Page 19 of Shadows of Justice

It’s Tuesday night, so, normally not the craziest of nights, but crime doesn’t always keep to a calendar. Carlos drives the whole shift for a change, probably wanting me to take it easy. I feel him steal glances at me often, and keeps asking if I’m okay. Tim took advantage of the fact that I thought I knew who he was, making me comfortable enough to assume he’d never hurt me physically. My pride hurts more than my neck, but I’m all right.

I decided not to press assault charges, but I will be slapping him with a restraining order. On my next day off, I’ll get the paperwork filled out and get his ass served—preferably in his cubicle at work.

I smile at the thought.

I’ve been searching for a reason to look into Mary-Ann on shift, but it’s not easy. Our activity is tracked on our systems, so if I look her up, there will be a record of it. I want to be really careful after what almost happened last time I did something fishy. I need this to go smoothly.

Around 2:15 AM, Carlos brings the Interceptor down Reedly Avenue. We’re in a seedy part of town, and we’re on our guard. I’m getting antsy, because this is my last shift for two days if I can’t pick one up, and that means two more days that those young girls Leo mentioned could be tortured in Chica Blanca’s grasp.

We see a few college guys leaving a bar, clearly drunk and looking for trouble. A woman in fishnets and a leather skirt is leaning against a convenience store window. As they approach she pops up, walking directly into their path.

“Check it out,” I say. “Is that Sugar?”

Carlos sighs. “Yeah, I think so.”

Another younger female in a red spandex romper comes around the corner, her heels clicking on the pavement. The guys whoop and laugh, one smacking Sugar on the ass. They circle the girls like lions circling antelope. Sugar and the girl both smile, sticking out their tits and their asses.

Here we go.

Carlos radios dispatch to let them know what we’re pulling up on and hits the lights, the siren whooping loudly and startling the group of guys. They hurry off, and Sugar and the other girl sneer and roll their eyes at us. We park, stuffing latex gloves into our pockets, and climb out of the SUV.

“What’s up, girl?” Carlos hollers. Sugar smiles, her hands going to her boney hips.

“Hey officers, is there a problem?” she asks, laying the sweetness on thick.

“You lonely tonight, Sugar?” I ask. “College guys aren’t normally your type.”

This isn’t her first rodeo. We pick Sugar up almost every other month for prostitution or possession, but normally she’s a biker bar or gangster type. The rough crowd, not frat boys.

“I don’t like to put myself in a box,” she answers, winking at me. I don’t miss the bruising around her neck or the shiner on her left eye. They both look fresh—the skin still puffy and yellowing.

“Who’s your friend?” I ask, beckoning at the girl that’s lingering in the shadows behind her. She’s young, looks hardly eighteen, her stringy black hair clinging to her face and neck. She’s shivering, even though it's 93 degrees out.

“Newbie,” Sugar says nonchalantly. “She’s skittish. Give her a month.”

“Mind if we search you ladies?” Carlos asks, even though he’s not truly giving her an option, just being polite. The other girl’s eyes widen and she stands up straight, looking like she’s about to bolt.

“Uh oh,” I say, and Sugar looks back at the new girl.

“Just relax, don’t freak out or they’ll—”

The girl takes off before Sugar can finish, the girl’s wobbling, sky-high heels not taking her anywhere fast. Carlos takes off at a slow jog after her and I approach Sugar, motioning for her to turn around and put her hands on the convenience store wall so that I can pat her down.

She complies, not a care in the world, even gives me a show of sticking out her ass so her skinny little cheeks stick out from underneath her leather skirt.

“You ever get lonely, Viv?” she asks, her tone buttery. “I like girls, too.”

“Soliciting an officer as a trade for getting off easy is a crime, Sugar,” I say, pulling on the latex gloves with a snap.

“I always get off easy, chickie-pie,” she croons, not at all threatened by my statement.

I chuckle at her and I run my hands over the normal places, and then begin checking the more imaginative hiding spots. Junkies get creative. I’ve seen baggies hidden underneath flabby breasts or in between rolls of fat, stuffed up asses or tangled in hair wigs. We even brought a guy in that had a fake cast made on his leg so that he could keep his stash underneath it. There’s never a dull moment.

Sugar starts singing the Cops theme music in a mocking tone, and I think of something. I peek to my left, watching as Carlos brings the shaky girl back down the sidewalk, holding her firmly by the elbow.

“Hey, Sugar.”

“Yeah, baby?”

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