Page 87 of Wicching Hour

I nodded and she dropped it into my hand.

THIRTY-EIGHT

That’s One Question Answered

“Come on! I’m already late for work.” The young Asian woman with the patio filled with potted plants is behind the wheel of her Jeep. She’s wearing the same white polo and black shorts, this time with reflective aviator sunglasses.

“License and registration,” he says, voice bored.

“I was like two miles an hour over the speed limit. Can’t you just give me a warning?” She pastes a smile on her face, trying to charm him. “I promise to slow down. Okay? Under the speed limit the whole way.”

“License and registration,” he says again.

She gives a strangled cry. “I can’t afford a ticket. I was literally two miles an hour over the limit. Why are you doing this?”

“License and registration, And I clocked you at five miles an hour over, with your music blasting and your hand on your phone.”

She stops rummaging around in her backpack and sits back in her seat. “Uh, no you didn’t. My radio doesn’t even work, and my phone is in my bag.” She pulls it out of the front pocket of her backpack.” She points at his chest. “Do you have your bodycam on? I can prove it.”

“License and registration. Don’t make me say it again and take those glasses off so I can see your eyes.”

“Why?” she asks, outraged.

“Because you might be under the influence, and I told you to.” The last few words were snarled as his right hand moved to rest on his gun. “You seem to be confused as to who’s in charge right now. License. Registration. Sunglasses. Now.”

She pulls her wallet out of her bag, opens it, and slides her license out of its slot. “What’s your name?” she asks

“I’m the one with the badge and the gun who doesn’t give a shit how cute you think you are.” He gestures for her to hand over her license.

She does, fear now pinching her features. “You can’t talk to people like that.”

“I just did. Registration.”

She leans over to get it from her glove compartment, clearly uncomfortable turning her back on him. As a waitress, she’s learned who the dangerous ones are. She hands it to him.

He stares at her license. “Do you still live at this address?”

A chill runs down her spine at the dead look in his eyes. She doesn’t want him to know where she lives but she nods.

“Glasses,” he reminds her, enjoying the fact that he’s broken her. He’d love to backhand her right across that smart mouth of hers. For now, though…She hands him her sunglasses and he drops them to the pavement, stepping on them, cracking the glass and bending the frame. “I’ll be back. Keep your hands on the wheel while I’m gone.”

He goes to his vehicle, types in her information, and checks her record. She has a few speeding violations. The last was two years ago. He takes out his phone and takes a picture of her license. It’s convenient, having the headshot with the address all in one pic. He considers again how much he’d enjoy shutting up her smart mouth for good. He’ll think about it.

A text pops up on his phone from Joel. With a growl of annoyance, he taps the message. Joel is short on rent and needs five hundred dollars. The cop swipes and deletes. That’s a problem he’s going to need to deal with soon.

He goes back to her Jeep, hands her the license and registration cards, and then tells her to slow down before he walks to his cruiser and drives away.

Looks like the bitch is going to be late after all.

Blinking my eyes open, I met Hernández’s gaze. “You already know who he is.”

She let out a gust of breath. “A cop.Shit.” She shook her head. “After I left this morning, I just sat in my car thinking. He knows how to get in and out without leaving evidence, almost like he knows how we investigate. You said he uses a penlight, just like cops. You were really uncomfortable at Gaby’s crime scene. Arthur said the cops were bothering you.

“I went back to check the record, to see who was there. One of the patrolmen is the one you already told me to watch my back around. I found a history of authority issues, especially with female superiors or supervisors of color. He was suspended for two weeks. When he came back, I felt more uncomfortable around him. It was like he was seething in silence whenever he saw me.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Whatever. I’m a cop. I’m used to men on the force having issues with me. I’m a lesbian Latina. That’s three things right there to hate about me. I’m used to ignoring that shit.

“I thought about what you said though. That it wasn’t sexual with him. It was all about power, about permanently shutting up the people, especially women, who question his authority. I looked up his record. He was in the Marines for a short time. I knew he’d had an issue with a judge at some point. I contacted a court reporter I used to date and asked. She said that he’d screwed up the evidence chain of custody for drugs found in a dealer’s car. The case ended up having to be thrown out. The judge he killed was the one who presided over the trial. The defense lawyer—a white man—ripped the cop a new one and the judge—a Black woman—let it go on. My friend said he was fuming as he stalked out of court and guess which one he went after.

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