A Hope City Duet

by Kris Michaels

  He flipped the slim wallet open and examined the contents before he snapped a string of photos. No cash, or credit cards, but a picture of a beautiful blonde woman, a driver’s license, several receipts, and laundry tickets. He cataloged and annotated each item on the evidence tag. The driver’s license was issued to... Samuel Treyson. Brock entered the name on the evidence tag and then shot a glance at his vic. Oh shit. Fuck him standing. If this guy was related to the Treysons, his case was about to explode.

  He palmed his phone and did a quick search of the internet. Damn it. The face on the Forbes magazine cover was the same one that stared back at him on the driver's license. He dipped his head and took a damn good look at the victim. Yeah, this case was going to suck on an epic level.

  He glanced over his shoulder at his best friend. “Get ready for one hell of a ride, Sean.”

  His friend rose from whatever fire-bug stuff he was doing by the far wall. “What’s up?”

  “The deceased is one Samuel Treyson.”

  His friend narrowed his eyes as realization dawned and glared across the space. “If you're fucking with me, I'm going to kick your ass."

  "Not even in the slightest." He flashed his phone toward Sean, displaying the magazine cover.

  "You realize the can of worms that opens up, right?" Sean placed his hands on his hips. His chest expanded before he blew an exasperated huff of air. "I need to call my Captain, who really doesn't like to talk to people at two in the morning, and your dad needs a heads up. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. The brass and the press will be crawling up your ass as soon as this breaks. Criminal Proctology 101, my friend.”

  Great. Just what he needed—a media circus. Well, hopefully they could get the body processed and to the morgue before the vultures started circling. Bringing the medical examiner's van to the rear of the building was the right call. He dropped Treyson's wallet into an evidence bag. He sealed the bag with tamper resistant tape, attached the initial bare-bones inventory sheet, interrupted Sean to initial the tag as a witness, and initialed it himself to start the chain of custody. Covering his ass started now. He'd go over the inventory of the contents again when the property officer was available to witness the accounting. Carefully stepping away from the victim to an open area, Brock palmed his cell. His Lieutenant needed a heads up before he tapped his old man on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  2

  He’d bet his last paycheck that the fucking stairs were steeper today than yesterday. Pulling his dog-tired ass up the six flights of stairs to the corner of the building homicide had claimed as home, he yawned at the top of the stairs until his entire body shook. He’d passed fucking exhausted a couple days ago. Sleep and he weren’t on speaking terms on the best of days. He’d suffered from insomnia for years and had done everything to try to combat it except drugs and a consistent sleep hygiene regiment. His doctors insisted a routine that would signal his body it was time to shut down would help immensely. Only life as a homicide detective never ran nine to five, and this year, he could count on one hand the times he’d been home in time to watch the five o'clock evening news. So, he slept when he could, for as long as he could. The ever-present exhaustion was just a fact of his life that he managed.

  Trudging up the stairs, his over-tired mind flicked through the events of the last four hours. Of course, once he'd made his notifications, the big boys had shown up on scene. Right on the brass' heels had come the press. So much for keeping things under wraps. The feeding frenzy was because of the last name of the man zipped in the body bag. This would guarantee a three-ring circus. What had Samuel Treyson been doing there?

  A contingent of blue suits had kept the bastards at bay, while the crime scene techs had erected a visual barrier, also known as a tarp, which allowed everyone to finish their jobs. Thank God there was still a roof over this portion of the warehouse otherwise the helicopters he heard outside would have been able to get graphic photos.

  The brass had held to the perimeter of the crime scene and talked among themselves. They didn't help, but at least they hadn't hindered the job either. It was important this case was handled correctly. He got that. As lead detective, he called all the shots and the powers-that-be had respected his authority over the scene.

