by Lori King
I peer back outside. Daisy has his leg hiked at the fence that separates my backyard from Shelby’s. He proceeds to christen each metal post before sniffing a tight circle of grass in the middle of the yard. When he’s satisfied he has the perfect location, he turns his back to me, squats, and lays the largest dog bomb I’ve ever seen.
When his intestines finally empty, he stands, shakes himself, and turns in my direction. “I should have brought my gun,” I mutter when he eyes my leg. “Don’t even think about it.” I’d threaten to bust his balls if he had any. I can’t even imagine what kind of horndog he’d be if he wasn’t neutered.
I head back inside and follow the directions Shelby gave me to feed her mutt. I fill the large bowl on the shelf in the pantry with two scoops of food. Daisy’s head is in the bowl snarfing the food as soon as the dish hits the floor. I pick up the much larger dog bowl and fill it with water at the sink. Daisy’s food bowl is empty by the time I have the water dish back in its place.
I head to the door. Daisy gives me sad brown eyes that remind me of Shelby’s. What a joke. They say people look like their dogs, and this proves it. “Be good, don’t tear up the house, and I’ll be back in the morning to let you out.”
Daisy actually collapses on the floor with a loud huff and places one Goliath paw across his nose. His eyes say it all—pet me, play with me, don’t leave me. I have a cold damn heart because I can’t get away fast enough. I refuse to feel guilty. So why the hell do I? I pocket Shelby’s key and cross the yard to my place. I start to open my door and swear under my breath. I march back over to Shelby’s.
The entire greeting ritual happens again. You would swear Daisy hasn’t seen anyone in hours. I search around and find a leash. Off we go. Daisy’s shepherd markings look so damn strange with his short kinky fur. This doesn’t stop him from holding his head high and acting like he’s walking me. We circle the block once. I get the same pathetic look I received the first time I tried to leave as I walk him to the porch. We march around the block again, the hot air causing my shirt to stick to my sweaty skin. I finally head up Shelby’s driveway and lock Daisy in the house without falling for the poor me routine. Why do I feel better when the damned dog won the battle of wills and got a walk?
I enter my house and enjoy the minimalist decorating. Unlike Shelby’s cluttered home with all her knickknacks, my walls are bare, and I only have the required furniture to collapse in front of the television, drink a cold beer, and fall asleep.
I do exactly that. Before I nod off, the images of the two dead women float through my mind and the world goes gray, then black.
* * *
My ringing cell phone jars me awake. I dig it out of my pocket and see it’s Kurtis from the medical examiner’s office. It’s a little after six in the morning.
“Just got the tox back on your latest and it’s positive for ketamine.”
“Fuck,” I whisper into my quiet house.
“That was my response, too. We knew from the wounds that we’re dealing with the same killer, and this pretty much confirms it.”
“Thanks, Kurtis.”
“Sorry, Linc.”
I lean back and prop my feet on the coffee table. “So am I, but like you said, we both knew what we were dealing with. I’ll have a sit down with my supervisor today and go from there.”
“Let me know if you need something from me.”
“Will do.” I yawn before disconnecting.
My feet hit the floor and I walk to the kitchen and the coffee maker. I add the requisite amounts of water and coffee grounds, add about half as much more of the coffee, flip the switch, and hit the shower. I’m still exhausted but take little time under the cool water. I shave, try to ignore the red eyes looking at me in the mirror, and suit up. My gun and badge are on the kitchen counter where I left them the night before. I drink a cup of coffee before heading next door to let Daisy outside.
The weather has gone from hot and dry to hot and humid. Maybe we’ll get some rain today and take the edge off the heat wave we’re currently suffering. “Sit,” I command as soon as I open the door. Daisy sits without jumping on me, and I know I’ll be having a nice chat with his owner as soon as I have time. I go through the same motions as the night before and leave Daisy with the same sad expression. I don’t have time to walk him and yep, the guilt eats at me.
