Second Chance

Chapter 98

FRANK COOMBS leaned stiffly against a pay phone on the corner of Ninth and Bryant. His eyes were riveted on the Hall of Justice. It had all been leading here.

The pain in his shoulder cut through his body as if someone were probing at the edges of the wound with a scalpel.

For two days he had kept undercover, slipping down to San Bruno, hiding out. But his picture was on the front page of every paper. He had no money. He couldn't even go back and get his things.

It was almost two o'clock. The afternoon sun pierced his dark glasses. There was a crowd on the front steps of the Hall. Lawyers huddling in discussions.

Coombs took in a calming breath. Hell, what do I have to be afraid of? He continued to stare toward the Hall of Justice.

They should be afraid.

The service revolver was holstered to his waist, thanks to old faithful, Tom Keating. The clip was filled with hollow points. He extended his shooting arm. Okay. He could do this.

Coombs turned toward the pay phone. He placed a quarter in the slot and dialed. No more second chances. No more waiting. This was his time. Finally, after twenty-two years in hell.

On the second ring, a voice answered, “Homicide Detail.”

“Put me through to Lieutenant Boxer.”