A Hope City Duet

by Kris Michaels

  "Ma'am?"

  She blinked back into the present. "Just a bowl of soup...a hh..." She glanced at the menu. "Clam chowder."

  "Excellent. Do you want water or a soda?"

  "No, thank you, just another pot of coffee." She indicated the small carafe he'd left about a half hour ago. It was empty.

  He chuckled. "Cops and their coffee."

  She cocked her head at him and raised an eyebrow. "Did I say I was a cop?"

  The waiter smiled. "Nah, didn't have to. My name is Casey. I own this diner, and my mom owned it before me. I've grown up around cops. A person can tell, and after a while it becomes obvious."

  "How's that?" She blinked up at him and smiled. He was a nice-looking guy. High and tight haircut indicated prior military, which went along with the strong jawed physique, the anchor and globe tattoo on his right forearm, and the bulldog tat on his left bicep. The guy hovered just over six feet, so Kallie would look him in the eye if she stood up.

  "Well, what you did just now, for one. You just sized me up and down with that internal measurement tool all cops seem to have. You have long hair, lots of it, but you have it tugged back tight and wrapped in a braid. You either don't want it to be used against you on the street or you're a librarian, but the shoulder holster and badge you have under your coat would lead me to believe you don't organize the dewey decimal system. You're a nice-looking woman, too, but you're wearing clothes that allow you to move. Your shoes are practical, not heels. Everything about you screams no nonsense allowed, but most of all, you've got that cold, closed off vibe going on."

  Kallie wiggled her toes in her black leather lace up boots. They were comfortable and not entirely unfashionable, but she'd ruined her fair share of shoes. She'd learned early; fashion had its place, and it wasn't at work.

  "Maybe you missed your calling, Casey? Maybe you should be a cop." With his build he'd probably be able to get through basic law enforcement training without much problem, although he was older, maybe thirty or so.

  He threw back his head and laughed. "Wait until you taste my clam chowder. You'll see I'm right where I need to be."

  "Is that so? I don't know, I've had some mighty fine soup in my day. That is a pretty high bar to reach." She arched an eyebrow in challenge.

  "I'll guarantee mine will move that bar way north." He chuckled and grabbed the small thermal-lined coffee pot off her table. His face got serious as he lowered his voice. "Are you joining us here in the Southern Precinct?"

  She nodded, interested in his quick change of demeanor.

  "Well then you should know I hire ex-cons here. The diner is a part of a work program, and I support a halfway house for those transitioning back into society. For the most part, we have a pretty good success rate, but you'll see prison tats, and a few are still adjusting to being out. It isn't easy on them, especially if my customers have attitudes."

  Kallie chuckled. She liked this guy. He was a straight shooter and damned observant. He’d need to be both to run a program for transitioning cons. She could see why he was successful with them. "No attitude from me, unless the soup sucks." She took a drink of her coffee. "But the coffee is good, so I have hope."

  "The coffee is awesome. It was good to meet you..." He paused for her to fill in her name.

  "Detective Kallie Redman. Homicide." She extended her hand to him. His rough, work-worn palm slid into hers.

  "Good to meet you. I'll go get that soup and send Dominque over with more coffee."

  She watched him disappear behind the counter and hand her coffee pot to a younger man. The guy smiled and nodded quickly before he beat feet over to the coffee urn. Her phone vibrated. She didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was one she recognized. Texas. Houston, to be exact.

  "Hello."

  "Hey, Kallie, girl. How's life been treating you?" The low rumble of her ex-husband's voice sent a cascade of ice through her veins. Thank God she hadn't answered with her last name. He didn't need to know she'd changed it.

  "What do you want, Rich?"

  "What? I can't check on my wife?"

  "Ex-wife. The divorce was final over four years ago. Are you out?" Her old Captain in Houston had sent her an email and gave her a heads up that Rich was up for parole. It was the only communication she’d had with anyone in HPD since she'd left the city. She'd moved to Atlanta and worked there in private security before she’d gotten her shit together enough to apply for a position in Hope City. She'd done everything she could to delete any trace of Rich from her life.