It’s six forty a.m. when I arrive at the courthouse hoping the judge isn’t an early bird this morning. I want to be there when he releases Shelby, so I can find out what the hell she’s up to. I enter the courtroom right as they open the side door and bring the female detainees in. Their hands are shackled to belts on their waists, and leg shackles impede everything but small steps. Shelby has her head up and her shoulders back, whereas the other women are more subdued. I have no idea what her game is and it’s time that changes.
The women sit down and thirty seconds later the judge enters. “All rise,” the bailiff says. Everyone stands. Well, everyone but Shelby. The damn woman is certifiable. The last thing you want to do is piss off the judge.
Of course, he sees Shelby’s disrespect and looks at her in disapproval. I repeat silently—don’t piss off the judge. The first name on the docket is called. My eyes remain on Shelby while the first woman and then a second go through proceedings. Her eyes shoot daggers at the judge as he allows one woman out on her own recognizance and another receives a thousand dollar bond. Shelby stands when the bailiff calls her name. She walks awkwardly toward the judge, and I receive a full-on view of her pissed off expression.
“Do you have steady income?” the judge asks while looking at her file.
“That’s none of your business,” Shelby answers.
The judge’s face turns red and his glacial eyes finally fall on the defiant woman in front of him. “You’re standing before me in my courtroom and it is my business, young lady.”
“Well, young man, my name is Shelby Ryan. I’m twenty-six years old. You may use my proper name, Miss or Ms., whatever your prerogative. I do not, however, answer to ‘young lady,’ and if you want me speaking to you with respect, you will grant it to me.”
I cover my eyes and groan quietly as the prostitutes titter from the galley. This woman is a complete moron, and I have a feeling I’ll be stuck with her dog for the next few months.
3
Shelby’s eyes don’t leave the man who holds her fate in his hands. She does finally address him properly, though, “Judge Rictor, I understand you have a way of running your courtroom. I’m sure it’s worked for you in the past. I, however, am a humanitarian who was picked up erroneously while offering these fine ladies on the street,” she waves a cuffed hand at the gallery, “an alternative to their current lifestyle. A lifestyle, by the way, that harms no one if performed in a clean manner, such as using condoms for vaginal, anal, and oral sex.”
Oh. My. Hell.
The judge clears his throat, his red face takes on twinges of purple, and I expect him to blast Shelby. Instead, his gaze focuses on me. “Detective Street?”
I stand. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“This wouldn’t by any chance be the woman you called me about last night, would it?”
Shelby turns away from the judge and glares my way.
“Yes, Your Honor, it is.”
The judge looks from me to her and back at me. “You know her on a personal level?”
This isn’t good, and I wonder why I’m here when I have a damn serial case on my hands. “Not quite; we’re neighbors.”
The judge picks up his gavel. “Then I’ll make this easy on everyone and release,” he peers back at the file before him, “Shelby Ryan into your custody. Be sure she makes her plea hearing and she understands what’s required of her at that hearing.”
“Your Honor, that’s highly improbable…”
He interrupts me with the drop of his gavel. “Bailiff, call the next name on this morning’s docket.”
Shelby’s chains rattle with her anger. “This man can�
��t take custody of me. I only needed him to let my dog out and give Daisy food and water. This is a travesty of justice, and yours isn’t the only American courtroom to practice authoritarian tactics. I refuse to be treated—” The judge cuts her off.
“Detective Street, remove this woman from my courtroom.”
I can do nothing but walk forward as Shelby bombards the judge with the evils of the judicial system—how unethical the current laws are for women who choose to sell their bodies, and last but not least, that I’m a dog hater. The judge ignores her with only a slight eyebrow lift when she says ‘dog hater.’
I take her by the upper arm and move her in the direction of the guard standing at the doorway that leads back into the jail. County personnel must process her out before she goes home. Shelby tries jerking away, but I have a tight grip. “Calm down, momma bear. You’re lucky your ass isn’t staying inside for the next thirty days for contempt of court.”
