the hopes of using Cameron’s love for me to control
him and the underworld. Victor was a bloodsucker, but Cameron could not touch him
because he was a police officer; killing a police officer, like killing a rich man’s
daughter, brought too much unwanted attention to the underw orld.
I, on the other hand, was not bound to the underworld and had no aversions to killing
Victor. I also had no way of making this happen quickly, before the baby came. The
only way I could protect the baby from him was to get him off the streets and put
a spotlight on him. After that, anything Victor did or planned would be watched, including
putting a hit on me. One day, when I was ready, when he wasn’t looking, I would come
find him and seek justice for what he had done to R occo.
I imagined myself going into the police protection program. But I knew there would
never be a safe place for me once I ousted Victor and his enterprise. Luckily, Victor’s
reign over the underworld had petered out after Bill and Cameron had taken over. If
I could figure out how to get hold of Bill’s inheritance, then I could hide us, better
than the cops w ould.
When the water fountain ladies’ argument turned to fisticuffs and hairpulling, two
police officers came to pull them apart. It took me a little while to recall where
I had seen them before. It was the third officer who came to help them that refreshed
my memory. He was a tall baldheaded guy with sunken eyes and puffy cheeks that reminded
me of beanbags from a summer-camp toss game. I had once whispered to this man through
a locked door. I had once stolen his gun and held it to his head. The baldheaded officer
was named Mickey. And his fellow law enforcers were also Victor’s min ions.
I was an out-and-out moron. How could I have not assumed that at least some of the
men under Shield’s reign would have also been police officers? One dirty cop will
attract more dirty cops. Street thugs, dirty cops—all bad guys are genetically created
to gravitate toward each o ther.
Callister’s police department was the most dangerous place for me to be, and yet there
I was, idiotically defenseless. I turtled inside my hood and slid down the closest
hal lway.
I could hear the women scuffling in the short hallway while Shield’s men tried to
pull them apart. The hallway had only one door, metal, and it was locked with a card
scan. At the end of it were two glass cases that stood side by side. I used the reflection
in the glass to watch what was going on behind me and find an opportunity to es cape.
When pajama guy chimed into the chaos and started screaming his legal woes behind
Shield’s officers, more officers started pouring through the metal door. I stood as
close to the glass as I could, trying to stay out of their way and field of vision.
The hallway was a really bad place to be stuck. Moron. Out-and -out.
While I was observing the show, something in one of the glass cases caught my eye.
The first one was a trophy case, containing mostly baseball and football trophies
and a few Little League thank-you pla ques.
It was the second case that made my breath feel as though it were turning to fire.
It started with a picture of Victor receiving some kind of medal of honor, shaking
hands with Callister’s city sheriff, who looked giddy, like he was rubbing elbows
with a rock star.
Then there were newspaper articles. “Victor Orozo Cracks Down on Organized Crime.”
“Orozo Biggest Drug Bust in History of USA.” The last one read “Callister’s Victor
Orozo—Elected President of the National Police Associa tion.”
And then there was a picture of Victor at the White House, standing next to the president
of the United States of America. All smiles. All sham.
Newspaper articles, pictures, certificates, plaques, and trophies, all in admiration
of Victor Orozo, Callister’s hometown hero. There were even a few letters from
him and the underworld. Victor was a bloodsucker, but Cameron could not touch him
because he was a police officer; killing a police officer, like killing a rich man’s
daughter, brought too much unwanted attention to the underw orld.
I, on the other hand, was not bound to the underworld and had no aversions to killing
Victor. I also had no way of making this happen quickly, before the baby came. The
only way I could protect the baby from him was to get him off the streets and put
a spotlight on him. After that, anything Victor did or planned would be watched, including
putting a hit on me. One day, when I was ready, when he wasn’t looking, I would come
find him and seek justice for what he had done to R occo.
I imagined myself going into the police protection program. But I knew there would
never be a safe place for me once I ousted Victor and his enterprise. Luckily, Victor’s
reign over the underworld had petered out after Bill and Cameron had taken over. If
I could figure out how to get hold of Bill’s inheritance, then I could hide us, better
than the cops w ould.
When the water fountain ladies’ argument turned to fisticuffs and hairpulling, two
police officers came to pull them apart. It took me a little while to recall where
I had seen them before. It was the third officer who came to help them that refreshed
my memory. He was a tall baldheaded guy with sunken eyes and puffy cheeks that reminded
me of beanbags from a summer-camp toss game. I had once whispered to this man through
a locked door. I had once stolen his gun and held it to his head. The baldheaded officer
was named Mickey. And his fellow law enforcers were also Victor’s min ions.
I was an out-and-out moron. How could I have not assumed that at least some of the
men under Shield’s reign would have also been police officers? One dirty cop will
attract more dirty cops. Street thugs, dirty cops—all bad guys are genetically created
to gravitate toward each o ther.
Callister’s police department was the most dangerous place for me to be, and yet there
I was, idiotically defenseless. I turtled inside my hood and slid down the closest
hal lway.
I could hear the women scuffling in the short hallway while Shield’s men tried to
pull them apart. The hallway had only one door, metal, and it was locked with a card
scan. At the end of it were two glass cases that stood side by side. I used the reflection
in the glass to watch what was going on behind me and find an opportunity to es cape.
When pajama guy chimed into the chaos and started screaming his legal woes behind
Shield’s officers, more officers started pouring through the metal door. I stood as
close to the glass as I could, trying to stay out of their way and field of vision.
The hallway was a really bad place to be stuck. Moron. Out-and -out.
While I was observing the show, something in one of the glass cases caught my eye.
The first one was a trophy case, containing mostly baseball and football trophies
and a few Little League thank-you pla ques.
It was the second case that made my breath feel as though it were turning to fire.
It started with a picture of Victor receiving some kind of medal of honor, shaking
hands with Callister’s city sheriff, who looked giddy, like he was rubbing elbows
with a rock star.
Then there were newspaper articles. “Victor Orozo Cracks Down on Organized Crime.”
“Orozo Biggest Drug Bust in History of USA.” The last one read “Callister’s Victor
Orozo—Elected President of the National Police Associa tion.”
And then there was a picture of Victor at the White House, standing next to the president
of the United States of America. All smiles. All sham.
Newspaper articles, pictures, certificates, plaques, and trophies, all in admiration
of Victor Orozo, Callister’s hometown hero. There were even a few letters from
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
