Free Hot Flash by Carrie H. Johnson Page B

happened that night and how you ended up at Boone’s house without backup.”
    â€œYeah, I know. Internal Affairs contacted me.”
    â€œNot much to worry about right now anyway, with the case against him dropped for the moment.”
    â€œDoesn’t feel right, Cap. He’s guilty and we know he’s guilty of way more than we had him on. Someone’s giving the man a hand up. Laughton’s right, it has to be someone in the department. Why doesn’t anyone else in the department get that?”
    The captain shifted his weight so his right leg was the anchor and his left knee dangled and crammed my personal space. I leaned back in the chair and sighed.
    â€œWhat else is on your mind, Muriel?”
    My intention was to tell Cap about the letter after I knew what was in it and then only if it was warranted, but then I considered he might have some good insight. At the very least I wanted to catch his reaction. “Cap, Reecey got a letter addressed to Carmella Ann Mabley.”
    Cap is a five-foot-eight Irish-Catholic, with red hair and a red complexion from all the freckles fighting for space on his face. Now the color drained from Cap’s face; it almost reached transparency, his freckles seemingly floating unattached.
    In a hushed tone, he asked, “What’d it say?”
    I masked my alarm at his reaction by getting up to leave, not sure why I felt the need to pretend. Reece was living because of Cap. He’d helped me get her out of Philly after her attack, and into an unofficial version of the witness protection program.
    â€œShe won’t open it without me. I’m driving down this weekend.”
    He shifted his weight again so his left leg was now the anchor, and cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s nothing. After twenty years, it has to be nothing,” he said. Cap got up and went back to sit in his chair. “She’s been doing real well for herself. Husband, two kids, big house. Her husband . . . what’s his name, James? John? What’s he do for a living anyway?”
    â€œHis name is John. I can never get a straight answer, or I’m too much of a flat foot to understand exactly.” It was a lame attempt at humor that got my lone chuckle. “He does something with computers, technology. As long as he’s taking good care of Reecey and those babies, and it’s legal . . .” I shrugged my shoulders.
    â€œWhen you find out what’s in the letter, call me. Let me know what’s going on.” Cap flipped open a folder and picked up his phone, my cue to leave.
    Laughton was gone when I came out of Cap’s office. He was good at that lately, disappearing. I sat at my cubicle and sighed at the array of cases assigned to me that covered my desktop.
    Bullets from an automatic handgun used in a drive-by in Germantown that left an eight-year-old girl paralyzed, bullets from a .38 that killed two teens outside of a graduation party in North Philly, bullets and a .22 from a shooting in a Nicetown bar by a patron who had been kicked out because he wouldn’t stop smoking. Nicetown is a not-so-nice neighborhood in North Philly. The smoker, James Waller, came back and opened fire. He was the only shooter who had been caught, and a trial date was set for September 26. I had time. The bullets that killed two men and injured four others definitely came from Waller’s gun, but nothing is ever that pat. Shooters got off despite the certainty of the testimony our unit provided, and oftentimes they killed again before justice finally reigned. I spent a few hours organizing the contents on my desk, then clicked off my desk lamp and left.

    I landed a flurry of kicks into the punching bag and countered with several punches, back kicks, then more punches, unable to stop the pounding in my head. The face of my unmoved opponent flashed the maniacal grin of Jesse Boone. It remained undeterred by more punches and kicks until I fell