Read Online Pernicious by James Henderson, Larry Rains - Free Book Online Page B

his swagger. Actually he acted if he were neutered. No more shouting, no more threats--and definitely no more hot checks.
              And no more passion…in bed or otherwise.
              Why in the world did I think a baby would rekindle the flame, or at least motivate Neal to get serious about finding and keeping a job?
                                                
                                          * * * * *
     
              The next day, Tasha awoke with Perry Davis on her mind. She’d had a nightmare in which she and a faceless woman, whom she was sure was Perry Davis, fought viciously on a rooftop.
              She couldn’t recall what ignited the fight, though clearly remembered the woman standing over her with a large rock, the woman calling her names, the woman grunting as she lifted the rock overhead--then she woke up, sweating.
              Tasha showered, fixed herself a breakfast consisting of Fruit Loops and a Pop Tart, and turned the television on. Unlike Neal and Derrick, she rarely watched the tube. She surfed to a Soul Train rerunand watched dispassionately as beautiful young women danced in sync to the music.
              If she looked that good, that trim, she wouldn’t be wiggling her wares on TV; she’d be at a country club… Doing what? Shaking my money-maker in front of geriatric sugar daddies? I don’t think so!
              That had to be what Perry Davis was thinking when she invested her interest in Tyrone Banks.
              “Make that money, girlfriend! Damn decency and self-respect--make that money!”
                If Tyrone was generously sprinkling the sugar, why did she kill him? He had a heart condition and was getting long in the tooth, and they didn’t have a prenup. Why kill him?
              Why the rush?
              She called the station and asked a detective to retrieve and relay her notes in her desk. She wrote down Shirley Banks’ phone number and address.
              Saturday, her scheduled day off, but instead of piddling around all day doing nothing, she would work on a case that she knew might never see the light of day in a courtroom.
              Dressed in blue jeans, a blue-and-white blouse and soft-white tennis shoes, Tasha steered her car past Central High School, the legendary high school made famous during the late fifties when then-Governor Orval Faubus refused admittance to nine African American students. Back then the neighborhood was mostly white. Now it was predominately black.  
              Tasha slowed down, remembering Mrs. Banks had said that her recently painted green house was a rock’s throw from the high school.
              Mrs. Banks hadn’t sounded concerned when Tasha told her she had questions regarding her husband’s death.
              Asked when would be a good time to talk, Mrs. Banks said, “Today. Tomorrow, next month,” her voice slurred and disjointed. Tasha wondered if she was intoxicated.
              Tasha stopped her Honda Accord in front of a lime-green, single-story house, which, despite its unusual color, was one of the better kept homes in the neighborhood. She got out, crossed to the front door and rang the doorbell.
              “Come in.”
              “Detective Tasha Montgomery,” tentatively entering the house, not wanting to surprise anyone.
              A shirtless teenager reclined in an Lay-Z-Boy with his legs draped over the armrest, watching a video where three young men, also shirtless, cruised in a convertible.
              “Hello, I’m Detective Montgomery. Is Mrs. Banks in?”
              The teenager focused on the television. Tasha repeated the question.
              With his left foot, he gestured toward the hallway.
              A voice