Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Nine

Author's note: I'm having a LOT of trouble publishing this update. First it just saves and saves and saves and never gets done, and then when I go to highlight the letters to italicize them, it won't do it. So, sorry...I'm surprised I even got this one up at all.

At Hampton PD, John decided to park on the street. He saw no parking areas marked "visitors," and it would be a bad idea to piss anyone off today.

He headed through the lobby to the desk and showed his badge. "Detective John Robin, Richmond PD. I need to speak with Detective Edwards."

The clerk spoke into her desk phone, then she looked up and said, "Go ahead in, Detective."

"Thanks." John went down the back stairs to Investigations and let himself into the small lobby.

"Robin!" Detective Rand Edwards bounded into view behind the lobby glass. "How you doing? Hang on, I'm gonna come let you in."

He dropped a few coins into a cardboard box and grabbed a bag of chips from a shelf behind him crammed with snacks. Then he disappeared from view. The side door opened, and Edwards strode out, chips in one hand. He held out his other hand, and John gave him a firm handshake.

"We heard what happened to you up there. You okay now?"

"Yeah, fine, thanks," said John. "Had two surgeries and a mother of an infection, though. If I ever see another hospital room again in my life, it will be too soon."

"Found the SOB yet?"

John grimaced. "Yet another thing we're working on. Can you show me any new contact info you have on Cabbage Clay?"

Edwards opened the door wide. "Come on back."

He led John to his work cubicle and pulled up a chair for him. He squeaked his own chair up to his computer and tapped a few keys. "Looks like," said Edwards, squinting at the screen, "we've got two new known associates since the last time you were here. Both prostitution arrests." He brought up the image of a young Caucasian girl, a dyed redhead growing out a skunk stripe of dishwater brown hair. "Tracy Atwater," said Edwards. "AKA ‛Samantha Dawson' and just ‛Trixie.' Instead of an address, all we've got is ‛known to work outside the White Rabbit on East Pembroke.'"

Edwards changed his screen. An African-American girl, pretty even in her mug shot, popped up. "Shalisa Tramm," said Edwards. "Clay's ex-girlfriend."

John raised his eyebrows.

Edwards continued. "The reason we have this address is Shalisa was working the street because she said Clay threw her out. She said she had no place to go. Someone from the women's shelter happened to be here and said she was looking to rent out a room. In her personal house. Shalisa moves in there. Then she robs the lady—stole her stereo, stole her new hi-def TV, loaded everything in the lady's POS car, and took off."

Edwards stopped to pull open his cellophane bag and crunch chips. "Crimes Against Property brought her in for larceny, and the day before her court date she skipped bail. She called her boss at the Waffle House for her final check, and we traced that call to St. Louis, Missouri. St. Louis is looking for her, but that was the last tip we got. That was two weeks ago."

John's shoulders sagged. "Thanks." At least the ex-girlfriend part would cover his white lie to Arlene. He checked his watch. Almost time to meet the lieutenant. He hadn't really planned what to say; so much depended on this lieutenant and what he said. He didn't think it would be too tough.