Chelsea Avenue 3 by Armand Rosamilia

Author:Armand Rosamilia [Rosamilia, Armand]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DevilDog Press
Published: 2020-02-25T05:00:00+00:00

22

Washburn couldn’t wait to get home and put the bracelet back on his wrist. It always felt weird not having it on his person , but he’d had an overwhelming feeling of dread if he wore it today.

He called it a cop’s hunch. A detective’s gut feeling.

Washburn knew it was more than that.

When she’d asked him about the bracelet, he thought he’d done a great acting job about it, but you never knew. The woman knew exactly what the bracelet was, even if Washburn only had an inkling, even after all this time.

He’d taken it from her hands when he’d handcuffed her in the diner parking lot. It was evidence. The obvious thing to do was to bag it and tag it.

Washburn had pocketed it instead.

He wasn’t a bad cop. He wasn’t on the take. Never had reason to take a bribe. He did things by the book. His record was impeccable.

The bad cops from the past had been run out of Long Branch, stripped of their pensions and their manhood. After what had happened in the late eighties, everyone had towed the line and done the job.

Sure, there was fun. A few cracked heads when it came to two-bit drug dealers and hookers. Nothing too bad. Never what would be considered outright police brutality.

Washburn had gone along with the rest of the shields. They’d managed to clean up the streets in no time. They had a direct hand in the tourists and the families choosing Long Branch as a destination again, and high-rise condos and upscale businesses had moved into the area. Transformed the blighted beach area into a go-to place for everyone.

The only bad thing to Washburn was the lack of strip clubs now. He had to head toward Asbury Park, another area that was starting to be cleaned up, or north to the stretch of clubs, on Route 36, in and around Sayreville.

Not that he had an unhealthy obsession with strippers. Every cop, at one time or another, dated one. It was almost a rite of passage when you were in your twenties.

Washburn had dated a couple. He’d even married and divorced one during a wild 1998 weekend in Las Vegas.

He kicked off his shoes at the door, tossed his jacket over the recliner, and headed for the fridge and a cold beer. After talking to the woman, all he had wanted was to run from the police station and strap the bracelet onto his wrist.

But first… he needed a beer. Washburn wanted to savor the moment. See how long he could go without putting it on, now that he’d finally taken it off.

He popped open the beer and took a big gulp standing with the fridge door open. Smiling and smacking his lips. Beer was what he’d needed more than anything.

It calmed him. Put it all in perspective again. That first sip, after a long day facing the bad guys, was what he lived for.

Washburn tried to remember what was so important about the bracelet, anyway. It held some power, but he’d never be able to use it.

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