Jackie turned to Sean with a grin. “Nurses one, lover boy zero. Heh-heh.”
Chapter Six
Dewey sat in his truck outside the courthouse waiting to pick up John the driver. His skinny arm hung out the window of his shot-out S10 pickup truck painted some combination of blue, green, and primer. Over the years, he’d just touched up rusting areas with whatever paint he felt like, almost giving the truck a bizarre colorful camo appearance. Inside, the bench seat was torn in several places, sunbaked foam showing through. In a similar state as John’s diesel, it had trash scattered around the floorboard. He should feel right at home. Dewey scoffed at the thought of John’s filthy truck as he lit another smoke. Operation Ivy, Sound System, streamed from his phone. He shifted his feet and tried to relax, grateful to be wearing his favorite jeans, a beat-up Rancid t-shirt, and his worn Vans ‘Old Skool’ sneakers. All I need is a J and I could chill like this all day. He relaxed his head back and tapped the steering wheel in tune with the music.
While Dewey waited, John’s bond hearing went as expected. The case didn’t receive any special attention from the prosecutor. Officer Hines testified as to the events that occurred from when he arrived on the scene through to when he transported the prisoner to jail. Officer Street then testified as to the same, as well as the reliability of the evidence. The prosecutor tried to argue flight risk, but the judge dismissed the motion. Possession with intent was not an unusual charge in the county, nor was DUI. They would need to wait for the blood tests to come back and confirm. The judge set a hefty bail but arrangements had already been made to pay through a local bondsman.
When Dewey saw John emerge from the courthouse, he mused to himself at the clout ABCs enjoyed. “Probably has the judge in his pocket too,” he mumbled to himself. From Dewey’s perspective, as well as all the other devious minions around town that worked for ABCs, anything that went his way was judged to be a result of his growing influence, thus giving The Alphabet King a more powerful reputation than he likely deserved.
John opened the passenger door, sat down in the front seat, and slammed it shut as he let out a sigh.
“Gawd, you stink, man,” Dewey said as John rolled his window down. “And don’t slam my door.”
John cut him an annoyed glance. “Whatever. It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry.”
“ABCs wants to see you at the warehouse right away,” Dewey replied.
“He can wait 10 more minutes, can’t he? I ain’t eaten all day and I’m nursing one hell of a hangover.”
“Alright, alright. Wanna Burger?”
They both chuckled.
“Yeah, I wanna burger,” John said as they pulled into traffic and headed to their favorite drive-through.
𓂓
Streets left the bond hearing furious. Pausing on the steps outside, he let his head fall back and looked up at the sky, pleading from within to whatever power might be residing up there. How can the system just keep turning guys like that back out on the street?
Unfortunately, Streets had grown accustomed to it. But it still pissed him off. His master’s degree in criminology had not prepared him for the stifling frustrations hidden within the day-to-day minutiae of actually working as an officer. He headed back to the precinct, which was a short walk from the courthouse. The few minutes outside would help him clear his mind and he could pick up a sandwich and coffee on the way.
When Streets got back to his desk, he sipped his coffee, set his sandwich out on the desk, and started doing internet searches on the two references the psychic had given him. The first didn’t have much in the way of a website but did have social media accounts—not unusual. There were no reviews on his business, which did have a listing. The second reference had one heck of a website but no social media. Her business listing had several five-star reviews with phrases like “...helped us clear the negative energy from our home...” and, “...I can sleep better knowing my Jacob is in a better place...”
Then Streets moved over to the department database and ran searches on each individual. The first, James Stretcher, had several misdemeanor fraud charges but no convictions. Maybe he had a good lawyer. The second, Martha Klar, had a clean record. She seemed like the more credible option. He went back to her website to look for a number and get her location.
𓂓
Detective Mark Slade sat brooding in his office. The meeting with Officer Street had been the typical, ‘Hey, kid, can ya help me with this tech stuff?’ And then, ‘Okay, thanks for the help, keep this hush-hush, and no, we don’t need help with the investigation.’
He sat back in his chair and looked at the framed photo of his pregnant wife. In a digital age where people just kept photos on their devices, he thought this would help connect him with the habits of the older generation. But no one besides himself had taken notice.
Below the picture hung his diplomas. A bachelor’s in criminal justice from Texas State and a master’s in law enforcement intelligence and analysis from Michigan State. He started college at 18 and graduated with his master’s at 24, straight through, no break, magna cum laude. He had more education than most active detectives, but just a few years out of college, Slade had little investigative experience.
In high school and college, the tech stuff had been more of a hobby, a way to stay in touch and hang out, sometimes help others get past programming hurdles and other tech problems they found unsolvable. Eventually, favors became his currency. But some people took advantage of his generosity, and he would often get dragged into larger projects. After endless hours helping his best friend modify the Linux open-source code so it could be used for virtual reality, Slade swore to himself that he would stop lending his talents out to anyone who asked. But, in an effort to make himself useful, maybe gain some traction, he started offering to help out with tech issues around the precinct. Much to Slade’s frustration, that plan had backfired. Now they just thought of him as ‘the tech guy’ with a badge.
If he was going to shift gears into working cases, he would have to find a way on his own. He spun in his chair to view the security camera grid on the large TV mounted on the wall behind him. A 16-camera system covered every angle on the first floor of the precinct and recorded video to a DVR in Slade’s office. The DVR had a dedicated mouse and he used it to click on the video feed showing Officer Street at his desk. Slade zoomed in and saw him eating his lunch while he searched the internet.
Slade sat back in his chair, then shrugged, spun around to his desk, and with a few clicks of his mouse, Officer Street’s computer activity came up on his screen. After observing his activity, Slade scoffed, “Psychics?” He watched as Officer Street unlocked his phone and dialed a number, obviously not in his contacts.
“Maybe he found something.” Slade turned back to the video feed and turned up the audio on the camera. He had little trouble getting past any misgivings about observing Officer Street.
𓂓
In Dewey’s mind, the drive-through at Wanna Burger took forever. His A/C had never worked. Sitting there, unmoving in the midday heat, with John going on about his bravery, quickly became unbearable. He finally shut up long enough to cram burgers into his face, chased with copious straw-assisted slurps of soda. Wanna Burger somehow managed to infuse liquid smoke flavoring into a drink they called smoka-cola, and John found it addicting. By the time he had womped down his third burger, he’d also sucked down two bubba-sized smoka-colas.
Still wearing in the same stained white t-shirt, he proudly rubbed his bulging belly. “Hot damn, now that’s what I call a decent meal.” Then he cleared the fries out of the bottom of the bag, several spilled down over his belly as he tilted the bag up to his wide-open mouth.
Practically hanging his head out of the window to avoid the stench, Dewey glanced sideways at him, disgusted. Further empowered by his current sugar/protein high from Wanna Burger, John became more and more indignant with each passing minute.
“Got any smoke?”
“No.”
John let out a long burp. “Let’s stop and get a 12-pack for the ride.”
Dewey lit a cigarette. “Hell no. ABCs is already pissed. He’d be furious if we showed up drinking beer.”
“Don’t call him that, he hates it,” John scolded.
Dewey snorted but didn’t reply.
John sighed through pursed lips and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man, you worry too much. No wonder you ain’t moved up yet.”
Dewey looked over in disbelief. “You realize you’re in deep shit, right?”
John did his best to look incredulous. “You got that backwards, hoss. I protected him. People get busted all the time. But because I didn’t talk, I earned his respect. He should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Dewey replied as he glanced sideways at John. “This isn’t some gangster movie.” He couldn’t help but doubt his decision to recommend him. How did I fail to realize what an idiot this guy is? He regretted ever hooking him up with side work.
