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Shield Of Justice by Radclyffe

Shield Of Justice by Radclyffe

Author:Radclyffe
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-08-20T03:51:45+00:00


Chapter Seventeen

Rebeccas beeper went off before the hospital elevator touched the ground floor. Threading her way through the log jam of wheelchairs, elderly patients shuffling behind steel-framed walkers, and clumps of disoriented visitors, she reached a public phone and called the station.

"Frye, here," she announced into the phone.

She edged her way out of the path of a speeding adolescent and waited impatiently for her call to be put through.

"This is Watts," the heavy male voice intoned in a bored voice.

"What do you want, Watts?" Rebecca snapped, unable to hide her dislike for her new partner.

"A call came in on the night shift -- a desk clerk down on Delroy found a dead hooker in one of the upstairs rooms."

Rebecca waited for more and was rewarded with the faint background buzz of the phone line.

"Watts," she said in exasperation, "we dont have time to track down some faceless john who got too rough with a hooker. Turn it over to Homicide."

"Yeah," Watts said. "Youre probably right. The whore was just a kid --thirteen, they said."

Rebecca expelled a ragged breath. "Fuck! I was hoping we had quieted that action down."

"Funny thing about it. The M.E. called in a preliminary report -- seems the kid was beaten to death first, then sodomized. The semen analysis showed up type O."

"Jesus!" Rebecca exclaimed. "Why didnt you say it might be our guy straight out! Give me the address -- Ill meet you there."

She knew the place. The Viceroy Hotel. It had once been a respectable hotel, housing long-term tenants and the occasional tourist. With the decline of the neighborhood and the gravitation of junkies, prostitutes, and drug dealers to this area, anyone who could afford to had moved out. Now the hotel was a stop over for hookers and their clients, junkies waiting for their next fix, and the lonely wino who had scrounged the price of a thin mattress for the night.

Rebecca made the cross-town trip easily, despite the rush of lunch hour traffic. Watts was waiting in front of the four-story building, looking apathetic and bored. His crumpled suit, too tight across his bulging middle, had once been expensive but now reflected the neglect and disinterest which was evident in the man himself. Rebecca knew that he had once been considered a sharp detective, but apparently, something had changed. He looked every inch the burnt out veteran, just putting in time until his pension came up. Rebecca did not want to be saddled with him; he was clearly a loser.

She joined him wordlessly, and they pushed through the hotels double entry doors into a dank, dimly lit foyer. Thread-bare chairs sat haphazardly on a rug of indeterminate color. Piles of old magazines lay strewn randomly over the surface of a scarred coffee table. Beyond this waiting area was a small counter where the desk clerk leaned on his elbow, watching them impassively. The room was empty except for an old woman who reclined on a sofa against one wall, snoring softly.

The clerk clearly read them as cops and continued to stare at them without speaking.



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