Don't Talk to Strangers: A Novel (Keye Street, Band 3) - Softcover

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Amanda Kyle Williams was the author of the Keye Street thriller series, including The Stranger You Seek, which was nominated for both a Townsend Award for Fiction and a Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, The Stranger in the Room, and Don’t Talk to Strangers. She died in 2018.

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1

I squinted through about a million tiny crystal--like dings as the late--day sun landed on my windshield. I’d been sitting here for an hour. Waiting. I do that a lot. I had an address and a hunch. That was about it. That’s about it most of the time.

My name is Keye Street. I am a detective, private, a bail recovery agent, a process server, and a former criminal investigative analyst for the FBI. And when I say former, I mean fired. Capital F. The Bureau likes their profilers sober.

I dropped the doughnut in my hand into the green--and--white Krispy Kreme box on the passenger’s seat and peered through the smoggy dusk of another hot August night. The house, like the others on the street, had been stamped out sometime in the 1960s with a builder’s cookie--cutter eye, a starter home—-one--story brick, two bedrooms, one bath, a thirty--six--inch picture window to the right of the front door, bedrooms on the left end, a quarter acre of grass with poured concrete driveways. The trees that must have been saplings when the neighborhood sprang to life now shaded the street and rooftops against the unyielding southern sun. But they didn’t do anything to take the steam out of the air. Like most neighborhoods this time of year, the whir of condensing units fighting to push cool air through the ductwork was the background music.

I let the sun sink lower, slipped out, closed my car door quietly, and headed down the sidewalk. Four doors down, I veered left and worked my way along a driveway lined with droopy hydrangeas. They looked like they could use a drink. I know the feeling.

A light clicked on inside the house, and I saw him through the picture window. He was sitting in his living room, a Styrofoam box in his left hand, a remote control in the right, facing a television that was too big for the room. I edged closer to the house, saw him push back in his La--Z--Boy. On the big TV, the Braves were playing the Dodgers at Turner Field. There was a ’69 Dodge Charger in the carport, orange and black. The muffler needed a little work. He’d rumbled past me a few times this week. Hot vehicle, though, if you have an eye for muscle cars. I do. I’d grown up with them and the guys who drove them hard on Friday nights in Georgia.

I moved around to one of the bedroom windows. The house looked empty except for Jeremy Coleman. I was hoping his bail--jumping brother would be here. Ronald Coleman was charged with shooting a man while stealing his car in the parking lot of a Krystal hamburger joint. He then held up the drive--thru for five cheese Krystals and an order of fries while the car’s owner staggered through the lot begging for help. Great guy, that Ronald Coleman. Coleman’s court date must have slipped his mind. A little thing like aggravated assault with the intent to kill, armed robbery, and carjacking can do that. I’d been watching Jeremy on and off for the last week, hoping Ronald would show up. The family history told me the brothers were close. It was Jeremy Coleman who had pulled together ten percent of the $140K the state required for the bail money. Not easy for a working--class guy with a two--stall garage and a Monday--through--Friday classic auto restoration business. I was betting if anyone knew where Coleman was, it was his little brother Jeremy. About a week ago I would have bet the burger--eating creep would have shown up by now. So much for hunches.

I passed overgrown shrubs to a weedy backyard with grass tall enough to have gone to seed, the perfect environment for the mosquitoes to come out to play. Nice and dark and moist. I held on to a brick ledge and tiptoed to see inside the back bedroom. Jeremy slept in the front, I knew. If he had a guest, this would serve as the guest room. The bedroom door was open, and just enough light seeped in to let me know the room was empty. The bed was made. Everything looked exactly like it had the other five times I’d peeked inside. My hands and neck were stinging. Mosquitoes like dark clothes and dark hair too. I had both.

I headed back down the side of the house. The front door opened as I turned the corner. I stopped cold. Movement is what pops out at you at night. The eye catches it when it misses everything else. I stood dead--still in the shadows. Jeremy was on the front porch locking up with a fat, jingly key ring. He was still wearing his work clothes, navy--blue pants and shirt, mechanic--style with a name patch over the left breast pocket. I watched him get in his car. As soon as the engine started, I hightailed it through the yard and up the sidewalk to mine, a dingy Plymouth Neon with a dent in the hood—-you don’t want to spy on a guy who restores vehicles for a living in something flashy. So my white--on--white 1969 Impala convertible was at home in the parking garage. Missing me, I thought warmly. I’d had the car since high school. And my mother says I can’t commit.

Jeremy was braking at the stop sign at the end of the block when I pulled out. I switched the headlights off until he turned. And then I kept my distance. An old orange--and--black Charger allows you that luxury. The taillights are distinctive—-two long red bars. Also, this guy was about as unpredictable as the Golf Channel. Mostly he watched television in a recliner with a take--out carton in his lap he’d brought home after work. But tonight it looked like my diligence was going to pay off. He drove right past the liquor store on the corner, the bar up the street, and the grocery store—-the only places he’d been all week other than work and his own living room.

I tailed him to a convenience store and watched him buy a carton of cigarettes. Jeremy didn’t smoke. My hopes were high. I followed him down Ponce de Leon to a Wendy’s on Scott Boulevard and watched him go through the drive--thru. Next stop: a motel off Church Street sandwiched between car dealerships. It was the kind of place the Bureau put their agents on assignment—-stucco façade, two levels of crappy carpeting, and a great view of the parking lot. He got out with the cigarettes and a bag of fast food under his arm and climbed concrete steps at the corner of the building. He stopped at the fourth door. I picked up binoculars and checked the number. Two Twenty--Eight. Maybe I’d play that one in the lottery tonight.

I couldn’t see who was behind the door when it opened, but I was feeling fairly confident it was Jeremy’s fast--food--eating brother, Ronald. I slipped into a Kevlar vest and a lightweight black jacket that identified me as bond enforcement in big yellow letters and walked into the management office.

“My name’s Keye Street. Bond enforcement.” I slapped my identification on the counter. “Mind telling me who’s in Two Twenty--Eight?”

“I don’t want any trouble.”

I smiled, took my ID back. “That makes two of us.”

“We just renovated,” the clerk told me.

“Understood,” I said. We exchanged a long look. I waited him out. Finally, he fingered his keyboard.

“Coleman,” he said. “Jeremy.”

Just as I thought. Jeremy had gotten the room for his brother and now he was delivering food and cigarettes. A lot of cigarettes. Either Ronald was a chain smoker or he was about to take off. “When’s he checking out?”

“Tomorrow,” the clerk told me. “You’re not going to shoot up the place,...