Read Online Buried Evidence by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
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him to the nearest hospital. His pants seemed several sizes too large, and his arms were like skinny twigs. Was he one of those street kids? John asked himself. Hollywood was full of them. Many of them were runaways who turned to prostitution to survive. Could that be why his features appeared so soft and feminine? Did he hustle men for sex?
John’s eyes darted to the ice cream parlor, then quickly scanned the parking lot. He didn’t see any customers inside thestore, and the salesclerk looked as if he was tallying up the day’s receipts. He wasn’t wearing his wristwatch, and for all he knew, the clock in the car might be slow and the store had already been closed by the time he reached the parking lot. He took note of the other businesses in the strip shopping center. The anchor, as they called it in real estate terms, was obviously Baskin-Robbins, but there was also a dry cleaners, a sandwich shop, as well as a small boutique. Outside of the ice cream parlor, the other establishments would have closed hours before. He was certain no one had witnessed the accident. He’d been convicted of driving under the influence only the previous month. The consequences would be disastrous if he called the police.
Leaping back into the Mustang, he roared out the opposite entrance to the parking lot. At the first intersection he made a right turn into a residential neighborhood. His chances would be better if he stayed off the main thoroughfares. Picking up his cell phone, he started to dial 911, then quickly disconnected. A police officer might respond in a matter of minutes. Sometimes they were only a block or two away when the dispatcher advised them of an emergency call. He had to be safely out of the area before he did anything. The last thing he wanted was to drive right past the police car. Had the boy seen his face before he’d lost consciousness? Could he have possibly memorized his license plate? Even though he hadn’t seen any blood, he could have suffered internal injuries.
Young people who sold their bodies were asking for trouble, John decided, practically flirting with death. One of his tricks could have killed him, or the kid could have contracted a sexually transmitted disease. If he did decide to own up to what he had done, the police might think he had paid the boy to have sex with him, maybe even intentionally harmed him. With all his other problems, the last thing he needed was to become caught up in an ugly scandal.
The fact that the kid was probably a runaway might work in his favor. That meant there would be no relatives looking for him, at least, not right away. For all he knew, the authorities mightnot even be able to make an identification. The guy had been walking, so maybe he didn’t have a driver’s license.
John decided he would place an anonymous call to the authorities as soon as he got home. No, he corrected himself, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. Shana would hear and ask questions. Besides, the police had equipment that could trace every call. He had almost made a mistake and used his cell phone.
The only solution was to find a pay phone.
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. Perspiration spread across his forehead. His shirt was so wet it felt as if he had just removed it from the washing machine. He tried to focus on the road, but his vision was distorted. Several times he passed over the line into the opposite lane, almost colliding with an oncoming vehicle.
He wasn’t drunk, he told himself. His vision was blurred because Lily had made him crazy. He had been sober when he’d left the house. “You’re lying,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Alcohol was a demon drug, no different than cocaine, speed, even heroin. Once again it had seduced him, lured him into a false state of confidence. How many glasses of Jack Daniel’s had he consumed? All he recalled was tossing an empty bottle into the trash can while he was
John’s eyes darted to the ice cream parlor, then quickly scanned the parking lot. He didn’t see any customers inside thestore, and the salesclerk looked as if he was tallying up the day’s receipts. He wasn’t wearing his wristwatch, and for all he knew, the clock in the car might be slow and the store had already been closed by the time he reached the parking lot. He took note of the other businesses in the strip shopping center. The anchor, as they called it in real estate terms, was obviously Baskin-Robbins, but there was also a dry cleaners, a sandwich shop, as well as a small boutique. Outside of the ice cream parlor, the other establishments would have closed hours before. He was certain no one had witnessed the accident. He’d been convicted of driving under the influence only the previous month. The consequences would be disastrous if he called the police.
Leaping back into the Mustang, he roared out the opposite entrance to the parking lot. At the first intersection he made a right turn into a residential neighborhood. His chances would be better if he stayed off the main thoroughfares. Picking up his cell phone, he started to dial 911, then quickly disconnected. A police officer might respond in a matter of minutes. Sometimes they were only a block or two away when the dispatcher advised them of an emergency call. He had to be safely out of the area before he did anything. The last thing he wanted was to drive right past the police car. Had the boy seen his face before he’d lost consciousness? Could he have possibly memorized his license plate? Even though he hadn’t seen any blood, he could have suffered internal injuries.
Young people who sold their bodies were asking for trouble, John decided, practically flirting with death. One of his tricks could have killed him, or the kid could have contracted a sexually transmitted disease. If he did decide to own up to what he had done, the police might think he had paid the boy to have sex with him, maybe even intentionally harmed him. With all his other problems, the last thing he needed was to become caught up in an ugly scandal.
The fact that the kid was probably a runaway might work in his favor. That meant there would be no relatives looking for him, at least, not right away. For all he knew, the authorities mightnot even be able to make an identification. The guy had been walking, so maybe he didn’t have a driver’s license.
John decided he would place an anonymous call to the authorities as soon as he got home. No, he corrected himself, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. Shana would hear and ask questions. Besides, the police had equipment that could trace every call. He had almost made a mistake and used his cell phone.
The only solution was to find a pay phone.
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. Perspiration spread across his forehead. His shirt was so wet it felt as if he had just removed it from the washing machine. He tried to focus on the road, but his vision was distorted. Several times he passed over the line into the opposite lane, almost colliding with an oncoming vehicle.
He wasn’t drunk, he told himself. His vision was blurred because Lily had made him crazy. He had been sober when he’d left the house. “You’re lying,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Alcohol was a demon drug, no different than cocaine, speed, even heroin. Once again it had seduced him, lured him into a false state of confidence. How many glasses of Jack Daniel’s had he consumed? All he recalled was tossing an empty bottle into the trash can while he was
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