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Authors: Roy Johansen
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remembered. It was in the phone book.
He waited another few minutes until the couple finally surrendered their lip lock. The girl drove away, and her boyfriend ambled to his apartment.
Carlos squinted into the darkness. He thought he saw someone several yards away, slinking in the shadows. He struggled to focus. It was no one.
He wished he hadn’t smoked the whole joint.
He moved quietly toward the stairs and started the long climb. Only a couple of the landings actually had bulbs lit, so most of the journey was cloaked in darkness. He stopped.
There was a sound.
A footstep.
A rustling.
He couldn’t tell if it was above or below him. He climbed a few more steps and listened. Nothing.
He continued up to the third floor, stepping on each stair on tiptoe. Once he reached the top, he glanced over the railing at the parking lot below. It was deserted. He walked toward Ken’s apartment, swinging open the blade on his razor.
His face was hot and his mouth went dry.
He didn’t want to do this anymore, but he knew he’d hate himself later if he wimped out.
He could break the door open by throwing his weight against it, but he’d have to work fast. Parker would probably be in his bedroom.
If only he had been able to nail him in the parking lot…
Carlos stood still, letting his body adjust to the sudden surge of adrenaline. His head was pounding in time with his heart.
He heard the rustling again.
It was behind him.
He turned just in time to see a glint of steel and the sight of his own blood spurting on his killer’s face.
Carlos was dead before he hit the ground.
CHAPTER 5
L ieutenant Thomas Gant loved his sleep. He worshiped it. His wife, Diane, was a music teacher at the Sprayberry School for the Performing Arts, and she knew better than to wake him when she began her morning routine. Sometimes Gant stirred when she kissed him good-bye, but usually he didn’t achieve consciousness until his clock radio blared at seven-thirty A . M ., always in the middle of a commercial.
This morning it was an ad for tires. Gant punched the off button and rolled out of bed. He flipped on the TV and shuffled past the full-length mirror his wife had cruelly placed on the closet door.
Gant was a stocky man of forty-six, and though his dark red hair was giving way to traces of gray, his paunch was covered with fiery red fur.
He brushed his teeth as he gazed wistfully at Katie Couric. The phone rang. Gant continued to watch Katie as he answered it.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Gant.” It was John Burke, the captain of his precinct. “I hear the TV. How does your heartthrob look today?”
“Al Roker’s wearing a blue blazer and striped tie. He looks damn good.”
Burke chuckled. “I need you to make a stop on your wayin. Some garbagemen found a body in a Dumpster. Looks fresh: 1067 Sycamore Creek Drive.”
Gant jotted down the address. “I.D.?”
“Yeah. His name was Carlos Valez. His father had sworn out a warrant for him a couple of days ago. Assault and battery.”
“Think maybe his old man whacked him?”
“Doubtful. He’s still in the hospital.”
—
Gant walked across the apartment complex’s blacktop parking lot, approaching one of the many hundreds of crime scenes he had investigated in his twenty-five years on the force. He had been with the Atlanta P.D. since his days as a rookie beat cop. He liked his job and planned to stay through the rest of his professional life. More and more of his colleagues were deserting the force for positions with private investigation and security firms, but Gant had no interest in that. If he had been truly interested in money, he wouldn’t have become a cop in the first place. As a homicide detective, he felt he was an advocate, a representative for a constituency that had few champions.
The dead.
Bereaved families all too often were quick to retreat into their grief, chalking up the death of their loved ones to unexplained random violence. And while such
He waited another few minutes until the couple finally surrendered their lip lock. The girl drove away, and her boyfriend ambled to his apartment.
Carlos squinted into the darkness. He thought he saw someone several yards away, slinking in the shadows. He struggled to focus. It was no one.
He wished he hadn’t smoked the whole joint.
He moved quietly toward the stairs and started the long climb. Only a couple of the landings actually had bulbs lit, so most of the journey was cloaked in darkness. He stopped.
There was a sound.
A footstep.
A rustling.
He couldn’t tell if it was above or below him. He climbed a few more steps and listened. Nothing.
He continued up to the third floor, stepping on each stair on tiptoe. Once he reached the top, he glanced over the railing at the parking lot below. It was deserted. He walked toward Ken’s apartment, swinging open the blade on his razor.
His face was hot and his mouth went dry.
He didn’t want to do this anymore, but he knew he’d hate himself later if he wimped out.
He could break the door open by throwing his weight against it, but he’d have to work fast. Parker would probably be in his bedroom.
If only he had been able to nail him in the parking lot…
Carlos stood still, letting his body adjust to the sudden surge of adrenaline. His head was pounding in time with his heart.
He heard the rustling again.
It was behind him.
He turned just in time to see a glint of steel and the sight of his own blood spurting on his killer’s face.
Carlos was dead before he hit the ground.
CHAPTER 5
L ieutenant Thomas Gant loved his sleep. He worshiped it. His wife, Diane, was a music teacher at the Sprayberry School for the Performing Arts, and she knew better than to wake him when she began her morning routine. Sometimes Gant stirred when she kissed him good-bye, but usually he didn’t achieve consciousness until his clock radio blared at seven-thirty A . M ., always in the middle of a commercial.
This morning it was an ad for tires. Gant punched the off button and rolled out of bed. He flipped on the TV and shuffled past the full-length mirror his wife had cruelly placed on the closet door.
Gant was a stocky man of forty-six, and though his dark red hair was giving way to traces of gray, his paunch was covered with fiery red fur.
He brushed his teeth as he gazed wistfully at Katie Couric. The phone rang. Gant continued to watch Katie as he answered it.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Gant.” It was John Burke, the captain of his precinct. “I hear the TV. How does your heartthrob look today?”
“Al Roker’s wearing a blue blazer and striped tie. He looks damn good.”
Burke chuckled. “I need you to make a stop on your wayin. Some garbagemen found a body in a Dumpster. Looks fresh: 1067 Sycamore Creek Drive.”
Gant jotted down the address. “I.D.?”
“Yeah. His name was Carlos Valez. His father had sworn out a warrant for him a couple of days ago. Assault and battery.”
“Think maybe his old man whacked him?”
“Doubtful. He’s still in the hospital.”
—
Gant walked across the apartment complex’s blacktop parking lot, approaching one of the many hundreds of crime scenes he had investigated in his twenty-five years on the force. He had been with the Atlanta P.D. since his days as a rookie beat cop. He liked his job and planned to stay through the rest of his professional life. More and more of his colleagues were deserting the force for positions with private investigation and security firms, but Gant had no interest in that. If he had been truly interested in money, he wouldn’t have become a cop in the first place. As a homicide detective, he felt he was an advocate, a representative for a constituency that had few champions.
The dead.
Bereaved families all too often were quick to retreat into their grief, chalking up the death of their loved ones to unexplained random violence. And while such
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