Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,27

his pistol, he was ready to clear the leather holster and begin a methodical search.

The man reappeared out of the shadows and sprinted into the pool of light emitted by the next house. Sinclair continued the chase. The man ran down the long driveway of a house that fronted Brockhurst Street, the next street north. He was starting to lose steam. Except for the initial sprint, Sinclair had been pacing himself, steadily gaining on the man as he tired. When the man popped out of the yard and hit the street, Sinclair was only thirty feet behind him.

Hoover Elementary School took up the entire block on the opposite side of the street. A ten-foot metal fence, which was topped with outward-facing rods specifically designed to keep the gangsters and drug dealers off the property, surrounded the entire school ground. Had the man been from this neighborhood, he would have known that, too. In the darkness, he nearly ran into the fence. At the last second, he turned and ran up the sidewalk paralleling the school fence. Sinclair was only three steps behind.

Sinclair saw the headlights of a car speeding toward them and heard the unmistakable sound of the police interceptor engine. Braddock shot past them and stopped in the middle of the street to block the suspect’s path. The man cut left, ran diagonally across the street, and made a valiant attempt to escape into the backyards once again.

Sinclair burst forward and grabbed the man’s left shoulder just as the man’s foot hit the slick grass of a front yard. Sinclair pulled him down and back. He finished the tackle by wrapping his right arm around the man’s chest, and using his forward momentum, he threw his full weight onto the man’s back.

Sinclair heard a “whoosh” as the air rushed from the man’s lungs when Sinclair’s 170-pound frame slammed the man to the ground. He grabbed the man’s right hand and twisted it behind his back. Braddock dropped her knee into the man’s back and twisted the suspect’s left hand behind his back. They handcuffed him and pulled him to his feet just as two marked units pulled up.

The uniformed officers took over, pulled the Hispanic man to the nearest marked unit, and searched him. One officer pulled a rusted, blue-steel revolver from the man’s waistband, snapped open the cylinder, and handed it to Sinclair.

“Not even loaded,” the officer said.

Sinclair examined the .38 Rossi snub nose. Even brand new, Rossi revolvers weren’t worth much, and with the heavy rust pitting the barrel and frame, it wouldn’t fetch more than fifty dollars on the street. Even in that condition, though, Sinclair had little doubt the gun would fire. “What’re you doing with this?” asked Sinclair.

The man said nothing. The officer continued searching him and handed Sinclair a folded piece of paper he pulled from the man’s pants pocket. It was a property receipt from Santa Rita Jail in the name of Eduardo Rodriquez.

“Eduardo, what were you in jail for?” Sinclair asked.

“No speak English,” Eduardo replied.

“Bullshit,” replied Sinclair. To the officer, he said, “Stuff him in your car. Let’s regroup back at the Honda.”

Sinclair climbed into the passenger seat of his car. As Braddock drove, he retrieved a wad of paper towels from the glove box and dried his face and hands.

Braddock glanced his way and laughed. “You’re a mess. But was it fun?”

Water trickled off his head and down his neck. “Chasing bad guys—that’s what they pay us for. Just wish I was dressed for it.” His pants and the front of his shirt were soaked. Mud caked the knees of his pants and his shoes.

Another uniformed officer was searching the Honda Accord when they pulled up. Sinclair grabbed his fedora and stepped out into the rain.

The uniform said, “The car was stolen from a parking lot in Dublin between noon and one. I found a wallet with ID in the name of Eduardo Rodriquez under the seat. Picture matches our guy. I ran him out. He just did sixty days for probation violation on a burglary. Was released this morning from Santa Rita. Also a bag of weed and some rolling papers in the car’s door pocket.”

“Gotta love it,” Sinclair said. “Guy gets released, steals a car, finds a gun, and a few hours later he’s back in handcuffs.”

“I guess that means he couldn’t’ve killed your victim two nights ago,” the uniformed officer said.

“I appreciate you pointing that out after I chased the asshole through the rain and mud and