  The Treyson family owned half the city. He was actually surprised the case hadn’t been taken from him. It would make sense to transfer it to the homicide detectives assigned to the Briar Hill precinct. The brass would want the case where they could monitor it, and his dad’s office was in Briar Hill. He shoved open the stairwell door as he worried the specifics of the case like a dog gnawing on a steak bone. He kinda-sorta hoped the Briar Hill Precinct would take this one because he had a feeling dealing with the elite in Briar Hill was going to become a hemorrhoid of biblical proportions. Yep, a hemorrhoid. Big, ugly, irritating as fuck, and no way to make it go away. Besides, the two murders he was currently working were enough to keep both he and his partner busy. Let the Briar Hill detectives deal with the political nightmare. He'd be good with that… or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Damn it, what was Treyson doing in his district? Why in the hell was he in that abandoned warehouse? They hadn’t found any signs of struggle, even after they’d set up lighting when the crime scene tech arrived. Why were you there, Samuel? What were you involved with that got you killed? Why didn’t you fight?

  Instead of heading straight to his desk, he hung a hard right into the break room. Coffee made up at least ninety percent of the liquid in his body, what would a few more gallons of caffeine matter? He grabbed his massive thermos mug from the shelf above the coffee pot and poured half the carafe into the insulated jug. Six heaping spoons of sugar and a couple of glugs of creamer later and he was in business.

  “You’re going to die of diabetes, son.”

  Brock chuckled as he brought his coffee mug to his lips. Nirvana. He chugged three burning gulps and turned to look at his father, the Commissioner of Hope City's Police Force. The job fit his old man as well as the three-piece suits he wore. Chauncey King was two inches shorter than the six feet, seven inches he’d given Brock, and he carried more muscle than his father ever had, but the resemblance between them was uncanny. His old man was still as strong as a team of mules, and the guy had a mustache Tom Selleck would envy, plus a smile that could disarm a small army, or a seething handful of Hope City politicos.

  “If I die of diabetes, at least I won’t have to suffer through this case.” Brock rolled his head and popped his neck. "Did you see the swarm outside or were you able to avoid them?"

  "Dealing with the press is in my job description." His father gave him a quick smile. "Did you make it through the crush unscathed?"

  "I kept my head down and said nothing. I mean, hello, we just caught this case. Do I have any suspects? Ah… yeah, the entire city at this fucking point. What a shit storm." He shook his head and examined his cup. "Dad, I gotta ask, why didn’t you pull it from me and put someone from the Briar Hill district on the case? With you being the Commissioner of Police and I your son, the press is going to make something of me being the lead detective. Hell, I don't have the Briar Hill detectives’ connections or their… tact, to handle the fake ass people over on your side of town."

  His father looked over his shoulder and nudged the door shut with his foot. “Fisher and Jeremiah will be available to you should you need their assistance, but this is your case. It was your call. It's your case; you follow it through to the end. Besides, it’ll be good for you. You can play nice; I know you can.” There was determination in his father’s eyes.

  When his old man accepted the job as police commissioner, the entire force had been riddled with corruption. When the press realized that both he and his brother Brody were on the force too, the headlines read, 'Corruption Sweep Nets Nepotism Boon.'

  “I’m gonna ruffle feathers, Pops. Hell, I might end up killing a golden goose or two in the process.” Brock took another gulp of his life sustaining hot bean ju
ice. God did a good thing the day he poofed the coffee bean into existence.

  “I have a feeling there are one or two geese over in Briar Hill this city could do without. Just make sure you color within the lines. I need you to sort this case as quickly as possible. Pressure is coming from way up. I've had seventeen calls already this morning from the governor on down. You and Jordan are a formidable team. If you need to sluff off the other case files on your desk, do it. Lieutenant Davidson already knows this one has priority.” His father walked across the room to the coffee pot and poured himself a Styrofoam cup full.

  Jordan Whitt, his more charming and more socially acceptable partner, was the counter point on his compass. Where he was sharp edges, blunt conversation, and couldn’t be bothered with social niceties, his partner was polite, disarming, and could get people to talk to him. Which sucked. Well, not really. Jordan handled all the non-hostile witness interactions. Jordan was the pretty boy who could sweet-talk a fucking snake out of a tree. He had a resting bitch face that scared women and children, but they had a great system in place. He was damn good at becoming a statue when people were talking to Jordan. His height and bulk tended to intimidate just about everyone, so if imitating a piece of granite advanced their investigations, he froze and let Jordan work.