“Stop manhandling me, you Mickey Mouse megalomaniac. I can walk unassisted.”
Where does she come up with this shit? “Not a chance. I’ll see you to the next door and then meet you at the side of the jail where they’ll release you.”
“Into your custody? What exactly does that mean?”
“It means that I’m responsible for you until the judge releases me from that responsibility. If you break the law, it’s on me. If you think for one moment I’m happy about this shit, you’re mistaken. I have a job to do and a big case to solve.”
She stops walking. “Please tell me you’re looking into the madman who’s killing the prostitutes.”
This surprises me because I’ve kept a tight lid on the similarities of the two homicides. Now that I’ve connected the cases, the media needs to step in and help get the word out. It’s a tricky situation. I can’t give too much away or I could blow my evidence and give every lunatic out there enough information to produce copycat murders. My supervisor will help, and we’ll find a middle ground that gives the public a heads-up without giving away key information. I fucking hate talking to the media, but I have a feeling I’ll be front and center over the next twenty-four hours. Right now I need to get Shelby home and out of my fucking hair so I can work.
“What’s the word on the street with the hookers?” I ask instead of giving away anything.
Her eyes darken. “Refer to them as prostitutes or women. The word hooker is condescending.”
The guard in front of us snickers.
For Christ’s sake, they sell their bodies. She’s a fucking do-gooder. They’re worse than criminals in my book. “What’s the word on the street with the women?” I ask between clenched teeth.
Shelby shrugs. “Some crazy guy is killing honest working women. He stabs them to death in some ritualistic manner after drugging them,” she throws out nonchalantly.
I jerk her in closer because the guard is listening to every word spoken. “Keep your mouth shut until you’re in my car,” I hiss as quietly as I can before pulling her forward again. I leave her at the door leading into the jail section of the building.
What a mess. I was told there’s no word on the street about the killings. Obviously, my street contacts are not in the know or they just aren’t helping me. I head back to my car and cool my heels for more than thirty minutes before Shelby walks out. She’s wearing a goofy floppy yellow hat with an orange scarf in place of the hat band. Her eyes are downcast and she has a forlorn expression on her face. It remains until I pull my truck out and roll up next to her. I push the button to roll the window down. “Get in.”
Her eyes go hot. She storms around and opens the door, throwing herself into the seat with a loud huff. Without looking at me, she closes her eyes and leans her head back against the seat. After several deep breaths, she speaks. “Please tell me Daisy is alive and well.” It comes out surprisingly soft.
Don’t feel sorry for her, Street. “We both survived. He’s rather well-mannered when you know the right commands.”
Her lips tip up, but she doesn’t open her eyes. “Yes, he is. Does he still have the hots for you?”
At least she isn’t watching when my cheeks heat. “We have an understanding now. He doesn’t hump my leg, and I don’t sell him to the dog food company.”
The statement receives a small chuckle. “I’ve never been so tired in my life,” she whispers.
“I’m sure jail will do that to you.”
“And a shower. I so need a shower.”
That was evident from the moment she closed the door. I put the car in gear and hit the gas. “We call it Eau de jail.”
“Eau de toilet bowl is more like it. That was the most unpleasant experience of my life.”
I’m impressed. We’ve spoken more than two words and our happy voices remain in place. “Since you seem to be in such a mellow mood, you want to explain what all of this is about?”
She sighs loudly. “I volunteer for HHW. We had a woman come in two days ago and she told me her friend was murdered and mentioned another stabbing death a couple of months ago. I wanted to give her homies a chance to get off the street by offering our services. During my visit, law enforcement,” the first sneer since she sat down appears in her voice, “decided to do a sweep. I was picked up with the women, and now I’m sitting in the car with you, smelling of urine and other things too disgusting to contemplate. My uncle decided to be a smartass, I’m sure at my father’s direction, and now I’m under your authority.”
