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Authors: Debra Webb
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out of character for a man in his position.”
“Banks isn’t our man,” Cooper said, moving on from the subject of Abbott. “You know it and I know it. He’s a bully, not a killer. His alibi checked out. And his aunt swears he came in about two that morning and she started trying to get him up at noon. He was dead to the world for those hours in between.”
She held up her hands before Braddock could say what was on his mind. “I know. I know. The aunt could’ve lied. She’s family. Might be protecting him. But I believe her. My instincts are usually right on the money when it comes to reading people.”
Braddock could vouch for that. He was hoping like hell she didn’t turn that high-powered perception too keenly on him. They’d been partners for nearly three years. She’d seen him through a hell of a lot. But this crossed the line.
If he went down, he wasn’t taking Cooper with him. This wasn’t her mess; it was his.
“Banks might not have killed her,” Braddock admitted, “but he knows who did. And, by his own admission, he was one of the last people to see her alive.”
Cooper pulled the open case file to her side of the desk. “Banks was in and out of the Patterson home that night. So were two other men the neighbor, Mr. O’Neal, couldn’t identify.”
O’Neal lived next door to Shelley. The argument between Banks and Shelley had awakened him, which was the reason he’d been up at one-thirty or so in the morning. He had seen at least two other males come and go between two and three that morning but he hadn’t gotten a good look at either one. A stroke had sentenced him to a wheelchair, limiting his views to those from his first-floor windows. O’Neal hadn’t been concerned about the late-night visitors. Men were in and out of Shelley’s place at all hours, most any given night of the week.
“Shelley used to be one of the King’s foot soldiers,” Cooper went on as she perused the interview notes she’d taken.
The King. Tyrone Nash. The self-professed ruler of the village. A true scumbag. Braddock’s jaw tightened. The piece of shit even had business cards flaunting his self-ordained status. He had deemed the prostitutes he operated his “foot soldiers.” Others who worked for him were his “eyes” and his “ears.” Nash had himself quite an imagination to go with that inflated ego.
“Shelley wasn’t turning tricks for him anymore,” Braddock reminded his partner.
“True, but since Nash keeps tabs on every-damned-body living in the village, he probably knows exactly what happened whether he killed her or not.”
“Probably?” Braddock shot her an are-you-kidding look. Frustration tightened in his gut. “You know damned well he ordered her death. There is no way in hell it happened without his approval.”
“I have a theory on the E. Noon thing,” his partner offered.
“Oh, yeah?” Braddock hadn’t spent much time on that. He’d been too focused on CJ. Just another indication he was way over the line here.
Cooper nodded. “It’s
no one
spelled backward.”
No one fucks with me
.
The words, written in blood—in his niece’s blood—loomed ominously in Braddock’s head. Nash had sent him that note. Nash had killed her. Just like he killed Shelley. Braddock didn’t need any evidence. He knew it in his gut.
All of this, every damned step, was a waste of time. A game that bastard had set in motion. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. He was too careful. They would search for evidence and interview dozens of folks, and it would all boil down to one thing: no way to legally prove Nash was the one.
But he was. This time Braddock was going to get him.
Cooper closed the file. “Look,” she said quietly, “we both know how badly you want Nash.”
Braddock blinked. He’d been lost in his own misery. “It’s him. We both know where the
no one
comes from. Nash is making sure I understand it’s him.”
“I totally agree,” Cooper went on. “He’s a
“Banks isn’t our man,” Cooper said, moving on from the subject of Abbott. “You know it and I know it. He’s a bully, not a killer. His alibi checked out. And his aunt swears he came in about two that morning and she started trying to get him up at noon. He was dead to the world for those hours in between.”
She held up her hands before Braddock could say what was on his mind. “I know. I know. The aunt could’ve lied. She’s family. Might be protecting him. But I believe her. My instincts are usually right on the money when it comes to reading people.”
Braddock could vouch for that. He was hoping like hell she didn’t turn that high-powered perception too keenly on him. They’d been partners for nearly three years. She’d seen him through a hell of a lot. But this crossed the line.
If he went down, he wasn’t taking Cooper with him. This wasn’t her mess; it was his.
“Banks might not have killed her,” Braddock admitted, “but he knows who did. And, by his own admission, he was one of the last people to see her alive.”
Cooper pulled the open case file to her side of the desk. “Banks was in and out of the Patterson home that night. So were two other men the neighbor, Mr. O’Neal, couldn’t identify.”
O’Neal lived next door to Shelley. The argument between Banks and Shelley had awakened him, which was the reason he’d been up at one-thirty or so in the morning. He had seen at least two other males come and go between two and three that morning but he hadn’t gotten a good look at either one. A stroke had sentenced him to a wheelchair, limiting his views to those from his first-floor windows. O’Neal hadn’t been concerned about the late-night visitors. Men were in and out of Shelley’s place at all hours, most any given night of the week.
“Shelley used to be one of the King’s foot soldiers,” Cooper went on as she perused the interview notes she’d taken.
The King. Tyrone Nash. The self-professed ruler of the village. A true scumbag. Braddock’s jaw tightened. The piece of shit even had business cards flaunting his self-ordained status. He had deemed the prostitutes he operated his “foot soldiers.” Others who worked for him were his “eyes” and his “ears.” Nash had himself quite an imagination to go with that inflated ego.
“Shelley wasn’t turning tricks for him anymore,” Braddock reminded his partner.
“True, but since Nash keeps tabs on every-damned-body living in the village, he probably knows exactly what happened whether he killed her or not.”
“Probably?” Braddock shot her an are-you-kidding look. Frustration tightened in his gut. “You know damned well he ordered her death. There is no way in hell it happened without his approval.”
“I have a theory on the E. Noon thing,” his partner offered.
“Oh, yeah?” Braddock hadn’t spent much time on that. He’d been too focused on CJ. Just another indication he was way over the line here.
Cooper nodded. “It’s
no one
spelled backward.”
No one fucks with me
.
The words, written in blood—in his niece’s blood—loomed ominously in Braddock’s head. Nash had sent him that note. Nash had killed her. Just like he killed Shelley. Braddock didn’t need any evidence. He knew it in his gut.
All of this, every damned step, was a waste of time. A game that bastard had set in motion. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. He was too careful. They would search for evidence and interview dozens of folks, and it would all boil down to one thing: no way to legally prove Nash was the one.
But he was. This time Braddock was going to get him.
Cooper closed the file. “Look,” she said quietly, “we both know how badly you want Nash.”
Braddock blinked. He’d been lost in his own misery. “It’s him. We both know where the
no one
comes from. Nash is making sure I understand it’s him.”
“I totally agree,” Cooper went on. “He’s a
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