  "As of yesterday. Where are you? Your apartment manager said you'd left years ago without a forwarding address. Why would you do that, baby?"

  "I'm not your baby. I left; we're done. Get over it." Her hand shook, but she would be damned if she let her voice tremble.

  "But we have unfinished business. You fucking testified against me."

  "You killed that woman."

  "She was going for a gun."

  "No, she wasn't. She was unarmed." The victim had held a neon-pink cell phone in her hand. The event played over and over in her mind like a fucking six second meme. Her ex-husband had been undercover for almost a year, and he was strung out, culminating in a massive bust which she and her partner took part in. They were moving across the warehouse toward where Rich was reported to be. She saw it in freeze frame. He looked directly at her and then elevated his weapon and shot the girl. In the back. In cold blood. Her partner claimed to be looking the other direction. Kallie knew he hadn't been, but he wouldn't testify against her husband. She had, and it had cost her everything.

  "She was a worthless whore."

  "I can't believe you. No life is worthless. None. But be honest for once, would you? Why? Why'd you do it?" She turned her head away from the doors and sightlessly stared past the red leather side panel of her booth. He'd been convicted and sentenced to fifteen years. He’d served five.

  "I saw a gun." His story had never changed, but the facts were the facts. He’d pointed his gun and killed the woman. In court it had become apparent that Rich and the woman he’d shot were in a relationship while he’d been undercover. The woman had had a record for aggravated assault. Rich's attorney claimed he’d thought the woman was pulling a weapon to use on her as she crossed the warehouse. That was a lie, and she’d told the judge and jury the truth. Then Rich’s lawyer had gone after her. He’d made outrageous claims ending with the whopper that she’d been having an affair with her married Lieutenant. It was ridiculous and baseless, yet she was immediately transferred from her precinct, and life went from crispy in a frying pan to smoldering in the fire. No one would work with her. No one would back her up. Her car had been keyed. A lug wrench had been shoved through her radiator; the windshield had been shattered. The last straw was when she’d requested backup for an armed robbery she'd stumbled into at a convenience store on her way home from work. Although the dispatcher's radio traffic had indicated patrols were en route, no one had responded. It resulted in the store clerk being beaten and robbed. She’d been hospitalized for a gunshot through her thigh and one that grazed her arm. The perps had escaped. She’d lost consciousness waiting for someone to respond. Finally, back up rolled up. She'd never forget the words that were said. They’d thought she was dead. "Just what she deserved, the fucking bitch." She’d opened her eyes in time to see them step over her and wave off the responding EMTs. If she hadn't moved her hand to catch the EMT's eyes... She didn't know if she'd be alive today.

  "Do you think I can't find you? I got your number, didn't I?" His low question jerked her back from her own personal hell.

  "I'm not impressed. How is Lance, by the way?" His brother worked for the NSA. He'd be able to find her. The question was how much information Lance would pull for his brother. If she had to bet, she'd say the telephone number and nothing else. Lance wasn't stupid enough to put his career on the line.

  An evil chuckle reached her. "Fine and talented."

  "What do you want, Rich?"

&
nbsp; "I want to pay you back for all your support and understanding, my lovely wife."

  "I'm not your wife."

  "Damn straight. Fucking bitch."

  She shook her head, keeping silent. Rich was nothing like the man she'd met all those years ago. Something had happened to him during that undercover operation. This wasn't the man she’d married. That man had disappeared when he’d gone under cover. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

  That question was met with a low, nasty, laugh. "You ruined my life."

  No, that was his doing, and he’d ruined her life in the process. He'd destroyed everything she'd worked so damn hard to achieve, but she'd do it again. They'd sworn to protect and serve. She'd taken that oath and meant every word. "You did that when you killed a defenseless woman."

  "I'm going to find you."

  "Bring it, Rich, and when you come, I won't be unarmed." She hung up and carefully set down her phone. A glance at the time on the face indicated it had taken less than a minute for him to shred five years’ worth of effort to build a life without him in it.

