Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Twenty-seven

Author's Note: In honor of Brain Cancer Awareness month, which starts in two weeks, this chapter features an appearance by my late husband (whom I am naming after his dad here, and whom I did indeed banish outdoors if he wanted to smoke.) The photo is Bob at target practice, after  brain surgery, which is why he looks a little haggard. The speech difficulties are typical of someone who's had a brain lesion and radiation to the left temporal lobe.  Please remember all families struggling against brain tumors in May, and support brain cancer research by donating to the American Brain Tumor Association. Their web address is www.abta.org. Thank you!

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Aside from his first few weeks back after rehab, John had never chosen to take the elevator up to the squad. Rubbing his eyes and yawning in the elevator the next morning, he understood he was seriously tired. Time was when he could do two back-to-back all night stakeouts and fit in a roll in the hay, and not feel this wiped out. Was this what thirty was going to be like?

On his way down the hall he noticed Mike, far down at the other end, loitering near the stairwell door, obviously waiting for him. John walked over and kept his voice down.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." Mike pointed to his watch and hissed, "Where've you been? I've been hanging around out here trying not to attract attention for fifteen minutes."

John glanced down at his own watch. So much for his resolution to arrive half an hour early for each shift. "Sorry, man. Late night. What's up?"

"What's not up, is more like it. We got some serious problems here. Marian's bank account has not been touched. Either Clay whacked her, or he's funneling money to her on the sly somehow. How could she disappear for the better part of a week, and not need money?"

John glanced down the corridor. James and Newsome, who had worked overnight, loitered inside the squad room door as Savonn pushed his way in. Must have been a slow night.

"I was thinking about that myself," he whispered. "I drove out last night to pick up my tape and listened on the way home, and this guy doesn't say a word about his escort service at home anymore, even when he's talking on his cell phone. And, of course, no calls from Marian."

Mike blew out a frustrated breath. "This guy knows he's bugged."

"I was thinking that, too. I wasn't worried about it because I was sure Marian would hit up an ATM. I don't know how he found it. I was damned careful. But he talked about the escort business all the time before, with Marian. We've got to find another angle here."

Mike's eyes met his. "I think you better start watching your back."

John raised his eyebrows.

"This guy whacked Pride, and he almost killed you. What if they were working together—not that we want to think that, but what if they were? What hood whacks a successful police contact, if they have a good arrangement going?"

John's first sleep-fogged thought was, that made a good argument that Pride and Clay were not working together.

"Johnny, come on," said Mike. "Last time a police matter went sour for this guy, if that's what happened, two cops got shot. I'm not looking to have that happen again."

"How would he know who bugged him? But let's say he did. We know this guy uses a hitter, right? Nothing Hampton PD had on him indicated Clay was a sharpshooter. If he's planning to hit me, then that guy would be in town, because we know Clay isn't. That's what we should be looking at."