Free Wrong Chance by E. L. Myrieckes Page B

nowadays, have HIV and herpes…and they come with a lot of drama.”
    After a moment of considerable thought, Hakeem said, “On second thought, give me a case of the worms. But she can’t be over thirty-five. What are two dead batteries gonna do? She at least has to be young enough to recharge me.”
    â€œCheck, younger than thirty-five,” Aspen said as they strolled down the hallway of the Cleveland Homicide Unit. “You’ll like her; I’d give her an eight point eight.”
    â€œRound it up, she’s a nine.” He yawned, hadn’t slept a wink last night. “I’m in love already. Someone that pretty, I might not know how to act. Never had anyone over a three because I’ve been cursed with ugly-girl energy.”
    â€œYou’re terrible.” She burst into laughter. “And funny.”
    Hakeem said, “She can’t be over a hundred twenty-five poundseither. I draw my line in the sand there when it comes to women—pretty or ugly. If she’s heavier than that, she can’t do a thing for me but point me in the direction of her slim friend.” He noticed Aspen’s facial expression change. “Can’t believe you tried to hook me up with a fat girl.”
    â€œShe isn’t fat and you’re not old. Not many thirty-eight-year-old men can stand next to you.”
    â€œAspen, is she heavier than a buck a quarter?”
    She made a small gap between her thumb and index finger. “A wee bit.”
    â€œForget about it.”
    â€œHakeem, she’s about a hundred twenty-eight.”
    â€œForget about it.”
    â€œHakeem, stop acting an ass.”
    â€œTell her to lose about three pounds and we got a date.”
    â€œDetective Eubanks, Detective Skye,” a raspy voice called out from behind them.
    They turned and faced Sergeant Morris—nicknamed Urkel because he was skinny and often wore high-water slacks with annoying suspenders and a pair of unfashionable glasses.
    â€œWhat’s up, Urkel?” Hakeem said, glad to be away from the conversation about Aspen’s nameless friend.
    Sergeant Morris cringed and scowled all at once, proof he still despised his nickname today just as much as he did yesterday. He gave the detectives a serious look. “There’s been a murder. The mayor wants you two to personally handle it.”

TWENTY-TWO
    I t pissed acid rain on Cleveland in one steady stream. Hakeem rode shotgun in Aspen’s latest sex-appeal complement, a BMW 760Li luxury sedan, while she plunged the V-12 toward the scene of the crime. He no longer made comments about the things she bought because it was useless. She changed vehicles like he changed watches, which was every day.
    â€œHow about this,” Aspen said with her musical voice. “Muslims are required to shave their pubic and underarm hair. The males and females.”
    â€œYou’re kidding,” Hakeem said, not interested at all. He was thinking about calling Ms. Drew Felding, his neighbor, and asking her to let Keebler out and keep an eye on her because a fresh homicide promised late working hours. Especially when he wasn’t getting started until after five post meridiem.
    â€œSeriously. Ran across it online last night. Get this: Back in the day of the Prophet Muhammad, they practiced that because they rode camels without proper underclothes. Shaving was their answer to the flea and tick problem in those times, which is understandable. But today people wear Victoria’s Secret and Calvin Klein underwear. We drive beautiful machines like this baby here.” She gripped the steering wheel. “So it’s crazy for shaving to still be a mandate, right?”
    â€œYou sure know a lot about Muslims.”
    â€œThought about signing up to give my children a religion and to tick my father off. Changed my mind when I found out Muslim women didn’t have equal rights, have to starve themselves for thirty