Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society by R.D. Hunter (pdf e book reader TXT) 📕

Don’t get me wrong. Most of the guys in the S.C.C. were good eggs. I’d even worked with several of them in the past. I had a suspicion that it was only two or three of them devoted to making my life hell, and they were spearheaded by none other than my own Lt. Rick Calloway.

Sure, I could have gone above his head, reported him and his cohorts to the head of the department, Captain Barker, who had a reputation for being fair and looking after his people. But that wasn’t the way I did things. When I had a problem, I handled it my way. I didn’t run to the nearest authority figures and bawl my eyes out, waiting for a big, strong man to ride in on his trusty steed and save me. Screw that. They’d get theirs.

Of course, that was before I came in and saw what had once been my desk, covered in danishes, donuts and pots of coffee. My files, computer and chair were nowhere to be seen. I stopped and stared, trying to wrap my head around what I was seeing even as a bubbling wellspring of seething anger rose up in my chest.

As it did, an unexpected wave of dizziness washed over me and I had to blink several times to clear my vision. My spell casting had taken more out of me than I thought. I doubted I had enough magical energy left in me to pull a quarter out from behind a kid’s ear. Damn it, I was running on empty and now had to deal with this. Behind me, I heard Bill mutter a curse and another voice bit back a snort of laughter.

“Hope ya don’t mind, Sweetheart,” it said. “We needed somewhere closer to store the eats. We moved your stuff to the back desk. Only dropped your computer three or four times.” I turned to see the sneering visage of Detective Rodney Gunter. Obviously, he had been waiting close by just to see my reaction.

Gunter was an overweight man in his late forties, sporting a heavy case of male-pattern-baldness and a bad attitude to match. He constantly had some sort of food stain on his pants and, more often than not, had some type of junk food in one hand. Currently, he was munching on one of the danishes taken from the table, raspberry sauce showing at the corners of his full mouth.

“You did what?” I said, my voice low and dangerous.

Let’s be clear, here. I’m not a physically imposing figure. I’m 5’6, 120 lbs. after a big meal. Gunter had almost a foot in height on me and three times my weight. But I spent the first four years of my law enforcement career working the roughest parts of Atlanta as a beat cop, and the past three years regularly attending a local Krav Maga studio. Krav Maga is an Israeli military-based fighting system that focuses on hitting the vulnerable points of the human body for maximum efficiency. I was no Bruce Lee, but I could hold my own against most opponents.

Gunter, wouldn’t have stood a chance. Most of his enormous weight was on his back leg, one hand was holding his precious danish, and the other was jammed casually in his pocket. I counted at least three ways off the top of my head I could put him down and make it hurt so much he didn’t get back up under his own power. Somewhere, in the back of his cholesterol-filled brain, he must have known this, because his eyes widened for a second and he took half a step back.

“Whoa! Take it easy, Sweetheart,” he said, holding up both hands in a sign of surrender. “The Lieutenant told us to do it. You’re stuff’s safe and sound.” I looked to where his fat finger was pointing and saw my belongings, haphazardly strewn about a scarred and pitted desk in the back corner of the bullpen.

The Lieutenant! This was his payback for me mouthing off at the crime scene in front of forensics. Probably having a good laugh to himself at my expense right now. I wasn’t about to let this slide.

I turned around without a word and began marching towards his office, hellbent on telling him exactly where he could go and what he could do with himself when he got there. My rubbery legs threatened to buckle once or twice, but I gritted my teeth and continued on, unabated. Before I got more than halfway there, though, Bill cut in front of me, moving faster than you’d think a man of his size was capable.

“Think this through, Mel,” he said in a low, cautionary tone. “Until you finish this case, you’re still on probation. Going in there right now and verbally tearing a superior officer a new one is exactly what Calloway needs to get you bumped back down to general investigations. Let. It. Go.”

I slid around him without a word and continued my one-woman crusade. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate Bill’s advice. It came from a good place. Part of me even knew he was right. But the trauma I’d witnessed and felt at Nichole Barret’s place still hovered over me, making me itch to spread the misery around a bit. What better recipient than a blatantly sexist, power-abusing boss?

“Detective Graves!” someone called when I was three steps from Calloway’s door. I could see him in there, reclining back in his chair, playing with his phone. I whirled around to face the young officer who’d addressed me.

“What?” I asked, fire and brimstone smoldering in my eyes. He swallowed hard and pointed to the phone he held at his ear.

“There’s someone in the lobby to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“That’s the thing, Ma’am. He won’t say who he is. Just keeps telling the receptionist she hasn’t ‘earned the right to