I know that HHW is Help for Homeless Women, and I followed everything else until her last sentence. “Uncle?”
“Uncle Pat. You know him as Judge Rictor. I’m his youngest half-brother’s daughter, and he’s also my godfather. He and my father have different biological fathers but grew up together and are best friends.”
I almost slam the break. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re serious?”
“As rain. I called Daddy last night for my one phone call. By the way, it was two hours before I was given a chance to make that one phone call. This is not the way it happens in the movies. That call should be in the first fifteen minutes. My bitching did no good.”
The judge is her uncle, and he duped me. They both did. I’ve been brought into a family squabble that I don’t have the patience or time for.
“Why me?” I mutter.
“That’s easy,” she says and runs her fingers through her tangled hair. “My uncle likes you and he’s mentioned several times that I’m lucky with the area I live in that you’re my neighbor. It’s the only thing that pacifies my dildo dictator dad.”
I can barely wrap my head around this information, and I refuse to acknowledge the dildo comment. “You said you volunteered at HHW. What exactly is your profession?” I maneuver through traffic, wondering if I’ve gone down the rabbit hole.
“I’m a secretary for JFCR.”
Fuck me. Justice for Citizen Rights. Alleged police brutality cases are their claim to fame. I should dump her ass right here on the street.
“It’s okay, hotshot,” she volunteers. “So far, you’re on their clean list.”
4
I park at the curb in front of our unit. “You might not like it, but I need your schedule.”
Shelby opens her eyes and her head snaps in my direction. “You’re right, I don’t like it,” she grumbles.
“Look, I’m working to stop this guy from killing someone else, and now I’m saddled with you. You’re a grown woman and you should be able to monitor yourself. But your uncle sees things differently. We’ll make it easy. Take my cell number and text me your whereabouts throughout the day. I couldn’t care less what you do, as long as you stay out of trouble, but it’s that, or I put handcuffs on you and attach one end to something in your bathroom.”
Her laugh tells me she doesn’t believe a word of my threat. “Does that line work on the bad guys you deal with?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “What the hell do you want from me, Shelby?” I say wearily. “Please. Meet me
halfway.”
Her expression changes and my anger dissipates. “Was that so hard? Be nice and I’m more likely to follow your lead. I need you doing your job. I’ll text you when I leave for my office.”
“Deal,” I say. “But as soon as you have your plea hearing, I’m taking you up on the promise you made that I won’t hear from you again.”
She says nothing, types my number in her cell, and opens her car door. Not even a backward glance as she makes her way to the front door. The sway of her sexy hips makes me watch her until the door closes. Attorneys for JFCR are a cop’s worst nightmare. Shelby Ryan should be mine. I can’t help having respect for her, though. Respect and a mighty dose of longing. It’s been way too long since I’ve had a woman in my bed. This job does it to you. I could take advantage of a badge bunny for a quick hookup, but I decided months ago that I want more than one night. I’m older now, and hopefully wiser than I was in my twenties. Maybe I need to make an exception with a bunny and get some relief for my blue balls instead of thinking about my crazy neighbor.
Hell, Shelby’s with the JFCR, and I need to keep it in mind. My second year on the job as a street cop, I was kicked in the nuts by a man while placing him under arrest. I lost my shit and broke his arm trying to restrain him. I’m not proud of it, and yes, I could have handled things differently. Backed off and called for backup, tased his ass even. But no, I was young and testosterone-laden, so I went hands-on. The pain to my male anatomy did the talking. The only saving grace was that no cameras were rolling when the incident happened. The guy didn’t press charges and I wasn’t put under JFCR scrutiny. I almost quit my job and most likely would have if my dad hadn’t talked some sense into me.
“Your police badge is a symbol of right versus wrong. It carries power, and that power destroys cops every day. The reason… they don’t question their actions like you’re doing. Take this as a lesson and become a better officer.”
