looking for her and Maya? Or were all the police friends?
Charlie wasn’t sure, but she hoped someone was looking for them. It made her feel better, but only slightly. Charlie had spent the first six hours straight trying to wiggle free, but the zip ties were too tight. After that, she’d joined Maya and cried until she fell asleep, tired and alone in a bed far too big for her.
5
Frank Harper stood by the window of his hotel room again, looking out at the highway. It was Monday morning, and his head hurt. A lot.
Beer always did that to him—he was good with whiskey and bourbon, even the cheap stuff, but the headaches that came with beer stuck with him, sometimes for days. When the vodka had run out, he’d switched to cheap beer, knowing he would pay the price. Yesterday had been a fog—he’d spent most of it looking out this window, staring at the highway and thinking about Tuesday and Laura. And St. Barts.
Really, what was the point of it all? Things probably weren’t going to improve with Laura. She’d take one look at him and kick him out. Or they would start to talk, and he’d say something stupid, like something about her mother, or about how they had left, and she would politely ask him to leave.
But he didn’t want to go back to that cubicle in Birmingham. It didn’t matter if Frank was sitting there or not—exactly the same amount of progress would be made on the cold cases. Just getting out of there felt better. Maybe he should skip the meeting with Laura. It was destined to fail, anyway. Maybe he should just climb into his crappy car and leave. Start driving in some random direction and never look back.
The Vacation Inn was just a few yards from Interstate 75, a wide swath of concrete full of speeding trucks and cars. He could take it anywhere, maybe find someplace where he could be useful again. The road, if one were interested in following it, stretched north all the way to Canada and south to Miami.
Ben Stone had been from Miami.
The guy was a crack shot, always topping Frank at the sandy Florida shooting range where they practiced. They would go almost every week, and Ben would always kick Frank’s butt, never letting him forget it. They’d gotten along okay, and their competition at the range had been a nice diversion from the counterfeiting case, even if sometimes Ben would keep the used paper target silhouette of his shots and leave it in their car just to piss Frank off.
But Ben was also a hot head and prone to occasional bouts of stupidity. One day, Ben decided to return to investigate a lead on the case on his own—without Frank or department approval—and got himself killed in a back alley in Coral Gables. His gun was still in its holster.
Fat lot of good his range rating ended up doing.
Frank looked out at the highway and wondered if the weather would be as miserable today as it had been yesterday—cold and wet.
He’d tried to sleep in, but Frank had never been really good at that—too many years of rising early. First the military, then the NOPD. Too many early mornings, early meetings, early drills.
But early mornings were good for some things. He liked the quiet stillness, before everyone else was up. He’d heard an old-timer once sum it up nicely. The elderly black man only had two or three teeth, but smiled all the time, nonetheless. Worked at one of the restaurants in the French Quarter, an area of town Frank had frequented as much as possible. The old man had loved the early mornings because he could “enjoy the day before some idiot screwed it up.”
Frank turned and looked around the hotel room—it was looking pretty shabby. He thought about tidying up but then remembered no one was coming to visit him, and he really didn’t give a shit.
His brain felt sluggish, out-of-sorts, with nothing to work on. Frank had also spent much of yesterday thinking about Saturday night and his inability, or more accurately his unwillingness, to step in and help with those
Charlie wasn’t sure, but she hoped someone was looking for them. It made her feel better, but only slightly. Charlie had spent the first six hours straight trying to wiggle free, but the zip ties were too tight. After that, she’d joined Maya and cried until she fell asleep, tired and alone in a bed far too big for her.
5
Frank Harper stood by the window of his hotel room again, looking out at the highway. It was Monday morning, and his head hurt. A lot.
Beer always did that to him—he was good with whiskey and bourbon, even the cheap stuff, but the headaches that came with beer stuck with him, sometimes for days. When the vodka had run out, he’d switched to cheap beer, knowing he would pay the price. Yesterday had been a fog—he’d spent most of it looking out this window, staring at the highway and thinking about Tuesday and Laura. And St. Barts.
Really, what was the point of it all? Things probably weren’t going to improve with Laura. She’d take one look at him and kick him out. Or they would start to talk, and he’d say something stupid, like something about her mother, or about how they had left, and she would politely ask him to leave.
But he didn’t want to go back to that cubicle in Birmingham. It didn’t matter if Frank was sitting there or not—exactly the same amount of progress would be made on the cold cases. Just getting out of there felt better. Maybe he should skip the meeting with Laura. It was destined to fail, anyway. Maybe he should just climb into his crappy car and leave. Start driving in some random direction and never look back.
The Vacation Inn was just a few yards from Interstate 75, a wide swath of concrete full of speeding trucks and cars. He could take it anywhere, maybe find someplace where he could be useful again. The road, if one were interested in following it, stretched north all the way to Canada and south to Miami.
Ben Stone had been from Miami.
The guy was a crack shot, always topping Frank at the sandy Florida shooting range where they practiced. They would go almost every week, and Ben would always kick Frank’s butt, never letting him forget it. They’d gotten along okay, and their competition at the range had been a nice diversion from the counterfeiting case, even if sometimes Ben would keep the used paper target silhouette of his shots and leave it in their car just to piss Frank off.
But Ben was also a hot head and prone to occasional bouts of stupidity. One day, Ben decided to return to investigate a lead on the case on his own—without Frank or department approval—and got himself killed in a back alley in Coral Gables. His gun was still in its holster.
Fat lot of good his range rating ended up doing.
Frank looked out at the highway and wondered if the weather would be as miserable today as it had been yesterday—cold and wet.
He’d tried to sleep in, but Frank had never been really good at that—too many years of rising early. First the military, then the NOPD. Too many early mornings, early meetings, early drills.
But early mornings were good for some things. He liked the quiet stillness, before everyone else was up. He’d heard an old-timer once sum it up nicely. The elderly black man only had two or three teeth, but smiled all the time, nonetheless. Worked at one of the restaurants in the French Quarter, an area of town Frank had frequented as much as possible. The old man had loved the early mornings because he could “enjoy the day before some idiot screwed it up.”
Frank turned and looked around the hotel room—it was looking pretty shabby. He thought about tidying up but then remembered no one was coming to visit him, and he really didn’t give a shit.
His brain felt sluggish, out-of-sorts, with nothing to work on. Frank had also spent much of yesterday thinking about Saturday night and his inability, or more accurately his unwillingness, to step in and help with those
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