Read Online Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell - Free Book Online

drugs.”
    “I’m advising you not to say anything unless you sign this waiver.”
    Chuck paused, looked at the form. He snatched the pen off the desk and held it up to them, like he was showing them a magic wand. Then he signed his name. “All right,” he said. “Now look at me and tell me that you think I’m a drug dealer.”
    “The fire was caused by an explosion in a propane tank in your garage,” Epperson said.
    “I don’t have any propane tanks in my garage,” Chuck said.
    “How do you explain the presence of a propane tank, along with acetone, Freon, sodium hydroxide, sulfuric acid and paint thinner?”
    Chuck stared at her. Pieces of a bizarre puzzle started flying around his brain. “I didn’t have any of that stuff. So somebody must have put it there.”
    Mooney said, “And just a coincidence, I guess, that those are items used in the manufacture of methamphetamine.”
    “Right,” Chuck said. “Which I sell to my fifth graders.”
    Epperson said, “I advise against sarcasm, Mr. Samson.”
    “I advise against any of this crap,” Chuck said. “It’s an obvious set up. Have you done any background on me? Why are you into this anyway? I thought you were homicide. You saying I killed somebody?”
    “Who would go to all that trouble to set you up?” Mooney said. “What would be the purpose of that?”
    “You’re the detectives. You tell me.” Chuck watched them both stiffen and didn’t care if they did.
    “If you’re in the clear,” Epperson said, “just answer a few questions for us.”
    “While I’m sitting here under arrest? Real friendly like?”
    “Why not?”
    “Then get on with it.” Chuck was worried about Stan. Wendy would be with him but he knew his brother wouldn’t be calm until they were together again. Maybe if he calmed down himself, got reasonable, they’d spring him.
    Right. And pots of gold are sniffed by unicorns at the end of rainbows.
    “You can just come clean about making the drugs,” Mooney said. “I mean, your life hasn’t exactly been a financial success.”
    Chuck shot him a look. Mooney shot one right back. It was a regular love fest around here, and Mooney was some sort of TV-cop wannabe.
    Chuck said, “I’ve got a job, okay? I teach fifth grade. I like my job. I get along. I want to keep doing that. I’m not going to make meth in my freaking garage. I have a brother I take care of. I’m not going to do anything to mess that up.”
    “Real noble,” Mooney said.
    As Chuck’s fists clenched, Epperson said, “Mr. Samson, are you still on call as a Navy chaplain?”
    “No.”
    “Any reason why not?” Epperson asked.
    “I don’t need my head shrunk, okay? I didn’t do what you think I did. That’s all you need to know.”
    “That’s a great defense,” Mooney said.
    Throwing up his hands, Chuck said, “Get me a lawyer.”
    “Uh-huh,” Mooney said.
    Epperson said, “You want private or the PD?”
    Chuck had exactly $2,323 in combined checking and savings. He was not getting anything from Uncle Sam because of that paperwork snafu on his DD214 discharge form. He wasn’t going to be getting any superstar attorney. But he was not guilty of anything and even a freshly scrubbed law grad should be able to clear things up.
    “PD,” Chuck said.
    “Tomorrow morning,” Epperson said.
    “What about my phone call?”
    “Yes, you can have one phone call.”
    Chuck called Royce Horne. He’d know what to do.

Chapter 17

    His given name is Dragoslav Zivkcovic, first name Serb for glory, but there has been no glory for him in his twenty-eight years. And so he prefers the name he was called since coming to America, Dag Kovak, and even what some others call him, The Dog. That would be a name of respect and fear, but he knows he has not truly earned either, not in the eyes of his father, the only eyes that matter to him.
    The ones who work for his father will call him Dog to his face but behind his back he suspects they mock him. They fear him