Page 8 of Justice Delayed

Melender rubbedthe sleep from her eyes as she moved through her darkened apartment. As she stumbled to her front door, someone alternated ringing the doorbell with banging on the door. Since no one except her boss at Squeaky Clean knew her home address, whoever assaulted her door wasn’t a friend. Which meant trouble had found her at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning.

When she reached the door, she peered through the peephole. Two uniformed officers stood on the other side. All vestiges of sleep vanished as her senses went on high alert. Drawing in a calming breath, Melender slowly counted to ten to slow her heart rate and to evaluate the situation. One guess as to who had sent them—her uncle. Quentin Thompson had friends in high places. With the chain on, she cracked open the door. “Officers, what can I do for you?”

The shorter of the two men stepped closer. “Ma’am, may we come in?”

“May I ask why you’re here?” Melender didn’t move. She’d read a lot of law books over the years and knew her rights backwards and forwards. Just because someone from law enforcement asked to enter her home, didn’t mean she had to let them past the threshold.

The officer narrowed his eyes. “Are you Melender Harman?”

She had no intention of answering their questions, but she would mentally note their names.

“Ma’am?” The shorter officer whose name plate read Jones sounded irritated.

“What brings you to my door?” she countered.

Before Jones could speak, the other officer interjected. “Ma’am, we received a complaint of excessive noise from this apartment.”

“Excessive noise? The only excessive anything associated with my apartment is your aggressive knocking on my door.”

Jones hitched his duty belt. “Now calm down.”

She again counted to ten in her mind to dose her bubbling anger.

The other officer, whose name plate she couldn’t quite read because of the sun’s reflection on the shiny surface, added, “We only know what the dispatch officer tells us. And the report is a noise complaint.”

Melender knew with ninety-nine percent certainty it had originated with Quentin. “Let me guess. The caller didn’t give a name.”

“We’re not required to tell you who called it in, ma’am.” The other officer moved forward enough that Melender could read his name plate. Gutierrez. “We’re just here to issue a warning.”

“And did this concerned citizen say what type of noise and when it occurred?

Officer Gutierrez consulted his small notebook. “Music loud enough to be heard outside number 347 at four in the morning.”

Quentin must be slipping if he hadn’t told whoever had made the call that she worked nights. Not that Melender would tell these cops that tidbit of information. She was through sharing anything with law enforcement. “Hmm, and why has it taken seven hours for the fine officers of the Fairfax City Police Department to show up at my door?”

The pair shifted on her stoop before Office Gutierrez replied. “We just got the information. It was a busy night.”

“I see.” And she did. No sense sending someone to her apartment while she was at work. Better to wake her up and ruin her entire day. Maybe Quentin had planned this better than she initially thought. “Thank you for stopping by, officers. I’ll be sure to keep the noise level down from now on.”

“You have a good day, ma’am.” Officer Gutierrez turned to go.

Officer Jones stepped forward and shoved the toe of his boot in the crack to prevent her from closing the door. “You shouldn’t have come back here.”

Melender maintained her smooth tone with effort. “Kindly remove your foot.”

“Jones? You coming?” Gutierrez called from just beyond Melender’s line of sight.

Officer Jones didn’t move. “Don’t think anyone would care if something were to happen to you.” He stepped back and turned to join his partner.

Melender closed the door quietly, then reached up to turn the first of two deadbolts. Her fingers shook so much it took her several tries to secure the knob as well. Sliding down the door, she buried her face in her hands as the sobs overtook her. The cop’s veiled threat echoed in her mind. No one would care.

* * *

Fallon leanedback in his chair. “Didn’t the prosecutor get a conviction even without a body?”

Brogan nodded. He’d been struggling to reconcile the sad-eyed woman who cleaned for a living with an eighteen-year-old murderer. “I’ve been reading the news accounts of the case, and it was quite the legal feat given that all of the evidence was circumstantial.”

Fallon steepled his fingers. “Wasn’t there a ransom note?”

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