Goddess of Justice by Dwayne Clayden (mobi ebook reader TXT) 📕

“Roger, 401. Calls being made. I’ll contact Homicide.”

“Negative, dispatch.” Briscoe glanced around the scene. “I’ll notify Homicide.”

Briscoe swung and bumped into Robson.

“Get your partner and push these people back.”

The buzzing was becoming annoying. Brad brushed at his ears, hoping to chase away the mosquito. He pulled the quilt up around his neck. Lobo jumped on the bed and lay close to Brad. What the farmhouse lacked in character, it also lacked in heat. Winter was going to be brutal living here.

The buzzing started again. Brad sat up, pissed off, and shrugged off the covers. He started shivering. Lobo groaned and rolled over, eyes closed. What the heck was that? Beside his head, his pager buzzed and bounced. Brad snatched the pager off the nightstand and glanced at the display. From dispatch—Briscoe wants you to attend a homicide. He swung his feet off the bed onto the icy floor and sat on the edge.

“Get up, sleepy mutt. We’re going to work.”

Lobo stood, yawned, and stretched his front paws. He followed Brad around the house while he changed, got his gun, badge, and a black ball cap to keep his longer-than-regulation hair in check.

“All right, boy. Game on.”

The drive downtown took twenty-five minutes over snow-covered roads and black ice. He could have been to the scene sooner, but he needed a coffee to wake up and warm up. It would be a long night. Brad swung onto Fifth Avenue and quickly came to a police roadblock. Ahead, a bank of lights around a dark car. From the curb across the street, other bright lights pointed toward the car. Ah, lovely. The media is here. He parked behind the accumulated police vehicles and rolled down a couple of windows so Lobo would have fresh air. “I’ll be back, buddy.”

Lobo snored in response.

Brad slid out of the car. It was colder than when he left the farm. Storm coming in. He grabbed his blue parka from the trunk, slipped it on, and replaced his ball cap with a black beanie and gloves. He sipped his coffee as he wandered to the squat form of Briscoe.

“Hello, Sergeant.”

Briscoe stared out from under the fake fur hat at the coffee. “Kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Brad sipped the coffee again. “Ah, that tastes so delicious. Did the victims get deader?”

“What?”

“Are they deader now than when you first called for me?” Brad sipped his coffee.

“No.”

Brad pointed to the Lincoln. “Did you solve the murder?”

“No.”

Brad shrugged. “Then I guess it doesn’t matter whether I got here earlier. You still need me.”

“Fuckin’ rookie.” Briscoe smirked. “My coffee?”

Brad nodded to his black Trans Am. “Over there. Be careful. Lobo is in the back sleeping. You might lose an arm if you disturb him. He hasn’t had a decent bite in months. You know I’m not technically on the roster for homicides.”

“Yup. That’s why I paged you. You need to be doing actual work, not going to classes.”

“Archer will have your ass,” Brad said.

“He’s welcome to it.” Briscoe headed toward Brad’s car, then stopped. “Oh, you might want to get to work quickly. Staff Sergeant Jackson is on his way.”

Brad shouted after Briscoe. “What about an update?”

“You should have thought about that when you left my coffee in your car. Walk around, do your detectiving thing. Then we’ll talk.”

Brad wandered toward the Lincoln. After each step, he re-analyzed the scene. Six- or eight-year-old black Lincoln Continental. The outside was clean, which, in November, was difficult to do. Someone cleaned the car every day. The winter tires had deep tread. Snow and slush had drifted around the tires, so the car hadn’t moved in a few hours. A light skiff of snow had gathered on the roof. Finally, he was at the open driver’s door. Its window was down a few inches. He’d have to ask Briscoe, but Brad had heard that all doors were closed when the cops arrived. So, maybe not as when they found it.

The driver’s upper body was tilted to the right, partly on the passenger seat, his jacket open and showing a shoulder holster and gun. His feet were both to the far left, not a place you would have your feet. That made little sense. If he were the driver and saw the shooter, he’d do one of a few things: reach for his gun, put his hands up hoping to stop the bullet or the shooter, or try to get out.

Brad stepped back. Something else was wrong. His brown eyes swept the inside of the car again. Someone had closed the driver’s eyes. That meant there was contact with the body. He would have to let Sturgeon and his Crime Scene Unit know. Probably the paramedics.

He dialed the clock back an hour. The pimp is in the back-passenger seat of his fancy car. The driver is both chauffeur and bodyguard. If someone approached the vehicle, the driver might roll down his window. If he wasn’t expecting the person, he’d tell them to fuck off. Maybe show off the gun, so they got the message.

Why was the window down a few inches? Brad peered at the pavement beside the car. Cigarette butts. So, the driver was blowing the smoke out the window. Still made little sense. Then why didn’t the killer shoot through the glass?

Because the shooter didn’t have to. The driver opened the door but wasn’t threatened. Who could that be? Hooker? Drug dealer?

Brad surveyed the crowd gathered behind the police tape. A nighttime mix for downtown. A few twentyish adults dressed for a night at a bar, the homeless watching the excitement, and in the shadows, hookers wondering if they’d be able to work again tonight. A couple news vans were pulling in behind the crowd. Briscoe wandered over, sipping his coffee.

“Okay, you’ve had your coffee. Give me an update.”

“Sure.” Briscoe sipped the coffee a few times.

“Today?” Brad crossed his arms.

“Oh, right. 911 calls started coming in