  A young man strolled by with her coffee, a basket of warm bread and a plate of butter. "Hi, I'm Dominque. Your soup will be right up. Both the soup and bread are bottomless, so if you want more, just let me know."

  She smiled absently and picked up a piece of bread. The warmth felt good in her suddenly cold hands. She focused on the entrance to the precinct across the street. This was her shot to get her life back. Her handlers at Guardian had set up the interview. They knew everything about her past and had hired her anyway. She would have stayed with them if she hadn't gotten the interview here in Hope City. Although the pay was outstanding, and the organization was one of the best in the world, she wasn't fulfilled being a personal security officer. She needed to be back on the streets, as a detective. Her boss told her to let her know if her 'fuck-face of an ex' became a concern. Jade DeMarco was hell on wheels and didn't sugar coat anything. If Rich made a repeat appearance, she'd consider making that call, but until then, she had a new 'temporary' partner to meet. The man she would be assigned with permanently, a Grant Couch, was due to return soon from a year overseas. Couch was in the Marine Reserves and had been activated for a year-long overseas assignment. She was being placed temporarily with another detective whose partner had been selected to work a Federal Task Force.

  The police colonel in charge of Special Investigations had called and asked if she'd report to work early. Fuck yeah, she would. Rambling around in her small apartment, she'd managed to bake enough food to stock her freezer for a year. She'd had to join a gym and worked to keep off the weight her boredom-baking put on.

  She glanced across the street and watched another television crew set up for a live remote. That made a total of five white media vans staking out the street in front of the precinct building. She hated the media and snarled at the crews across the street. Damn vultures, she'd had to deal with more than her fair share of the bastards when shit went down in Texas.

  When Dominque delivered her soup, she glanced at her phone. She had another half hour before she needed to walk in those doors. She was meeting her new Lieutenant and, after that, her temporary partner. God help her, she was nervous.

  "Well?"

  She jumped at the eager question. Casey pointed to the chowder. "Best you've ever eaten?"

  She laughed and sampled a spoonful. The light clam broth was thickened delicately with heavy cream. There was an abundance of minced clams. The seafood was tender, not cooked into rubber bands. A slight onion and garlic background and a hint of butter kissed the offering. It was, in a word, wonderful.

  She closed her eyes and moaned. "Perfection."

  Casey's smile when she opened her eyes was open, honest and real. "Well then, lunch is on me. Welcome to the Southern District, Kallie Redman."

  "Oh, I can't..."

  "You don't work there yet, so yeah, you can, and I am picking up the tab. After this you pay just like everyone else. I'll see you around." As Casey headed back into the kitchen, her eyes followed him. She smiled as he waved from behind the pass-through. She really liked this city. Her eyes traveled once again to the precinct across the street. Please God, let me fit in.

  5

  Jordan extended his hand in goodbye. Brock grabbed his partner and pulled him in for a quick clench. “Don’t let those damn Fibbies get you killed, my man.”

  “I’ll try my best. I left my notebook in the car. I’m calling as soon as I can because I want to know what the fuck is happening with this case. I’d give my left nut to be in on the interview with Chloe and the wife, especially with you getting all up in the women’s faces.” Jordan laughed and ducked a playful jab Brock sent in his direction.

  “Hey, I can be empathetic.” It was just easier if Jordan played the role.

  “I know, man. You’ve got this. It’s just…”

  “Fucked,” he echoed what he knew his partner was thinking. He could be gone a long time. Months, maybe even longer.

  They stood sheltered behind the precinct in a small walkway that led to the parking lot, neither one inclined to turn and go their separate ways. “You’ll probably get shoved onto another team. They won’t keep putting you with a slew of temps. Don’t let them assign you someone permanently.” Jordan shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the heavy clouds that hung over them. “It would fucking suck to have to break in a new partner when I get back.”

  He tipped his eyes up, too. It was going to snow, just a matter of when. He spoke to the clouds, “Never. I don’t think anyone else could put up with me.”

