Read Online Smoke & Mirrors by John Ramsey Miller - Free Book Online

good, if you can.”
    Alphonse Jefferson’s room was by far the least cluttered room in the house. They searched the room, but there was no gun of any kind to be found, only a few pictures of a man at different ages, a wallpapering of nudes torn from magazines, and a framed less-than-honorable discharge sheet from the U.S. Army.
    The clothes hanging in the closet were neatly ordered, with each of the articles in its own dry-cleaning bag. The closet floor was covered with pairs of shoes in every imaginable style and color. Chains and other items of ornamental gold-plated jewelry had been laid out on the dresser as if for display.
    “No rifles,” Winter said after he’d looked under the mattress.
    “I doubt he would keep it here,” Brad said, moving out of the room toward the kitchen.
    A sink hung on the wall in the kitchen beside a rusted refrigerator. Three mismatched chairs surrounded a table piled with food-encrusted dishes. A gas stove, its surface covered with stacked pots and pans, was positioned below partly closed cabinets. On the floor by the back door—beside an overflowing box piled with more dried bits of feline offal than litter—several bags of trash that had been chewed open by tiny teeth waited to be put on the curb.
    Winter saw the bags shift slightly—a movement so subtle he almost missed it. Pulling out the Reeder .45, Winter nudged Brad.
    “I’ve seen enough,” Brad said, taking out his Python.
    Winter and Brad reached down and each took the corner of a trash bag. They jerked the bag up and aimed down at the man curled into a ball on the floor.
    “Okay, Alphonse,” Brad said, “It’s time to take a ride. I want you to stand up slowly. I don’t want to shoot you, but if you do anything but get up slowly and come with us, I will.”
    The young man dressed in a black jogging suit turned his head up slowly, peered at the handguns, and grinned.

17
    “ I AIN’T DID NOTHIN’,” THE SURLY YOUNG MAN SAID when Brad and Winter came into the interrogation room.
    “I haven’t accused you of anything, Alphonse,” Brad said. The file folders under his arm caught Alphonse’s attention briefly.
    “And you better not. I got my rights, and I know a lawyer. Gone sue you and make me a rich man.”
    Alphonse Jefferson was taller than his grandmother. His almond-shaped eyes were an unnaturally light gray, and he had mocha skin with freckles running like a stream of rusty BBs across the bridge of his nose. His lips parted to reveal teeth that were large and even, each one capped with gold-plated snap-ons. His black velvet running suit had burgundy stripes up the pant legs and sleeves of the jacket, which was unzipped to show his hairless chest.
    “You can say it. You know.” He plucked his lapels. “I look good in black.”
    “How do you think you’ll look in prison dress whites?” Brad asked him.
    “Me in prison?” Alphonse barked laughter at the ceiling. “Aw, man. That’s all you know? You ain’t charging me, then I’m on jus’ walk on out of here and get on back to the bid’ness of doing my bid’ness. You dig?”
    Brad placed the file on the table in front of him. “I want to ask you a few questions.”
    “Uh-uh. I’ll be talking to you through the Johnny Cocoh-ran legal firm. Case you missed it, it was him that got O.J. off.”
    “Johnny’s dead. You sure you want to go that route?” Brad asked.
    Alphonse placed his hands flat on the table. “I don’t gots to answer no questions. ’Bout what?”
    “About Sherry Adams.”
    Alphonse turned his attention from Brad and glared up at Winter, who stood arms crossed with his back against the concrete block wall, looking down at Alphonse.
    “What about her?” he asked suspiciously.
    “You’ve been harassing her, Alphonse.”
    “Who told you that? Them fools are all a bunch of no-count lying player haters, ’cause I’m a smooth dude. What I said was, ‘If she had some of what I got, she would be ruint for everybody else.’ You