Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Three

The ninety-minute drive down tree-lined I-64 and through the heart of Hampton always affected John like a time warp. He still imagined the serpentine stop-and-go service lanes choking East Mercury's shopping thoroughfare on either side, instead of the wide, modern eight-lane highway where he took the off ramp from I-64.

At the far eastern end of the city, the pace of change had slowed. Parts of Mallory Street, I-64, and Mercury Boulevard, still concrete as they stretched toward the Chesapeake Bay—the same as in the 1960's—made cars bump along, their tires going clack-a-clack over the seams in the road as if they rode over railroad tracks. Lost in the days when Giant Supermarket really was "Open Air," John turned off on King Street going south.

He circled the brown brick monolith that housed Hampton PD and decided to park on the street. He headed through the lobby to the desk and flashed the receptionist his badge. "Detective John Robin, Richmond PD. I need to speak with somebody in the detective bureau, if anyone's available."

The clerk spoke into her desk phone and hung up. "Investigations," she said. "I can buzz Rita to show you the way."

"I know where it is," said John. "Thanks." A quick trip past a display case full of trophies and down the back stairs led him to a plain brown door marked "Investigations." He let himself into the waiting room, a plain white cubicle with molded plastic chairs. A tall white man in a suit and tie, obviously a detective, waited for him at a reception counter behind glass that made the place look like a doctor's office.

"Detective John Robin?"

John walked up and showed his badge.

"Let me come around and let you in." The other man crossed behind the reception counter and opened a door at the side of the room. "Come on back." He held out a hand. "Detective Stan Brooks."

John reached out for a handshake. "Sorry for showing up unannounced. I'm here chasing down a lead on the police shooting we just had."

Brooks's face grew solemn and he shook his head. "That was just ..." he said, and stopped. It was all over the TV and radio in Richmond, and bad news traveled fast. "You have my condolences, Detective, and everyone else's here. You'll be seeing some of us at the funeral."

"Thank you," said John.

"How can we help?"

"I'm trying to run down some info on a CI of Pride's. A George Evan Clay. He was calling Pride at home over the past several days, and turns out he lives here. Does this guy snitch for you at all?"

"Come on back, I'll take you to the guy you should talk to." Brooks led the way into a squad area, to a tiny gray cubicle inside a bigger gray cubicle crammed with desks, computers, and plainclothes cops.

"Hey, Edwards," said Brooks, and a round ebony face popped up, followed by a portly body sliding backwards into the aisle in a squeaky office chair. "Randall Edwards, Detective John Robin, here from Richmond PD about the police shooting."

Edwards stood up and put out a broad, callused hand. He had a warm, firm grip. "Rand," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"John," said John. "Thanks. He was a good guy, the best. He brought me on the squad."

"What can I do for you?"

Brooks pulled up a plastic chair for himself and one for John. John sat.