wearing a black leather vest over a burgundy shirt. He said, “We’re getting the footage off the minimart security tapes. They’ve got a camera aimed at the front door, and another directly at the street because of the number of drive-bys. They got their windows blown out last Halloween.”
“Straight at the street? Whoa, talk about a lap dance,” Grace said. “That’s just a damn gift.”
There was a phantom smile on Bobby’s face. Nobody could be very happy at the scene of Malcolm Briscombe’s death, but they were cops, used to a sort of tough love that left civilians stymied. You saw what a cop saw, you had to put it at a distance. Look at Bobby, all messed up after he went undercover in that child sex ring. Hateful and angry, till Grace made him scream out his rage and horror.
Grace said, “I’m going to go take a look at the dealer while Henry’s got him on the table.”
Rhetta nodded. “And I’m going to pray for his soul.”
“Don’t bother,” Grace said. “He doesn’t have one.”
Forty minutes later, Grace put on a surgical gown and a mask and entered Henry’s morgue. Her mission: to collect more information on the case; and also to curse the dead scumbag to hell. Henry had told her on the phone that he placed his victim—if a dealer could be called a victim—at under eighteen. She had three cases involving minors now: Haleem, Malcolm, and Shithead. She wanted very badly for there to be good solid links between two or even all three of her cases so she could gift-wrap it and hand it to Captain Perry. Make it a scoop that Kendra Burke would be forced to share with her adoring public. But that might be more than even God could manage.
I’m gonna hate you on sight
, Grace promised thedead dealer as she approached Henry’s slab. But when she saw Henry weighing his lungs, then moved her line of vision to the profile of the corpse’s face, she was startled by Shithead’s youth. He might be older than Malcolm, but he certainly couldn’t be as old as Jamal. Another kid, murdering people. Decrease in violent crime, her ass. How the hell had he messed it up so bad?
Then her heart hardened. She didn’t care how he got there. She wasn’t a social worker. He was a dead POS. Piece of Shit. Dealers dealt out death. They weren’t selling Girl Scout cookies. He’d known what he was doing.
Just like Jamal.
“Hey, Henry,” Grace said. “Emily taking to the new member of the family?”
Emily was Henry’s “new” twenty-one-year-old cat, whom he’d adopted when her predecessor, Molly, had to be put down. Grace had slept with Henry the night of Molly’s death: two drunk, sad people, one of them knowing that this was comfort sex and the other shopping for engagement rings. Now Henry had a second new cat, acquired after a court reporter they knew had been murdered. Grace had found homes for the dead woman’s cats, named after the Seven Dwarfs. Captain Perry’s was Grumpy. Rhetta wound up with Bashful, even though she was originally going to get Doc. Henry’s was Sneezy. Grace had passed on getting one. Gus was it for her.
And so was one night of cat pity sex.
“Yeah, so far they seem to be doing well together,” Henry told her, flushing a little, obviously remembering their encounter as well.
“That’s great. You got anything for me?” She looked down at the dead dealer.
“There are three entry areas. The back, which you saw. But also here …” He showed her the entry wound between the vic’s shoulder blades. “And here. Look.Straight down into his neck and shoulder. Ballistics is on it.” He gestured to the collapsed veins in Shithead’s arms. “Heroin. Heavy user.”
“Did you get a better estimate of his age?” Grace asked.
“I’m thinking maybe fifteen if that. I’m basing that on his skeletal development and dentition. He’s got a Snake Eyes tattoo.” Henry used his gloved hands to move down the drape and show Grace the inside of his forearm. Two
“Straight at the street? Whoa, talk about a lap dance,” Grace said. “That’s just a damn gift.”
There was a phantom smile on Bobby’s face. Nobody could be very happy at the scene of Malcolm Briscombe’s death, but they were cops, used to a sort of tough love that left civilians stymied. You saw what a cop saw, you had to put it at a distance. Look at Bobby, all messed up after he went undercover in that child sex ring. Hateful and angry, till Grace made him scream out his rage and horror.
Grace said, “I’m going to go take a look at the dealer while Henry’s got him on the table.”
Rhetta nodded. “And I’m going to pray for his soul.”
“Don’t bother,” Grace said. “He doesn’t have one.”
Forty minutes later, Grace put on a surgical gown and a mask and entered Henry’s morgue. Her mission: to collect more information on the case; and also to curse the dead scumbag to hell. Henry had told her on the phone that he placed his victim—if a dealer could be called a victim—at under eighteen. She had three cases involving minors now: Haleem, Malcolm, and Shithead. She wanted very badly for there to be good solid links between two or even all three of her cases so she could gift-wrap it and hand it to Captain Perry. Make it a scoop that Kendra Burke would be forced to share with her adoring public. But that might be more than even God could manage.
I’m gonna hate you on sight
, Grace promised thedead dealer as she approached Henry’s slab. But when she saw Henry weighing his lungs, then moved her line of vision to the profile of the corpse’s face, she was startled by Shithead’s youth. He might be older than Malcolm, but he certainly couldn’t be as old as Jamal. Another kid, murdering people. Decrease in violent crime, her ass. How the hell had he messed it up so bad?
Then her heart hardened. She didn’t care how he got there. She wasn’t a social worker. He was a dead POS. Piece of Shit. Dealers dealt out death. They weren’t selling Girl Scout cookies. He’d known what he was doing.
Just like Jamal.
“Hey, Henry,” Grace said. “Emily taking to the new member of the family?”
Emily was Henry’s “new” twenty-one-year-old cat, whom he’d adopted when her predecessor, Molly, had to be put down. Grace had slept with Henry the night of Molly’s death: two drunk, sad people, one of them knowing that this was comfort sex and the other shopping for engagement rings. Now Henry had a second new cat, acquired after a court reporter they knew had been murdered. Grace had found homes for the dead woman’s cats, named after the Seven Dwarfs. Captain Perry’s was Grumpy. Rhetta wound up with Bashful, even though she was originally going to get Doc. Henry’s was Sneezy. Grace had passed on getting one. Gus was it for her.
And so was one night of cat pity sex.
“Yeah, so far they seem to be doing well together,” Henry told her, flushing a little, obviously remembering their encounter as well.
“That’s great. You got anything for me?” She looked down at the dead dealer.
“There are three entry areas. The back, which you saw. But also here …” He showed her the entry wound between the vic’s shoulder blades. “And here. Look.Straight down into his neck and shoulder. Ballistics is on it.” He gestured to the collapsed veins in Shithead’s arms. “Heroin. Heavy user.”
“Did you get a better estimate of his age?” Grace asked.
“I’m thinking maybe fifteen if that. I’m basing that on his skeletal development and dentition. He’s got a Snake Eyes tattoo.” Henry used his gloved hands to move down the drape and show Grace the inside of his forearm. Two
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