Free King Divas by De'nesha Diamond

out of my office.
    â€œHey! You’re looking for me?”
    My ex-partner, Lieutenant John Fowler, shoots me a grim look. “A little tardy to the party, aren’t you?”
    â€œIf I’d known that you’d be helpless without me, I would’ve showed up earlier to hold your hand.”
    â€œCute.”
    â€œBesides, I ran into a little problem of my own this morning.”
    â€œDon’t tell me that you were involved in the police car chase that’s splattered all over the news.”
    â€œOkay. I won’t tell you, but I’ll be riding with you until I can get another vehicle assigned to me. Mine is totaled.”
    â€œDamn. Why does all the exciting shit always happen with you?” he jokes.
    â€œOh. That’s not all. I got a look at the driver fleeing from that church you were called out to. Care to guess who it was?”
    Fowler sighs. “Dale Earnhardt Junior?”
    â€œFunny. No. Who’s number one on our Most Wanted list?” His face loses its amused look. “No.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo you were right. Terrell Carver is still alive,” he says, impressed.
    â€œDon’t sound so shocked. I’m always right. Now we have to figure how to find him and bring him in.”
    Fowler laughs. “Piece of cake.”
    I flash a smile as I walk with him in the direction of the interrogation rooms. “Who we got?”
    â€œHave a look for yourself.” Fowler opens the door to the observation room, where a two-way mirror reveals a blood-splattered woman who looks familiar.
    â€œWhere do I know her from?” I ask.
    â€œHer name is Cleo Blackmon,” Fowler says. “She’s a member of the church.”
    â€œWhat’s her story?”
    â€œShe claims that she discovered our victim when she stopped by to pick up her new choir robe for an upcoming revival.”
    â€œChoir . . . She’s a singer.” I nod, placing the face. “I saw her performing last night at Club Diesel.”
    â€œAhh? You and the hubby finally getting some R & R time, huh?” Fowler grins. “I thought I detected a certain glow about you. Did you get you some?”
    â€œNone of your damn business,” I sass back, chuckling.
    â€œOne day, I’m going to get back into the game. Find a hot girl with freak tendencies.”
    â€œWhat? You’re already bored with the blow-up doll I got you last Christmas?”
    â€œOn the contrary. I plan to keep her as a chick on the side—or invite her in for a threesome.”
    We laugh at our foolishness.
    My attention returns to the woman on the other side of the mirror. She’s struggling to remain calm. “Did she see anything or anyone?” I hope for the name Python.
    â€œOf course not,” Fowler says. “You know the drill. No one ever sees anything.”
    Sighing, I ask, “Who’s our victim?”
    Fowler’s deep breath warns me to prepare myself.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMaybelline Carver.”

13
    Qiana
    S itting on the edge of my bed, doubled over in pain, I come to the realization that I’m a dead bitch walking. There’s no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I have no one to blame but myself. I fucked over the wrong bitch. Now it’s time to pay the piper.
    Diesel kicked and stomped my ass into the floor last night after drugging and fucking me and . . . I don’t even want to think about what may have happened with that damn Doberman pinscher, Solomon.
    I shiver in disgust and then block the hazy memory from resurfacing. After I got my ass kicked, LeShelle ran my taxi off the road, killed the driver, and was seconds from murking my ass. Fortunately, she needs something: the baby. The baby I sliced out of one of LeShelle’s enemies. I named him Jayson when I brought him here to live for a few months. I cut him out of his momma because LeShelle had failed to tell me that her man’s side piece was due to deliver that