Knockoff Rembrandt Chapter Two - a mystery thriller

CHAPTER TWO

“We haven’t booked him yet,” the cop behind the desk told Jake.

His name was Warner, a big corn fed boy that let a lot of muscle go soft sitting ten hours of his twelve hour shift.

Warner had bored eyes and a slight sneer, like he’d seen it all and heard it all and nothing Jake said could persuade him.

They had talked before.

“If he’s not under arrest, I’m here to pick him up.”

Warner grunted and ran the tip of a fat finger across the computer screen on the desk.

“Says we’re transporting him to Little Rock.”

“On an in town charge?”

“That’s what it says.”

Jake turned to Deonte.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why they carrying him up to Little Rock?”

Jake shook his head.

“What else does it say?”

“Says you can’t talk to him.”

“It doesn’t say that.”

“No,” said Warner. “I do. We’re bringing him out and putting him in the truck, so you need to clear out.”

“How long?” Jake asked.

He wasn’t panicking, not yet, but there were wheels in motion he didn’t understand.

That was the hard part of doing law as a favor.

A lot of the people he dealt with had histories, and associates of Deonte sometimes had multiple histories.

It was tough to tell which layer he was dealing with.

Give that with a history with the police, and Unc might be going an hour north for his own safety.

Or they might have a second bigger charge waiting for him.

He would have to find out more.

“Outside,” Warner ordered them through the double doors and a transport truck pulled up at the same time they stepped out.

It parked next to the Caprice, the old favorite police car, replaced by Dodge Chargers as city budgets made the rounds at local dealerships.

“Don’t make sense,” Deonte said as they leaned against the hood of the Caprice.

A set of cops got out of the transport van and opened the doors. They stood on either side and waited.

The double doors to the subbasement opened and two more uniforms stepped out. One walked backward, a shotgun barrel aimed at Deonte’s Uncle.

Jake thought the other two in the back were overkill.

The man was up on a murder charge, and being transported, but six cops seemed three too many.

The two behind him stood at either elbow, tight grips steering the man toward the van.

Unc towered over them, a broad man. The cops next to him looked like kids playing pretend, even with his thick wrists chained in front of him.

He wore a black suit like Deonte, red shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and grinned at his nephew resting on the car.

Jake watched the big man’s shoulders relax.

They might not be able to speak yet, to find out what’s going on and make a plan, but the perp walk let him know people were on it.

“Unc,” Deonte called out.

“Nephew.”

“Quiet,” the cop with the shotgun barked.

The heel of his boot caught on a crack in the pavement, and he tripped backwards.

Jake watched him fall. Watched him land hard on his ass, with a jangle of keys and a meaty thunk.

Heard the shotgun go off.

Saw the top of Unc’s head disappear, a mist of red goo splatter on the two cops beside him.

The cop with the shotgun kept falling back, the recoil of the gun going off sending him down.

The butt of the weapon hit again, and sent a second shot into the chest of the cop on the right.

It happened fast.

Bam. Bam.

Two seconds, two dead.

Deonte’s Uncle toppled into the cop on the left, heavy weight dragging him down as the cop on the right was blasted backwards.

Then it was chaos, as the screaming began.

Deonte screamed.

The cops by the van, the one on the ground under the dead body, the one with the shotgun.

Jake knew the screaming would stop, but at that moment, it seemed like it never would.

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