  However, he conducted all suspect interviews. It wasn’t a case of good cop-bad cop. Brock’s military training and experience made him damn good at reading people and he had a built-in lie detector that rarely failed him. He'd keep hammering away until he got to the truth. His techniques were… inventive and sometimes skimmed the lines of legal, but never crossed them.

  "Jordan is supposed to be loaned to the Feds for the task force they're building."

  "Shit, that's right. The Grappelli disaster."

  "Unfortunately, he's the expert on the fucker."

  His partner had worked undercover for two years getting close to the guy before he busted him. Too bad the Feds couldn't keep the slimy son of a bitch in custody. Now that murderous bastard was on the loose, and the Feds were pulling his partner back into the mess. As it stood now, the finger pointing and hysterics at the Federal level were the only thing keeping his partner in Hope City. When they fucking pulled their heads out of their asses, Jordan would be gone, and God only knew how long the Feds would keep him.

  "I'll make sure you get a partner with experience."

  "I'd rather work alone." Breaking in a new partner, even for the short-term, sent fucking nails down his mental chalkboard.

  "Tough." His father tossed the comment over before he lifted his coffee to his lips. “I have just the person. Comes highly recommended from people I trust.”

  He narrowed his eyes at his old man and chose to ignore the fact he’d have a new partner before long. Instead he zoned in on his dad drinking coffee. "I thought you were supposed to be giving up caffeine?” He watched his father as the man took a long drink. His dad had a health scare last year. High blood pressure, which was now under control, but his mother hovered like a fucking Blackhawk helicopter. She'd topple the best of them with her machine guns of guilt, motherly-wifely love, and yes, intimidation. He’d seen her lock and load those sons of bitches and then fire with relentless precision if she thought anyone in her family wasn't toeing the line. She should've been an investigator, not a legal aid worker.

  “As far as your mother knows, I have.” He shrugged, spun, and leaned against the counter. “The Treyson Empire is breathing down everyone's neck. Samuel Treyson was the anointed one. The old man has three more sons, but they're still kids. Samuel was being groomed to take over for Sebastian Treyson. According to one of his lawyers, the old man is flying back from Switzerland as we speak. Samuel's wife has arranged a time to identify his body.”

  He nodded. “I stopped by the Treyson residence prior to coming here. I was met at the door by no less than four attorneys and a pack of reporters shouting questions so damn loud I could hardly hold a conversation. They ‘scheduled’ a time for Mrs. Treyson to speak to me.” He shook his head and took another sip of coffee. “So, until three-thirty this afternoon, Jordan and I will be working Samuel Treyson’s last hours.” He smiled into his coffee cup.

  “Oh, son, I’ve seen that look before. What do you have that Treyson’s lawyers don’t know you have?”

  “The less you know the better. Plausible deniability would be a good thing.” He waggled his eyebrows at his father. He was screwing with his old man. He'd never put him in a bad light.

  “Answer one question for me.” His father turned to face him.

  “Sure.”

  “What you have, it’s legal and admissible, right?” His father poured the remainder of his coffee into the small break room sink.

  Although that question hurt, Brock kept his expression blank as he stared at his father. "That stung."

  His old man scrubbed his face and then sighed, “Fuck. I'm sorry. The pressure on this one is mighty heavy. I trust you with my life and, incidentally it would seem, my livelihood.”

  “Believe me, I understand. I'm doing this by the book. I don't want to be the stumbling block in this case." It wasn't like he'd be violating Treyson's fourth amendment rights. The man was dead after all. He'd call his contact Cliff, at the District Attorney's office, to validate his actions before he pressed forward with his investigation, but he was on solid ground. He frowned as he thought about the phone he'd just dropped off at evidence. Damn it. That meant he had to go back downstairs and get it after Cliff gave his official blessing. The GPS hits off cell phone towers when the phone was active would be the easiest way to trace the man's last twenty-four, and those were always critical when investigating a homicide.

