Dead Fall by Matt Hilton Page A

witnesses this time. Admittedly that plan was a bit too harsh. Plus, to do such would ensure that I was the one that the police sent to prison for the rest of my life.
    My friend, Jared Rington, had cautioned me against doing anything rash. But then Rink’s always more level-headed than me. He prefers to think things through, formulate a plan, and initiate it when the time is right. I’ve always been the go for broke, fly by the seat of my pants, kind of guy. And in the past, what I’ve lacked in subtlety I’ve gained in a healthy dose of luck and daring. But Rink was correct this time: if I went to O’Neill’s penthouse carrying this much anger, then the inevitable ending would see one or all of us taking a fall—quite literally for some.
    It was an effort to dampen down the urge to take violence to O’Neill, but I managed. I soothed my ego with the old adage that revenge is a dish best served cold. It worked for a while.
    Then Candice Berry turned up dead and the rage surged afresh through my veins.
    â€œ W HAT ARE YOU doing here, Hunter?”
    I pursed my lips at Detective Holker’s question, didn’t bother with an answer because whatever I said wouldn’t soothe him.
    â€œStay back behind the line, goddamnit, this is a crime scene.” Holker waved over a man-mountain of a uniformed cop. “Make sure this asshole doesn’t step a foot nearer my scene.”
    â€œNice to see you, too, Detective Holker,” I said.
    The uniform posted himself in front of me, crossing arms like hams on his chest. He was a humorless kind of guy, I could tell, and big enough to ruin most people’s day. He wasn’t large enough to block all of the view. Candice Berry was under a white sheet, but I could tell from the blood seeping through it that her death hadn’t been easy.
    â€œWhat happened to Candice, Detective?” I asked.
    Holker shook his head wearily. He shoved a latex-gloved hand through his salt and pepper hair and approached me. He placed the same hand on the big uniform’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “I’ll handle this, Buck.”
    The big cop grunted in monosyllables, but moved aside.
    â€œJoe, you being at my crime scene isn’t helping.” Holker was shorter than I, but not by much. His Cuban heels helped balance the disparity and he studied me eye-to-eye. “How’d you even know what happened to Candice? I’ve only been here minutes.”
    â€œNews travels fast on the streets,” I said, “especially when it’s bad news. Candice Berry was much loved by her friends and neighbors.”
    â€œ ‘Much loved’ being the operative words. She was a hooker, Hunter.”
    â€œIt was her way of making a living, supporting her kids,” I corrected. “Being a hooker doesn’t make her a bad person.”
    Holker shrugged, but the move didn’t do much to stir the shoulders of his overly large suit. Holker had lost some poundage since last I’d seen him. Didn’t look in the best of health. But then, when you make a living from violent death and chasing down the scumbags responsible, you could be forgiven for not looking your best.
    â€œYou scanning the police channels, Hunter? Tell me you’re not like those other ambulance-chasing parasites who call themselves private eyes these days?”
    â€œNever chased an ambulance in my life, and I don’t call myself a private eye, neither.”
    â€œBut you’re not denying scanning our radio traffic?”
    I held up my empty palms, shook my head. I was telling the truth. It was one of my work mates at Rington Investigations, Raul Velasquez, who’d given me the heads-up on Candice’s murder. “I just happened to be passing,” I said, and this time I was lying through my teeth.
    Holker squinted around the grimy alleyway between two warehouses off Guy N. Verger Boulevard, close enough to McKay Bay that the