BECOMING — Chapter Seven

by Patrick Baggatta

It had been four hours since we let Warner Lynch leave with a head full of questions. I was banking on him taking at least that long to do his own ruminating before setting out for answers.

Hammond was proving surprisingly good at holding his liquor and his edge for the work. I wasn’t sure yet if this was a good thing or not. When I finally got tired of deflecting case questions, I excused myself and made a private call to the station.

“Let’s go,” was all I had to say when I got back. Hammond was up and heading toward the door in a flash. It wasn’t until we were in the car that he even bothered to ask where we were going. He was like a dog that way, happy to be along for the ride.

“God damn right,” he shot back, when I finally told him where we were going.

I blocked a driveway a few doors down from Lynch’s house and killed the lights.

“Which one is it?” Hammond asked.

I pointed out a two story Edwardian, nothing special. You could find at least one like it on just about any block in the city. There were no lights in the front, but a faint glow from deep inside said someone was home. The light was most likely from the kitchen or bedroom. I scanned the street for Lynch’s car, another detailed I’d collected on my call. There was no sign of it.

“I’m going to check something,” I told Hammond. “Stay here.” I slid out of the car sticking to the shadows as I made my way to the garage. I peered in, but it was too dark to see anything. Suddenly, a car horn blared behind me and I turned to see a pissed-off neighbor unable to get out of his own garage because of where I’d parked.

Hammond jumped out of the car and flashed his badge for the whole neighborhood to see. So much for keeping a low profile.

Just then Lynch’s garage door lurched to life, rolling up with a terrible clatter. “Shit!” I hustled back to the car where Hammond was yelling at the neighbor.

“Hammond, come on,” I ordered as I dove back into the car.

Lynch played it off like he didn’t see us as he drove past, but I caught a flash of panicked recognition and a slight swerve to go with it. It wasn’t how I’d wanted to play it, but it was what it was. A good plan is flexible if nothing else.

“Was that Lynch?” Hammond asked. I balled my fist for the second time in our brief partnership. “Well, are we gonna follow him?”