“You should have taken the time to change,” Sinclair said. “That pretty suit of yours could get trashed in a place like this.”
“It won’t.”
“Want to bet?”
Rokov and Sinclair both reached to the straps on their gun holsters and unsnapped them. Neither were expecting trouble but were ready for it. “Ten bucks.”
“You’re on.”
As they stepped around the red Honda, Rokov spotted a midsized lean man with a spotty beard. A mechanic’s jumpsuit covered a white T-shirt and grazed the top of scuffed brown work boots. Thinning dark hair was slicked back. A spider tattoo clung to his neck.
“Mr. Ingram,” Rokov said.
The man looked up and immediately gray eyes narrowed as he glanced from cop to cop. Ingram dropped the wrench in his hand and bolted to the other side of the Ford and out the front bay of the garage.
“Shit,” Rokov said. Reacting instantly, Rokov ran out the front bay.
Sinclair, on his heels, reached for the radio on her hip and called local police, letting them know they were pursuing a suspect.
A car pulling into the lot cut between Rokov and Ingram, forcing Rokov to stutter-step sideways around the backside of the car. The delay allowed Ingram to put several more yards between them. Ingram ran across the asphalt parking lot toward Route 7, the four-lane artery that ran into town. The traffic was light enough for him to cross the first two lanes of traffic, but the heavy flow headed west stopped him in the median strip filled with tall grass. He glanced back at Rokov, who dashed toward Route 7.
“Mr. Ingram. Police. Stop!” Rokov shouted.
Ingram glanced at Rokov and then at the traffic headed toward him. He seemed to weigh the dangers of the police versus being hit by oncoming traffic. He ran into traffic.
Car horns blared. Brakes squealed. Ingram narrowly dodged an SUV and with no other choice turned on his heel and ran back toward the median. He cut right when he saw Rokov.
“Son of a bitch,” Rokov muttered. He chased Ingram up the median.
With each step, Rokov closed in on Ingram, and when he was within feet, he lunged forward and grabbed the guy by the collar. Fabric in his suit ripped as he yanked Ingram to the ground. He quickly rolled the guy on his belly and put his knee into the small of his back as he reached for the cuffs on his belt. When Ingram struggled, Rokov shoved his knee harder into the guy’s spine until pain forced him to still.
“You’re fucking breaking my back!”
“Stop resisting.”
Sinclair arrived as Rokov clicked the handcuffs in place and hauled Ingram to his feet. “Backup is on the way.”
Rokov nodded, his teeth gritted. “Good.”
When traffic in the eastbound lane cleared, the trio crossed the road. Two Leesburg Police squad cars, with lights flashing, arrived just as they reached their car.
A uniformed officer from each car got out and moved toward the detectives. The first to reach them was a short officer with broad shoulders and a thick black mustache. He appeared to be in his mid-forties. He introduced himself as Parker and the other officer, a tall slim man with auburn hair and freckles, as Adams, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.
Officer Parker glanced between Sinclair and Rokov and then at Ingram. “And what has Mr. Ingram done to warrant your attention?”
Rokov glanced at the grass stain on his jacket and swallowed an oath. “All we wanted to do was talk to him about a case we have in Alexandria. He wasn’t in trouble until now.”
Ingram struggled with his cuffs. “These are too tight.”
“Too bad,” Rokov said.
Sinclair met Parker’s amused gaze. “So how is it that you know Mr. Ingram?”
“He’s been known to get a little loud when he drinks. Since he’s been in town the last six months, we’ve had the opportunity to meet him a few times.”
“I ain’t never been arrested,” Ingram said.
Parker shrugged. “Looks like you managed it now. Parole board is going to love you.”
“I didn’t do nothing!” Ingram tried to twist free.
Rokov jerked up on the cuffs until Ingram stilled.
“So Mr. Ingram is involved in one of your cases,” Parker said.
“A homicide,” Rokov said.
“Shit!” Ingram’s head jerked around. “I didn’t kill nobody.”
“Why’d you run?” Rokov said.
Ingram grunted as he strained against his handcuffs. “Because you look like the fucking Mafia.”
Sinclair glanced at Rokov. She often joked that he looked like a wise guy when he wore his dark suit. “We are investigating the murder of a woman named
Diane Young. She was tortured and then drowned. She ran an Internet site called Beyond, and Mr. Ingram was one of her biggest customers.”
“What was she selling?” Parker said.
“Horoscopes and tarot reading,” Rokov said.
Parker chuckled. “What do you need to know from the great beyond, Ingram?”
Ingram frowned. “I was getting picks on the horse races. I tried her the first time just for fun, and when I won, I kept coming back. Turns out she was right more than she was wrong so I kept coming back.”
Sinclair arched a brow. “So how much did you end up losing?”
Ingram scowled. “I’m down six grand. I had to hock my watch and sell my car. But that’s only because she didn’t answer my e-mail, and I was on my own for the last race.”
“Where were you last week?” Rokov said.
“I was down south at Colonial Downs near Richmond most of the week. Ask Mr. Randall. He nearly fired me for lost work. And I got stubs all over my apartment that shows I placed bets that day.”
“We will check it all.”
“We can hold him while you check his story,” Parker said.
“I ain’t done nothing,” Ingram said.
“You ran, pal,” Parker said as he took hold of the guy’s cuffs. “Should not have done that.”
“But he looks like the fucking mob!” Ingram complained. “He’s got collection written all over him.”
“I identified myself as police,” Rokov said.
Parker shrugged. “Should have listened to him.”
“Like the mob never lies?” Ingram complained.
Rokov waited as Parker switched a set of his c
uffs for Rokov’s. “Where do you live, Mr. Ingram?”
“On Route 15. I share an apartment with a few guys.”
“Will you give us permission to search your place?” Sinclair pulled a notebook from her pocket.
“Shit, yeah. I didn’t kill nobody. My keys are in my back pocket.”
Parker fished out the keys and handed them to Rokov. Ingram supplied the address, and after a quick update with Mr. Randall, the detectives went to Ingram’s apartment.
The apartment was located in a beige cookie-cutter complex within a three-story building. They found Ingram’s apartment easily and opened the front door with the key he’d provided. The stench of old pizza and garbage greeted them.
“Damn,” Sinclair said, raising her hand to her mouth. “It smells like something died in here.”
Rokov had removed his suit jacket when they’d gotten out of the car and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to his forearms. He flipped on the light, and they surveyed the main living room, furnished with a third-hand green couch, a couple of folding chairs, and a wide-screen television resting on box crates. Trash, pizza boxes, dirty clothes, and beer cans littered the room. “Ingram said he shares with two other men. Likely, we’re just smelling filth.”
“It amazes me how people live.”
Rokov jingled Ingram’s keys in his hands. “I thought you said you never met an iron you liked.”
“Hey, I might have a few wrinkles, but an extra spin in the dryer takes care of that, and my stuff and my apartment are clean. This is gross.”
“We’ve seen worse.” They moved toward the center hallway to the back bedroom that Ingram said was his. A flip of another light switch revealed a mattress, no box spring, a rumpled quilt, and a pillow. “Ingram said to look for his black jeans.”
“His lucky jeans. Shit.” Sinclair slipped on rubber gloves and then moved to a pile of clothes. With thumb and index finger, she lifted a pair of jeans. “Maybe his luck would be better if he washed them once in a while.”