A Visible Darkness by Jonathon King Page A

eyes drifted open.
    “Go ’head, baby,” she slurred. “Get your own self some of this.”
    Eddie knew the girl would wait until he was half conscious with a dose and then either rip him off or split. He shook his head.
    “Now I gets what I want.”
    The girl’s eyes opened wider and she pulled herself up.
    “Okay, baby. You gonna get yours. But I gotta pee first. Know what I mean?” She was now on her feet. Yeah, Eddie thought, I know what you mean.
    She took a step and he had her by the wrist before she could turn. She kicked at him but Eddie caught her ankle and like a rag doll tossed her back on the mattress. Eddie had been cheated too many times by women. When she started to scream Eddie had her instantly by the throat. No yellin’. Ain’t no yellin’ in this house, his mamma always said. His grip on her throat tightened until she was quiet and he went about his business, getting what was his.
    When he was through, Eddie let loose and sat back against the cool block wall. The girl stayed quiet while he mixed his own package from the bundle and got himself high. She was still quiet when he got up to leave. She was still lying there when he ducked out the doorway and started pushing his cart back to the streets.

8
    W hen I left Ms. Greenwood I drove east, over the tracks and toward the ocean. After ten years as a cop I’d heard enough stories, confessions, excuses and bullshit to come to a conclusion. Truth is an ephemeral thing. Perception holds a powerful sway. Ms. Greenwood was convinced that someone connected to her mother’s viatical policy had a hand in her death. That was her truth. Billy, whose judgment I trusted, also believed it. McCane was never going to get his nose in this neighborhood to make any kind of assessment. I could walk away and not subject myself to the hassle. But that was the thing about truth and the possibility of it. I had a hard time leaving it alone.
    I crossed A1A and turned down a short residential street to a small oceanfront park and pulled into a shaded spot. I stepped over the bulkhead and walked down to the beach. At the edge of the sand you could smell brine drying on the rocks left behind by an outgoing tide. I dug the cell phone out and dialed Sherry Richards’ direct line.
    “Strategic Investigations Division, Richards.”
    “I am surprised and honored not to have your machine answer,” I said.
    “Freeman. Hey, what happened? The swamp dry up?”
    Her voice had a lilt to it. That was positive. It had been a few weeks. Maybe she wasn’t pissed.
    “I had a craving for civilization,” I said.
    “You’re calling me civilized, Max. How sweet.”
    Still, there was that sarcasm.
    “Hey, I’m on dry land. How about lunch?”
    “Today? I don’t know, Max. Wind’s a little stiff. Might be too busy for you.”
    I was left again without response. Seriously pissed? Or joking? Three, maybe four weeks ago we’d been out on Billy’s thirty-four- foot sloop, sailing to nowhere with Billy and his girlfriend, another lawyer who had an office in his building.
    I had met Richards several months ago. She’d been on a special task force investigating a string of child abductions and killings. One of the dead kids had ended up on my river. Despite myself, I got pulled into the investigation. She’d kept a professional and wary distance until the case had broken. Then she’d found too many reasons for coming to the hospital to check on me while I convalesced from a gunshot wound.
    I tried to see her whenever I came in off the river. Drinks at a beachside tiki bar. Dinner at Joe’s Seafood Grill on the Intracoastal. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her legs during a Saturday afternoon on the beach. She’d noticed. She was after all, a trained cop.
    On the sailing trip she’d surprised me with her dexterity and seamanship. She’d been showing me up from the time we’d pushed off from the dock, but it had only registered a small manly tick with me and probably hadn’t even