  There wasn't a security code, and after the crime scene technicians had dusted it for prints, he’d been able to access everything on the man’s cell. He would use the man’s apps to his advantage. After he called Cliff and made it legal, he’d direct the techies in cybercrimes to download all the information they could from the phone. There were volumes of emails and texts. From past cases, he knew he could access them, but he could never use anything he found in court. They'd have to get a warrant to keep it admissible. Cliff should be able to find a judge not intimidated by the Treyson name. He hoped.

  His father’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Make sure it’s airtight. If you get anything from those leads, we need to ensure the evidence and procedure is rock solid.” Apparently, his father had been thinking the same thing.

  “I haven’t lost a suspect due to shoddy police work, yet,” Brock reminded his father.

  His old man chuckled. “I know that. You're one of the best detectives I have. I just worry. It’s a father’s prerogative. Oh, and you’re coming to dinner Sunday. Your mother, bless her heart, wants all her children at the dinner table every Sunday. You’ve missed the last three months. I don’t care what you have on your plate here at work, make time for your mother.” His dad headed toward the break room door.

  “Damn, old man, you’re good at the guilt trip, thing. Was it Gramma Thompson or Mom who taught you that?” Brock teased as the man reached for the door.

  “I’m good at a lot of things, none of which your grandma or mother taught me.” His father leveled a stare at him and jacked up a single eyebrow.

  The smirk his father added took his mind to a place it never needed to go. Ever. He squeezed his eyes shut. He dropped his mug to the counter and slapped his hand over his ears. “TMI, Dad.” The rumble of his father’s laughter still made it past his hastily erected barriers.

  Slowly he allowed one eye to ease open. He relaxed when he realized his father wasn't in the break room any longer. After a full body shiver, he grabbed his coffee mug and poured the rest of the pot into his mug. It took him less than a minute to start another pot of coffee. In this precinct, everyone followed “the code”. A person never took the last cup of coffee without making another pot. God help the person who decided to test it. Coffee was the lifeblood of any building inhabited by
police officers.

  He rolled his shoulders, grabbed his mug, and headed to his desk. Treyson’s body would be at the front of the queue in the morgue. So, minus the toxicology and histology reports, the autopsy report should be ready tomorrow. It didn’t matter how much money you had; those damn tests took time. Real life didn’t work like the television crime shows where the reports were done as soon as the medical examiner had finished the autopsy. True, money had a way of making shit happen more rapidly, but it couldn’t make chemicals process any faster than nature allowed.

  The amount of money the Treysons had could also make shit disappear. The hunt to find Samuel’s killer needed to be quick and efficient, especially if Samuel Treyson had enemies. Which led to the question–who would want Samuel Treyson dead? Between now and 3:30 this afternoon, he and Jordan were going to try to find out.

  He maneuvered through the homicide bullpen. Actually, it wasn’t much of a pen, more a conglomeration of mismatched desks pushed together in the center of the large room. There were currently four whiteboards being used. He and Jordan had moved one board next to their desks and were using both sides. One side displayed the facts they had for the murder of an eighteen-year-old prostitute. The other side tracked the case of a gang related drive-by shooting. An APB had been issued for their primary suspect in the drive-by. Rival gangs and known players made investigations like this a common event. He and Jordan were well known to all the gangs who resided and fought over territory in the area of town designated as The Desert. Commission Street acted as a border for the largest gangland rivalry in the city. Destitution, hardship, and low-paying jobs highlighted those two neighborhoods. The good people who could, had already moved. The ones who couldn’t afford to move were paying the price. Unfortunately, more times than not, it was with their lives. Samuel Treyson and his ilk didn't frequent The Desert. The shoes the man wore probably cost more than most of these people earned, legal or not, in months. Samuel Treyson did not belong in that warehouse. Why had he been there?