“Come downstairs, honey. Expect the unexpected. Yep, that’s what I said. Be ready for anything.”
Chapter 39
YUKI’S DATE WAS SITTING next to her in a booth at Renegade, an elegant waterfront restaurant in SoMa with a full view of the Bay Bridge. A floor-to-ceiling waterfall sheeted down a copper wall behind him. His thigh was touching hers, his sun-bleached hair, combed back and cut straight, was falling loose around his collar, and he was telling her about the last case he’d worked in Miami.
Yuki was mesmerized by the sound of his voice.
“Guy runs out of a bank with dynamite strapped to his ch
est, duffel bag over his shoulder. He gets into his car, guns the engine and — plows into the car right in front of him.”
“On, no. Come onnn,” Yuki said.
“Yeah, he did,” Jackson Brady said. “Rams his Chevy into the trunk of this Honda. Then he backs up and peels out, and the guy in the Honda calls the cops. Honda got a good look at Mr. Dynamite and he’s got a partial plate on the Chevy.”
“Whoa. Way to go.”
“Meanwhile, the teller has pulled the alarm, and now a caravan of cops takes off after the Chevy and finds it abandoned in a canal off the side of the road. The so-called dynamite is in the front seat, made out of painted dowels and wire. But anyway, the guy stole four grand, and they have his plate number, his address, and so on. His name is Timberland Carson and there’s an outstanding warrant on him, armed robbery of a convenience store.”
Brady stopped and took a swig of his beer.
“Don’t stop now,” Yuki said. She sipped her drink. Just sipped it. It was delicious, but she did not want to get drunk on her second date in one week with Jackson Brady.
“So now I catch the case because the convenience store robbery was mine,” Jackson continued. “We go to Carson’s apartment, pound on the door,” Jackson said, punching the air to demonstrate. “‘Miami PD. Open up, Mr. Carson.’
“Carson opens the door. ‘Oh, you found my car already? I was just going to report it stolen.’”
Brady laughed and Yuki laughed along with him. Brady had great timing and he could mimic voices. What a howl.
Brady said, “Meanwhile, I can see the car keys with the little Chevy fob on it hanging from the hook next to the door. I say, ‘Anyone else here, Mr. Carson?’
“‘No,’ he says, and so now we’re in the house. He’s got to let us in because he’s the victim. Someone boosted his car, right? So my partner puts Carson up against the wall, says, ‘You’re under arrest for that convenience store.’ While he cuffs Carson, I’m looking around for the bank bag full of cash. There’s nothing in plain sight, but I can see that the lock on the bedroom door is busted,” Brady told her.
“I push it open with my shoulder, and Carson’s roommate — who isn’t supposed to be there — flies off the bed into the crack between the mattress and the wall.”
“Hel-lo.”
“Yeah. Hello, roommate — and on the bed is a suitcase full of weapons — guns and knives, like a booth at a flea market.”
“You’ve got your gun out?” Yuki asked.
“Yeah, and I’m aiming at the bed, yelling, ‘Come outta there, hands in the air.’ You know. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ And the guy pops up with a semiautomatic, says, ‘I can kill you. Maybe both of you. Or you can let me leave.’
“I’m yelling, ‘Put down your weapon, put down your weapon.’ But the idiot fires, bullets go through the doorway, and in the second before I return fire, he’s put a shot into Carson’s ear.”
“Holy crap. So you shot the roommate?” Yuki asked.
Brady said, “Yeah. Damn right. I had to do it.”
“So, two guys dead.”
“Ah, look at me telling you war stories.”
“I like hearing your war stories,” Yuki said.
“Uh-oh,” Brady said. “Because they say what you like about a person when you meet them is what drives you crazy about them later on.”
Yuki laughed. “I’m not worried,” she said. Then she added, “You wanted me to know you killed someone. Why?”