The Accident

TWENTY-EIGHT

Slocum answered his cell before the second ring.

“You tracked down that plate?” Sommer asked.

“Jesus Christ, what did you do?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Garber kid’s window?” Darren was practically screaming into the phone. “The girl’s bedroom! Is that how you lean on people? Kill their kids?”

“Did you get the plate?”

“Are you hearing me?”

“The plate.”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that? Unfuckingbelievable.”

“I’m ready to write down the information.”

Slocum tried to catch his breath. He’d been shouting so loud he was nearly hoarse. “The car’s registered to an Arthur Twain. Out of Hartford.”

“An address?”

Slocum gave it to him.

“What’d you find out about him?”

“He’s a detective. Private. With something called Stapleton Investigations.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

Slocum took another breath and did his best to speak calmly. “Listen to me, and listen to me carefully. You can’t go around shooting up kids’ bedrooms. Not just because it’s fucking wrong. It attracts way too much-”

Sommer ended the call.