Page 21 of Shadows of Justice

Chapter Seven - Thirteen

Wednesday, July 15th

The skin around my thumbnail is practically nonexistent.

I’ve gnawed off almost the entire thing, and I suck on it to remove the sliver of blood that appears when I accidentally go too deep. My leg bounces as I stare towards the door that leads to the front lobby. It’s 7:28 AM, and Captain Jennings is rarely late. He should be here any second.

I down the cold coffee from the chipped mug in my hand that reads: “I like big busts and I cannot lie.” It’s my fourth cup since I rolled into the precinct at 4:45 AM after my shift ended, and I decided to wait for the captain to arrive for the day.

After Carlos and I called Lieutenant Cranston about Mary-Ann, he—of course—told us not to proceed with following the lead until we had an okay from the captain and a warrant.

Party pooper.

I’m almost positive that I can convince Jennings to let me pursue Mary-Ann. I think it’s a solid lead, and if it busts open the Frankie Watson case like Leo said it would, it would clear up a lot of space on the docket. We’ve been hunting Frankie a ridiculous amount of time, and I’ve convinced myself I’m doing this for the manpower of the precinct and for my promotion.

Not, of course, to find another reason to think Leo is a good guy.

That would be ridiculous.

I look at my watch. It’s 7:34 AM.

Of all the days.

The buzz of the security lock on the door sounds, and my head snaps to the noise. Jennings strides in, carrying his briefcase and thermos of homemade coffee, looking ready for the day. I take off toward him, and realize I’m running when I reach him and he looks a little startled.

“Morning, Schaeffer.” He eyes me warily. “Hitting the coffee a little hard today, are we?”

“Morning, sir,” I say, my poor heart racing from the caffeine and my nerves. “Sorry, I’ll chill out. I just need to speak with you.”

“All right,” he says, “but make it quick, I’ve got a conference call in fifteen minutes.”

We head into his office and I’m practically vibrating. I take a breath to calm the fuck down, letting him settle in before I attack him with the word vomit that’s climbing up my throat.

He sits and takes a swig from his thermos, the words: “World’s Greatest Farter—I Mean Father,” stenciled on the front.

“Okay, Schaeffer, out with it. Before you blow a gasket.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Last night, Fernandez and I stopped Sugar on Reedly around three a.m. She’s a regular working girl, usually has a bag or two on her. But anyway, I ask her if she’s heard anything new on Frankie Watson, to see if we can ever get a break on that case—”

“And she told you that his outfit is now being run by a Chica Blanca, I know. Cranston called me,” Jennings says, taking the wind right out of my sails. “He also told you that you need a warrant, and the word of a strung-out prostitute isn’t enough for a judge to sign off on one.”

“Of course, sir, but it could be enough for us to tail her, look into her residence, maybe follow her around when she leaves her place?”

“Sounds a lot like detective work to me, officer,” Jennings says, silencing me. “Look, I know you’re probably all up in arms to clear your name after the Barone fiasco, but I need you focused on your job before I give you another one.”

“But sir—”

“I’m not finished.”

That shuts me the fuck up.

“I expect a report written about what this ‘Sugar’ said, and I’ll be happy to put it in the Watson file. The detectives can follow up. You may have uncovered something here, yes, but it’s not your job to go knocking on doors—yet.”

I shrink in my seat, feeling like I’m ten years old and caught red-handed doing something shameful. My heart sinks; that report is going to get lost in a sea of papers. The Watson case is probably considered a lost cause among the detectives since he’s been unreachable for nearly three years now. They’re not going to waste their time.

“What about an APB?” I venture, even though I’m terrified it’s another nail in my coffin. Jennings sighs.

“An APB on an already strained precinct with too many APBs to count.”

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