Read The Prophet (Ryan Archer #2) for Free Online Page A

The house was modest middle class. The lawn was cut but lacked any true love or attention. Archer guessed the mom paid a couple of Mexican’s twenty bucks every other week to mow it.  
    He glanced around at the neighboring houses. The neighborhood appeared appropriately middle class and forgettable. He went onto the front porch. The blinds in the window were closed. He rang the doorbell and waited a full minute. Then he rang it again and knocked. Still no answer. He drifted back to his truck and plucked the photos from the visor. The girl matching Cory’s description was in two of them. She had a tattoo on her neck.  
    Two doors down a kid in jeans but no shirt had the hood up on an old Camaro, on his back underneath, working with a wrench. Archer got back out of the truck to take another walk.
    The kid looked about twenty. His hair was ratty and there were streaks of grease on his chest. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.
    “Wow, that thing is a classic, man,” Archer said, whistling through his teeth, approaching from the top of the driveway.
    The kid looked out from under the car. “Hell yes, it is,” he proclaimed proudly.
    Archer had never seen such a piece of junk. There was rust everywhere, and the paint job had been fading for nearly thirty years.
    “Sweet ride,” Archer said.
    The kid twisted out from under the car and stood beside him, both men staring at the sad-looking engine block.  
    Archer gestured with his head. “The girl who lives two doors down. Cory. You know her?”
    The kid was still transfixed by the sight of his ancient Camaro. He hesitated a beat, considering the question posed to him. “Cory?”
    Archer nodded. “Blonde. Pretty.”
    The kid shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. We don’t hang out or anything.”
    “Is she home much? You know where she hangs out? Her mother is worried about her.”
    “Whatever, man. Her mother is a bitch,” the kid said.
    “I’m sure that’s true, but she still worries about her. Does she bring boys home? You ever see her with guys here at the house while her mother is at work?”
    He shrugged again, his eyes betraying the vacancy of his mind. There wasn’t much going on in there. “Sure, I guess. The dude from the movie theater. Stevie. I’ve seen them together. He brings her home in an old Volvo.”
    “What theater?”
    “El Capitan, dude. On Hollywood Boulevard.”
    “Stevie?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Get back to work,” Archer said and returned to his truck.
    He found the Volvo parked in the employee parking area at the El Capitan and stuffed the photo of Cory into his back pocket. He asked a girl at the box office to point out Stevie. She told him he worked the concessions. Stevie was filling an enormous tub with buttered popcorn when Archer approached the counter.
    “Stevie?” Archer said.
    Stevie wasn’t much up the food chain from the kid with the Camaro, though he was slightly preppier, with a better haircut. He was too old to be spending time with a girl Cory’s age.
    “Yah.”
    “Have one of your buddies there fill your spot for a minute so we can talk.”
    Stevie offered a puzzled look. “What? Who are you?”
    “We will deal with that momentarily. Right now, you need to slide around the counter and walk over there,” Archer said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
    Stevie hesitated, staring at the heaping tub of popcorn in his hands, then his eyes lifted to Archer, then shifted to one of his fellow employees. He was slightly effeminate, with a black button stuck in a hole in the lobe of one ear.  
    “I can’t, I’m working,” he said.
    “I cleared it with your boss. You’ve got three minutes. Let’s go.”
    Stevie nodded. “One second, let me finish this.”
    Archer waited for the popcorn transaction to be completed, then ushered Stevie into a nearby restroom.
    “Let’s talk about your girlfriend,” Archer said, cornering him against a restroom stall.
    “What’s this about?”
    “Tell me about Cory.”
    Stevie’s face