Power by Debra Webb

grateful to have Harper on her team. Lori Wells, too. They were top-notch detectives. Officer Cook, who would be reporting for duty on Friday, had earned his spot in Jess’s unit when he jumped at the opportunity to spend his off-duty time following up on her lead in the case that had brought Jess back to Birmingham. Lieutenant Prescott had started today. Despite the promotion she felt had belonged to her, so far she hadn’t asked to be transferred back to Crimes Against Persons. Jess doubted that meant the lieutenant liked her. The more probable scenario was that Prescott intended to hang close and wait for Jess to screw up or drop dead.
    One day when the dust had settled Jess would invite her out for drinks. Not the girlie martini types but the ones with balls, like bourbon straight up or scotch neat. With good stiff drinks in their guts they could hash this out woman-to-woman.
    There she went, getting distracted with frustrations that were completely irrelevant to the moment. This was not the time or the place.
    Thankfully the neighborhood was fairly quiet, which made for hearing trouble well in advance of it coming into view. A pit bull at the neighbor’s house got to his feet, stretched, and then sniffed the air. As she and Harper headed up the drive to the front door, the dog barked and growled, then launched toward them. His chain snapped tight, holding him at the property line. Jess wished there was a law against having dogs chained up like that.
    The front porch of the Simmonses’ home was really nothing more than a small stoop. Jess fanned herself. It was just too damned hot for a house with no porch. Two concrete steps, flanked by potted plants that somehow managed to survive in this heat, led to the door. A security storm door had been installed, as had iron bars over the windows. Nothing said welcome like iron bars. For those inside, the attempt at deterrence made them feel a little safer. In Jess’s experience if a bad guy wanted in badly enough, he was getting in.
    Harper rapped on the steel door.
    Inside, the high-pitched yap of a small dog erupted, easily outdoing the drone of the television.
    Another series of raps on the door. The television volume was lowered and the dog, Chi-Chi, was shushed by a firm male voice. In Jess’s opinion the yappy dog was a far more reliable deterrent than the bars.
    Locks clicked and the door opened. A man, late sixties or so, gray hair and bifocals, scrutinized first Harper, then Jess. “You Jehovah’s Witnesses or cops?” he challenged, his voice gruff. “If you’re Witnesses, we belong to the Baptist church over on Sixteenth Street, so don’t waste your time. If you’re cops, you damned sure took your time.”
    Jess displayed her credentials, as did Harper. “Mr. Simmons, I’m Deputy Chief Harris and this is Sergeant Harper from the Birmingham PD. May we come inside and speak with you about your grandson?”
    Without a word, the man unlatched the security door. Sergeant Harper pulled it open and waited for Jess to go in before him. The home smelled of fried okra, fresh sweet corn, and hot corn bread, reminding Jess of the way her mother’s kitchen had smelled when she was a child. Her stomach rumbled. She pressed her hand there and hoped no one noticed.
    The living room was homey. Worn comfortable sofa and chairs. Tables cluttered with framed photos, most of which were of the grandson. The man who’d answered the door along with a woman who looked to be around his age stood on either side of the boy at his high school graduation, diploma proudly displayed. Chi-Chi, a tiny Chihuahua with a yap ten times her size, danced around Jess’s feet.
    “Well, hello, you itty-bitty puppy.” Jess reached down and the dog snarled in warning. Guess Chi-Chi wasn’t as friendly as she looked.
    “Helen, the police are here,” Mr. Simmons called down the hall that in all probability led to the bedrooms. He turned back to his company. “Go on and sit down. She’ll be