Hush Hush Erik Carter (read any book txt) 📖

wearing a gray T-shirt peppered with holes, a pair of soiled jeans. And a grin.

“Like your options?” the man said, tilting his head toward the prostitutes.

Gavin looked at the women again. They both gave him salacious bats of their eyes. One of them made a crude gesture.

Gavin glanced at the man behind him, then to the suited man. “You know, with all respect to the ladies, this just isn’t what I had in mind.”

The women pouted.

Gavin inched toward the door.

The man in the doorway gave a suspicious look to the suited man, who then stepped closer to Gavin.

“You a cop?” the suited man said.

Before Gavin could reply, the other man closed in as well, drew a pistol.

Gavin gasped.

The man patted him down, found Gavin’s gun and the book, which Gavin had put in his back pocket.

The man stowed Gavin’s Bodyguard then held the book at arm’s length, squinting at the title. “What the hell? A damn kids’ book.”

The suited man joined him in a laugh.

Then the black guy’s expression suddenly changed, his cheeks going slack. He’d turned back the front cover—and noticed something.

“Amber Stokes,” he read from the first page. He glanced up at the suited man. “As in, Amber Lund, that missing girl. They just found her dead!”

“I know, goddamnit,” the other one said. He faced Gavin but continued talking to his associate. “This guy is a cop. “

Gavin tried to say something, couldn’t. Sweat flushed his palms. His leg muscles tightened.

And he thought again of Carlton’s assessment of him. Gavin was living up to every insult his brother had ever hurled at him—the weakling, the poser, the man in over his head.

“A cop??” the black guy said. He lowered his gun. His free hand went up, fingers spreading as far as his eyes had gone wide. “Listen, man, I told that Amber chick when she was here that we don’t know nothing.”

Gavin found his voice.

“So she was here.” He pointed at the hookers. “Looking to join, yes?”

“What? No, man, she wasn’t trying to join. She was just asking about the Oil Man.”

The term resonated with Gavin.

Oil Man.

Amber’s notes, the list in the back of the book. There had been one that said:

Oil Man = Warren

Warren was the fictional police chief of Summerford, but clearly the Oil Man was real.

There had been a note that referred to The Well. And, of course, refined and crude. Code words, prostitution labels traded out for petroleum terms.

The Oil Man must have been the head of the operation.

“But I swear,” the black guy continued, “that’s all I told her, and—”

“Shut up!” the white one yelled. “Don’t tell this asshole anything.”

“Dude’s a cop!” the other one insisted. “And he’s investigating Amber Lund.”

The suited one narrowed his eyes, stepped closer to Gavin.

“No. He’s no cop. Cops carry badges. They have to. This one’s a private investigator. Aren’t you?”

Gavin’s heart thundered in his chest.

The suited man motioned for his associate, who closed in on Gavin from behind.

The prostitutes lost their salacious grins. They hopped from their chairs and hurried to the back corner of the room, high heels thumping on the thin carpet, and crouched behind the desk, preparing for something bad.

“Yeah, this guy’s a private eye,” the suited man continued. A dark smile flashed over his face. “And no one’s gonna come looking for him.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Silence gripped the sticky vinyl wrapping on the steering wheel as the Fiero hurtled down the street, back to Beasley’s townhouse.

Ahead, Jonah sat on the sidewalk, knees at his chest, arms wrapped around them, a small crowd of helpful individuals gathered nearby.

Silence zipped past the group, reached his left hand to the side of his seat, and tugged the parking brake. The Fiero screamed as it swung around to the opposite direction. He pushed back against the wave of centrifugal force, shoving both hands against the steering wheel, pressing his back into the musty seat, stabilizing himself. Screams from the group surrounding Jonah.

He burped the gas, pulled the Fiero to the curb, brought it to a screeching halt right by the crowd, who stepped away, some of them jeering at him. He popped the passenger door open, revealing Jonah, who stared at him slack-jawed.

“Get in,” Silence said.

Jonah reluctantly, painfully pulled himself off the concrete and climbed into the passenger seat.

As soon as he was in, Silence dropped the clutch, and the Fiero shot off, not even giving Jonah a chance to shut the door. The car’s momentum did the trick, shutting the door with a loud thud. Jonah yanked his arm and leg out of the way.

He then leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, groaned.

“I’m doing fine,” he said. “Thanks so much for asking.”

“Hear?” Silence pointed upward. Sirens. In the distance, getting louder. He swallowed. “No time for self-pity.”

“Of course,” Jonah said, touching the bloody bulge on the side of his head. “How silly of me.”

Silence took the next corner hard, around the block of townhouses, shifting Jonah in the passenger seat.

After another few feet, he pulled the Fiero around another corner, just as aggressively, into the alley between the opposite-facing rows of houses.

Jonah’s mouth fell open as he looked out the window. “What the hell are you doing?? Cops are coming!”

Silence didn’t respond. He leaned over the steering wheel and looked out beneath the top edge of the windshield, found the right building, brought the car to a sudden stop that sent Jonah into the dash.

He put the stick in neutral, yanked the parking brake, and stepped outside, leaving the engine running.

While the fronts of the townhouses were unique, the unified backside of the connected homes was a long stretch of sameness—pure white broken up by windows and backdoors with stairs.

Silence ran up a set of steps, climbed to a door beneath a portico.

The sound of the passenger door shutting. Jonah’s voice behind him. “Brett!”

Silence tried the door. Locked. With no time for anything subtler, he kicked. Hard. The doorframe splintered violently, loudly, spiky fingers of freshly shorn wood fanning out from the impact.