Read Online Stripped by Brian Freeman - Free Book Online Page A

She pulled open the ashtray. It was unused.
    She heard the back door open.
    “Anything up front?” Cordy asked.
    “Zip.”
    “I’ll check under the seats.”
    Serena saw a flashlight beam scooting like a searchlight on the floor.
    Cordy whistled. “Come to papa,” he said. “Got a piece of paper here. Looks like a receipt.”
    Serena got out of the car and watched Cordy maneuver his arm under the seat. He emerged triumphantly a few seconds later, clutching a two-inch by three-inch white slip in the tiny jaws of a tweezer. He shined the flashlight on the paper, and Serena leaned in with him to get a better look.
    The receipt was from a convenience store somewhere near Reno, more than four hundred miles to the north. Six Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a Sprite at eight in the morning. Breakfast of champions. The receipt was dated more than two weeks prior to the accident.
    “I reckon that’s Mr. Busby now,” Crawford said, as a second patrol car pulled silently into the lot.
    As the car drew closer, Serena could see what looked like a grizzly bear in the front passenger seat. His driver’s license stats didn’t do him justice. Lawrence Busby had to weigh three hundred pounds. He had a moon-shaped face, black hair cut as flat as a pan on top of his skull, and jowls that drooped like the face of a bloodhound. Serena could see a sheen on the man’s ebony face. He was sweating.
    “I bet
his
breasts are bigger than yours, too,” Cordy said, winking.
    Serena fought back a grin. She saw Busby reaching for the door handle, and she held up a hand like a crossing guard stopping traffic in its tracks. The woman cop inside the car spoke sharply to Busby, and Serena saw the whites of his eyes get bigger. He put his hands back in his lap. Now he was sweating and scared.
    Cordy crooked a finger at the cop in the patrol car, who got out and joined them. Serena approached the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She left the door open, then used a button to roll down the passenger window. Cordy came over on that side, leaning his elbows on the door.
    The car stank. Busby was wearing a gigantic Running Rebels T-shirt, and odor wafted from the wet stains at his pits and under his neck. His legs, like tree trunks, grew out of white shorts. Shifting nervously, he passed gas, then mumbled an apology. His eyes darted back and forth between Serena and Cordy.
    “Mr. Busby?” Serena asked. “Is that your car there?”
    Busby nodded. His chins swayed.
    “How long have you owned it?”
    “ ’Bout two months,” Busby mumbled. For a large man, he had a voice so soft that Serena had to strain to hear him.
    Cordy jutted his face through the window. “You fit in that car, man? I wouldn’t think you’d fit in that car. What do you do, steer with that gut of yours there?”
    Busby looked like he was about to cry.
    “That’s enough, Cordy,” Serena said sharply. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Busby?”
    “I’m a chef at the Lady Luck downtown.”
    “A chef!” Cordy hooted. “They ever wonder why the guests look hungry and you got a big smile on your face?”
    Busby meekly shook his head. “I don’t steal nothin’.”
    “Do you work any other jobs?” Serena asked. “Anything to bring in a little extra cash?”
    “No, I’ve been full-time at the Lady Luck for five years.”
    “You ever been to Summerlin, Mr. Busby?”
    “That rich place out west? Don’t think so. No reason to.”
    “You didn’t go out there last Friday afternoon?” Serena continued.
    “No. Like I said, I’ve never been there.” He wiped his forehead with a hand the size of a football. “What’s this all about?”
    “This is about the kid you killed, you lying sack of shit,” Cordy told him.
    Busby shook his head furiously. His eyes got even bigger and whiter. “I never killed nobody.”
    “You ran down a little boy,” Cordy insisted. “Then you ran away like a piece of pussy, didn’t have the balls to tell his mother what you