Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“As you know,” Washington pointed out, “questioning the guards is never a good idea, so when they said, ‘you’re going,’ along with all the other brothers, I said nothing and decided to just enjoy the ride.”
She looked at me, and I smiled. Her groan was loud.
He continued, “Imagine my surprise when they called for a Taylor Whitmore and I was dragged in front of the judge. I mean, c’mon, man, Taylor Whitmore? How white does that name sound?”
“Pretty fuckin’ white,” I chimed in.
“Pretty fuckin’ white,” he repeated, looking at me like we were clearly on the same page. “And as I am Black, I was wondering what the hell everyone was thinking, but what the fuck ever, ya know? Who am I to question?”
“Oh God,” Clark said, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“So Judge Ingraham, who I’ve never seen in bond court before—it’s normally Gerraghty—says that I will have to do a thousand hours of community service and be on probation for six months, but I’m free to go.”
“Free?” she asked him.
“Free,” he repeated, nodding.
“So you see, it wasn’t his fault at all,” I chimed in for Washington, who shot me a look of appreciation.
“Are you kidding?” Clark looked like her brain was about to explode. “He should have told the judge who he really was!”
Jardin scoffed.
“Officer?”
“C’mon, counselor, anyone can see it was a setup,” Jardin said, and Esposito added, “I’ve never even heard of a Judge Ingraham, and I used to work bond court.”
“I suspect,” I said, grinning at her, “that someone wanted Washington out.”
“Maybe the two guys beating him up?” Esposito offered.
I shook my head. “No, those two were likely working for his bookie. You ran them, right? They came back as muscle, I’m betting.”
“They’re still sitting in holding, nobody’s run anybody yet, but I’m guessing you’re right,” Jardin agreed. “I mean, I talked to them. Not a lot goin’ on there. Criminal masterminds those two are not.”
“Who is this Whitmore, and where is he now?” Clark interrupted, glaring at me.
Was she kidding? “How am I supposed to know? I don’t work for the CPD.”
Her sigh was long.
“You know, the good news is, Whitmore is probably at home, not knowing he’s got community service to do, because you and I both know you guys don’t just lose people in the system anymore. Right?”
“Anymore?”
“Don’t be defensive,” I told her sweetly.
“I hate you.” She was then quiet for a moment, thinking. “You realize it’s possible that Whitmore has taken Washington’s place in MCC.”
Esposito shook his head. “That’s stuff from a movie. In real life, guards know what people look like, like I used to, but there might be other reasons”—he looked at me—“why Washington was set loose.”
“Like?” Clark asked.
“Like maybe he talked to someone he shouldn’t’ve, and someone is hoping to tie up loose ends,” Esposito concluded.
“That seems reasonable,” I said with a yawn.
“I don’t like that at all,” Washington added.
“Still, it makes the most sense. Somebody wanted Washington out for a reason. Why would that be?”
On cue, I saw a man walking toward us. He was tall, handsome, and wearing a great suit that showed off the breadth of his shoulders and the broadness of his chest. I groaned, realizing when he took off his sunglasses—and what kind of a douche wore their sunglasses inside anyway—that I was looking at Special Agent Spencer Crouse.
Along with Hayden Burdine the Third, I hated him too.
He picked up a chair, carried it with him, put it down next to me, then took a seat, smiling like the asshole he was.
“No,” I said.
“Oh, c’mon, you haven’t even heard what I did yet.”
I shook my head and gestured at Clark.
Crouse had that thing going for him where half of you really wanted to slug him, while at the very same time, the other half wanted to see what would happen if you went to bed with him. Raw sex appeal and charm rolled off the man in waves, and combined with the fact that he was ruggedly handsome, with dimples under his artfully styled stubble-lined jaw, I was certain he could have anyone he wanted.
“Hi,” he said, getting up and offering her his hand. “Special Agent Spencer Crouse.”
She mapped his shoulders, the thousand-dollar suit, the tie that wasn’t in any kind of knot I’d ever seen, far too fancy, and then, of course, his eyes. They were that dark liquid deep brown, and she was probably thinking at the moment how pretty they were. The thing with him was, the spell his looks and his deep baritone always cast was quickly destroyed when your brain turned on and you actually listened to what he was saying.
“I’m the guy who got your guy out of jail,” he announced to Clark.
“Thank you, my brother,” Washington said to him, a thing I’d heard him do before when talking to any Black law-enforcement officers. It never helped.