Free The Red Queen Dies by Frankie Y. Bailey Page A

that isn’t working, the police department is understaffed. There aren’t enough officers out on patrol. What it comes down to is that the APD and the mayor have given citizens a false sense of security. Every citizen in this city, particularly women, should be afraid to be out in the dark at night. We should stay home at night with our doors locked.”
    â€œIsn’t that giving the streets at night over to the criminals?”
    â€œYes. I’m afraid it is. But what choice do we have? It’s the best we can do until we can find a way to fix a criminal justice system that’s broken.”
    â€œClarence, as always, it’s been enlightening. Thank you for joining us. What about it, citizens of Albany? Are you afraid of the dark? KZAC Rangers, why don’t we make that your assignment for tomorrow. Stop your fellow citizens on the sidewalk and in stores, talk to your neighbors. Ask them if they feel safe going out on the streets of Albany at night. Ask them, ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ Then let us know what kind of responses you got.”
    â€œRadio off,” McCabe said, leaning forward to see through the rain. The street lights overhead swung and swayed in the wind. “Thanks so much, Larry. And thank you once again, Clarence Redfield.”
    She was exhausted. Ready for food, a shower, and bed.
    But when she saw her brother’s van in the driveway, McCabe almost kept driving. She wasn’t sure she had the energy left to deal with Adam tonight.
    She listened for a moment to the rain pounding against the roof of her car. Thought again about the broken umbrella she had forgotten to replace. Then she opened her car door and made a dash for the house.
    She shoved the front door shut against a gust of wind.
    â€œThat you, Hank?” her father called from the living room.
    â€œIt’s me,” McCabe called back.
    â€œCome in here. Your brother’s here.”
    â€œBe there as soon as I dry off. It’s pouring out there.”
    In the half bath, McCabe used a hand towel to scrub at her face and hair. She hung her wet jacket on a hook on the door.
    Her father was sitting on the sofa, slippered feet up on the coffee table and a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Her brother had pulled his wheelchair up beside him. They were watching a soccer game.
    â€œHi, you two,” she said. “Sorry I missed dinner.”
    â€œWe saw the news,” Angus said. “I guess that answers my question about whether we’ve got a killer on the loose. First those two girls. Now Vivian Jessup. You got your hands full with this one.”
    Adam turned his head toward her and smiled slightly. “We heard that interview with the crime beat threader, too. Are we safe in our own beds tonight, sis?”
    The black patch over his left eye stood out, rakish, against his café au lait skin. Eight years her senior, Adam had inherited a biracial variation on their father’s Scots-Irish coloring and hawkish good looks. He’d also inherited their mother’s ability to deliver subtle verbal jabs.
    â€œSafe enough, bro. Cool Jolly Roger,” she said, indicating the tiny white emblem on his eye patch.
    Adam tilted his head. “A gift from a friend.”
    â€œFemale, of course.”
    â€œOf course.”
    She went behind the sofa and kissed her father’s bald spot. “Something smells good, Pop. I hope you saved me a plate.”
    â€œJerk chicken and rice in the oven. Salad in the refrigerator,” he said. “Bring a tray in here. I want to hear about this serial killer.”
    â€œI’m too tired to talk about it, Pop,” McCabe glanced at her brother. “Why don’t you tell him all about your latest breakthrough in your lab?”
    â€œAlready have,” Adam said. “We’ve been waiting to hear about your adventures, Sherlock.”
    â€œSorry, I really am too beat to talk,” McCabe said. “First,