  “Damn straight.” He chuckled when his partner immediately agreed.

  “Seriously, you take care of yourself. Check in when you can.” Because they both knew it would be impossible for him to reach Jordan.

  “I guess I’d better go.” Jordan glanced toward the parking lot and his car. “You sure you’re okay taking care of Fester?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. That cat is chill. I’ll move him over to mine tonight.”

  “You have to actually feed him, so you have to leave the damn precinct at least once a day.”

  “Got it. Feed the cat. He survived me watching him when you went to see your folks.”

  “That was a week, Brock. This could be… a lot longer.”

  “Fester and I will be fine.” He’d enlist his little sisters to help cat sit if he needed to, but he’d make sure the thing made it through.

  “Check on my apartment and car?” Jordan said.

  “You know it.”

  “Okay, so…”

  “Yeah.” He extended his hand one last time. Jordan took it, and God help him if he didn’t feel like they were saying goodbye, not ‘so long’. He watched Jordan until he turned the corner before he entered the building. He nodded to people as he passed through the lobby and made his way to the sixth floor. The case and Jordan’s departure weighed equally on his mind. He wasn’t happy with either situation, but for now his focus had to be on the case. He glanced at his watch. If his new partner wasn’t a complete idiot, he could get him up to speed, interview Chloe and maybe Garrett, and make it to Miriam Treyson’s home by 3:30. He’d instructed patrol to bring both individuals to the precinct. He’d rather talk to them in their homes, but there was no time to waste. If it turned out his new partner was an idiot, well, he’d just tell the guy to shut his mouth and take notes. He didn't have time to waste on an idiot partner. He had to solve this murder. The stakes were too damn high. His father's career was on the line. Fuck, there wasn't any time to waste.

  He did a drive-by and snagged a tankard of coffee before he headed for Lieutenant Davidson’s office. The door was closed, so he knuckled the frosted glass and waited. “Enter.”

  He pushed the door open. “Jordan punched out.”

  “Ah, King. Come in. This is your new partner, Kallie Redman.”

  A woman in the corner stood. Wow. She was tall and a fucking knock-out punch type of striking, not beautifu
l in the classic sense, but fuck him, he’d notice her in a crowd. Dark brown hair held away from intelligent brown eyes. He’d describe her vibe as… athletic. No makeup but vibrant and… striking. Oh, yeah, there was a feisty spirit in this lady. He could see the challenge in the way she sized him up. Not an idiot, either. Those eyes were sharp and inquisitive. She extended her hand.

  “Brock King.” He introduced himself, grasping her hand. The woman had a firm handshake, and she met his eyes. Damn, she struck him as… razor sharp. “Have you been brought up to speed on the case we are working?”

  She nodded. “The basics that the Lieutenant had.” She nodded at the case file on Davidson’s desk.

  “Perfect.” He turned away from her and addressed Davidson. “We tracked down several key people in Treyson’s life. He was in a polyamorous relationship that his wife knew about.”

  “Jealousy as a motive?” His new partner interjected.

  “At this time, we don’t believe so. The interview we just had with a Miss Ava Dall suggested the wife has lovers, too. Patrol have brought in two of Treyson’s three lovers, and we have an appointment to speak to his wife at 3:30.”

  His partner blinked twice. “Excuse me? Appointment?”

  Oh, fuck, yeah. She was sharp but obviously not from Hope City. An accent was immediately distinguishable. Southern, but not in that twangy backwoods way.

  He nodded and then chuckled, “The Treysons own half the city. I tried to talk to the wife this morning after processing the crime scene. Besides the horde of press at the residence, I was met with a wall of lawyers.”

  “What time was that?” She glanced at her watch.

  “About 6:00 a.m.”

  She glanced at him and narrowed her eyes. “So…” She glanced at the lieutenant and then back at him. She shrugged and finished, “You’ve got a leak, and someone told wifey that the husband was dead—or she’s involved and knew you’d be coming.”