’re not going to Juvie,” I said. “Not even close. Let’s go.”
I looked at my watch. We still had about thirty minutes left in the session. Bronson followed me into the hall, probably more out of curiosity than anything else. Usually when we left the room together, I escorted him out to his social worker.
When we got outside and I clicked open the doors to my car, he stopped short again.
“You a perv, Cross? You takin’ me somewhere private or something?”
“Yeah, I’m a perv, Pop-Pop,” I said. “Just get in the car.”
He shrugged and got in. I noticed him running his hand over the leather seat, and his eyes checking out the stereo, but he kept any compliments, or any digs, to himself.
“So what’s the big secret, then?” he said as I pulled out into traffic. “Where the hell we goin’?”
“No secret,” I said. “There’s a Starbucks not far from here. I’m going to buy you one of those Frappuccinos.”
Bronson turned to look out his window, but I caught a little flash of a grin before he did. It wasn’t much, but at least for a few minutes that day, he just might have thought we were on the same side.
“Venti,” he said.
“Yeah, Venti.”
Chapter 22
THE IMBECILES WERE still in charge of the Bureau, or so it seemed. As far as Kyle Craig could tell, no one had even blinked when the freshly debriefed and newly reactivated Agent Siegel got himself assigned to the sniper case in DC. Siegel’s earlier stint in Medellín, Colombia, during their “murder capital of the world” days, was a matter of record, and an impressive calling card at that. They were lucky to have him on this one.
Luckier than they knew — two agents for the price of one! He sat at his new desk in the field office, staring down at the photo ID he’d been issued that very morning. Max Siegel’s mug stared back. He still got a rise just looking at it — still half expected to see the old Kyle whenever he passed by a mirror.
“Must be strange.”
Kyle looked up to see one of the other agents standing over the cubicle wall. It was Agent What’shisname, the one everyone called Scooter, of all absurd things — Scooter, with the eager eyes and constant snacking on sugared carbs.
Kyle slid the ID back into his pocket. “Strange?”
“Returning to fieldwork, I mean. After all that time.”
“Miami was fieldwork,” Kyle said, salting his speech with a dash of Siegel’s New Yawk attitude and patois.
“I hear you. Didn’t mean to imply anything,” What’shisname said. Kyle just stared and let the awkwardness hang like a sheet of glass between them. “All right, well… you need anything before I head out?”
“From you?” Kyle said.
“Well, yeah.”
“No thanks, Scooter. I’m all set.”
Max Siegel was going to be antisocial. Kyle had decided that before he’d arrived. Let the other agents coo over baby pictures and share microwave popcorn in the break room. The wider the berth they gave him around here, the more he could get done, and the more secure his masquerade.
That’s why he liked after hours so much. He’d already spent most of the previous night right there at the office, sucking up everything there was to know about the Eighteenth Street shooting. Tonight, he focused on crime-scene