The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3) Brian Shea (good book club books .txt) 📖

knew what they had done, and they reacted accordingly. As he watched the hooded man’s body language, Kelly’s confidence this was their guy increased tenfold.

They were about a football field away from the man. Kelly cut the engine. In the few seconds after he shut off the motor, the cold began to penetrate the windshield.

"I've got a ruse I hope will work. Just follow my lead on this."

"Like I said, I'll read off your play."

Kelly got out, closing the door quietly. Barnes did the same, and they began their soft-footed approach to the man who was still looking away.

When they got closer, he turned and saw them moving along the snow-covered sidewalk. The crunch of their feet was loud in the early evening quiet.

"Are you okay, buddy?" Kelly hollered, now only thirty feet from the man whose eyes widened.

He held his cigarette near his lips, frozen in place. "You talking to me?" The guy spoke quickly. His head jerked from side to side, looking around to see if someone else was nearby. He was a squirrel on a fence post, frantic and unhinged.

"That's our guy," Kelly whispered under his breath.

“You move, I move,” Barnes responded, matching his hushed tone.

"I said, are you all right?" Kelly repeated, loud enough for the man to hear.

"What are you talking about?" Lumpkin asked.

Kelly noted Lumpkin turned his right foot out, away from their approach. He was preparing to run. Body language was the first indicator in a person's thought process. Watch the body, read the mind.

"Somebody said a guy matching your description got hit with a bottle, some type of street fight. Did you get jumped? We're Boston PD."

"You're in no sort of trouble," Barnes offered, playing the supporting role.

His foot turned out further as he lowered the cigarette hand. He was definitely preparing to run.

"We got medics around the corner. We've been looking for you. Trying to find you to see if you're okay. The witnesses said it was really bad." Kelly continued to play the concerned detective card.

"What are you guys talking about? Nobody hit me with a bottle."

With each passing second, Kelly and Barnes were able to close their distance. They were now within ten feet of the man.

"So, you weren't just jumped over there by the park?"

Now the man's eyes contorted with a complex twist of his brow. He was thoroughly confused. The drugs he'd purchased with the money he'd stolen from Palmer were in his system, working against his ability to rationalize and process what was happening. He was being approached by two cops, and he knew that he had murdered a man earlier in the morning. Everything in his body and his mind had to be telling him to run, but Kelly’s questions froze him in place. Kelly did this by design so he could close the gap.

"Maybe we have the wrong guy. Jeez, I don't know. We’re just going off what one of the witnesses said over there. Said it was a pretty nasty fight, guy matching your description." Kelly looked at the man's coat, the same one he'd seen in the ATM video. "Yeah, you match the description, dark coat, hooded sweatshirt underneath."

Five feet and closing.

"There's got to be a million people in this city look like me. It’s like freezin’ out, ya know!"

"Hey, pal, guess you're right. I just had to check. We had to make sure you're not bleeding out. You mind pulling the hood down so I can see your skull?"

"What?" Lumpkin said.

"Listen, man, to be honest, I don't give two craps about you, but I got to be able to tell my sergeant that I did my best, that I at least investigated this bum fight and talked to somebody. He’ll be up my ass if I don't. So, how ’bout you cut me a freakin’ break?"

Kelly played the frustrated detective forced to do grunt work. Easy enough. He'd worked with enough cops who fit the bill. Mainelli would have played this role perfectly, without any acting needed. In hindsight, maybe he should have brought the man with him.

"Piss off," Lumpkin said, stepping back and turning away from them. He gave one last glance toward the homeless shelter before starting to run.

Only a few feet away at this point, Kelly and Barnes gave chase.

The drugged-out man was much slower, and in only a matter of seconds Kelly closed the gap. He didn’t tackle. Years back, he’d learned a trick of the trade. Never tackle when you can push. If you wanted to win the battle with minimal effort, all you had to do was knock the person off balance.

When Kelly was close enough, he struck out with the palm of his hand, hitting Lumpkin in the base of his neck. The impact sent the murderer’s head forward. Ass over tea kettle, the man fell into the snowy hard pack, sprawling out awkwardly before rolling to one side. Kelly and Barnes filled the void.

Kelly dove onto Lumpkin’s back and tried to wrangle the man's hands into submission.

Lumpkin twisted his body to the right. Kelly saw the glint of a knife and shoved himself backward, creating some distance.

"Drop the knife or you’re dead," Barnes commanded. She already had her pistol out. Barnes kicked Lumpkin in the shin hard, getting his attention while keeping the gun at his head.

Kelly stood, stepping beside Barnes and withdrawing his pistol. He’d disregarded the rule: Never cuff until you’ve got control. An overzealous moment that could’ve carried with it a deadly consequence.

Barnes had the man's attention. Lumpkin’s wide, bloodshot eyes bounced between the two guns aiming down at him. The drugs, the confusion of their ruse, and his current predicament of being flat on his back and facing two department-issued Glocks were causing a whirlwind of uncertainty in the man.

Lumpkin grit his teeth and spat, throwing the knife off to the side. It wasn't over until he was in cuffs and searched. Kelly knew this. He lived by these rules, and they kept him alive.

"On your face," Barnes said.

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