School of Fish (Fish Out of Water #6) - Amy Lane Page 0,33

and the other two kids?”

Fetzer’s eyes went so wide, the whites showed all around the irises. “Two others?”

“Yeah. I know this kid. He has a brother and sister, look a lot like he does—sort of sandy hair, small pretty faces, big gray eyes. Girl dyed a pink stripe in her hair, but it might have washed out.”

“But…. Jimmy, you remember, right?”

“Yeah,” Hardison said. “His father—we went in to arrest the kid, and his father starts to wail, loud, in English. He’s all, ‘My son! My son! My only child, my son!’”

Jackson’s breath stopped. “Oh, I think we have a motive,” he said, not sure he even should have spoken.

“For killing the bigger kid?” Fetzer asked, horrified.

“No, for lying about it.” He watched as they both met horrified gazes and saw the dawning comprehension steal across their faces.

“Someone’s got his brother?” Hardison asked.

“And sister,” Jackson added. “That’s what his father was trying to tell him. Not to say anything.”

“Because whoever killed the big guy with no neck…,” Hardison began.

“Has the younger kids,” Fetzer picked up. She frowned. “But who? And how do we even start?”

Jackson held up his phone. “Maybe give me your number first,” he said, “and I’ll send you this kid’s picture and prints. His name is Sergio Ivanov, but people call him Ziggy, and you need to run his prints through your computer and tell your lieu that you have a lead on the guy who knifed a cop. One of you go do that right now while I pick the other guy’s brains, because I’ve got a timetable and punching the time clock is not on the agenda. Let’s talk.”

Hardison rattled off his cell, and Jackson texted him the info before the big guy lumbered out of the room.

Fetzer broke out her notebook and her own phone, and they got down to business.

Twenty minutes later, Hardison walked back into the room, and Jackson’s phone was absolutely bursting with addresses and contacts. He and Henry were going to be running their asses off tomorrow.

“Chambers briefed?” Jackson asked.

Hardison shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, I gave her the information and told her it came from a credible source, but… well, she’s a transfer. She doesn’t know you from fucking Bambi, and she said she’d take the info under advisement.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Famous fucking last words,” he muttered. “Well, when we’re done here, I suggest you go back and tell her why she might want to listen.” He turned back to Fetzer, wondering if he was going to have to tell these two well-meaning, reasonably intelligent police officers about Ty Townsend in order to secure their cooperation.

He hated the idea—he really did. Galen’s advice was sound—and bringing Ty into it went against his first instincts. But God, there were too many balls in the air here for him to keep that one spinning when he might just maybe be able to trust someone else to handle it. If he could get these two cops to intervene, maybe they could get Lindstrom and Craft to drop the case.

“So about the Townsend kid,” Jackson said delicately. “Do you guys really think he did it?” And now that Hardison was back in the room, he was treated to the vibrating eyeball schtick again. He gave a sigh and swung his leg back over the chair, standing up and stretching while he waited for an answer.

“You know who the arresting officers were,” Fetzer said mildly.

Jackson nodded and moved his hands over his head, taking care to stretch out his chest and upper back. Physical therapy was important for heart patients too. “I do know,” he said. “I was wondering if you had… opinions.”

Hardison rolled his eyes, and then he and Fetzer shared one of those speaking glances again. “Of course we got fuckin’ opinions,” Hardison said finally. “But you don’t speak ill of the department outside of the department.”

Jackson thought about leaving it alone for a nanosecond, and then his hands found his hips and his mouth opened all by itself. “That was so much comfort when I was lying in my hospital bed for a year, and I had one fucking visitor from the department,” he said and then wished for a ball gag, just to make things kinky and uncomfortable.

This time, they couldn’t meet each other’s eyes. Or Jackson’s. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen to the Kryzynski kid,” Hardison said gruffly. “We already promised.”

“Good,” Jackson said, straddling the chair again. “Because our firm is full up on PIs, and