Nocturnal

Cowardice

John Smith checked the caller ID: POOKIE CHANG.

What now? Pookie had just called thirty minutes earlier with that murder-rate research project. John loved Pookie and would always have his back, but truth be told the guy was more than a little too quick to delegate detective work.

John answered. “Pooks, you gotta give a guy a chance. I haven’t even started to search the database yet, let alone start tabulating stuff. This isn’t—”

“John, I need you, right now.”

Pookie never called him John. “What’s happening?”

“Bryan’s having a meltdown. I need you at Erickson’s house, ASAP.”

John looked to his apartment window even though he knew what he’d see — the blackness of night, lit up only by streetlights and the glowing windows across the road.

“It’s dark out,” John said.

“I know it’s dark out, John. Bryan is going in there without a warrant, and if he does, Zou is going to screw him right to the wall. I don’t know if I can stop him on my own — I need your help.”

John stared at the window. Stared and shook his head. He wanted to help Bryan, he did, but it was dark outside and Pookie wanted him to go to the house of a killer?

“Pooks, I … I just can’t.”

“The fuck you can’t! Your black ass would be dead if it wasn’t for Bryan. I’m so sorry for what happened to you, I am, but you get your gun, get on that Harley and move.”

John nodded. Hard to breathe. Bryan needed him. Erickson’s. It wasn’t all that far, not at this hour, using the bike to slide between traffic, if there was any traffic …

“Yeah, okay, I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten,” Pookie said. “And don’t forget your gun. This isn’t about you anymore. Man up, or just stay in your goddamn apartment for the rest of your life.”

Pookie hung up. John closed his eyes tight. Breathe. You have to go, you HAVE to.

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out his Sig Sauer.

His hand was already trembling.