Police Business. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ to speak. “Hey, A.J. You got anything down at your end? This has got to be the slowest damn nightclub I’ve ever seen. I’ve only counted one couple going in during the past hour, and no one’s come out. You think it’s the band or the booze that sucks?”

      “I’d say it’s the two hours we’ve been watching the door.”

      “I’m supposed to be the comic relief, remember?” Since Josh was hiding out, too, his laugh was barely a whisper in A.J.’s ear. “Our informant said the meeting was at midnight. It’s nearly that now.”

      “Give it time, amigo.”

      For eight months, they’d had nothing but time, it seemed. Somebody was running drugs out of the Jazz Note, the umpteenth incarnation of a nightclub to occupy the same building in the tony arts and entertainment district of KC known as Westport. And while the club’s current owner seemed legit, KCPD hadn’t been able to pinpoint anyone who frequented the place often enough to make it a profitable distribution hub. The investigation had grown cold.

      Until one of the patrons had been found stabbed to death in the men’s room. Not just any patron. But Mort Firth, a two-bit dealer from the seedy KC neighborhood known as no-man’s-land, who’d been infringing on someone else’s territory. Suddenly, a case that had been the drug squad’s purview for so long had been reassigned to homicide. And A.J. and Josh had been called in to investigate.

      Mort had been the third small-time dealer taken out in a murder that wasn’t gang-related in as many years. A.J.’s streetwise gut told him that the perp was no vigilante cleaning up the streets of KC. This was something bigger. An unknown scourge was moving in and killing off the competition.

      Slowly, subtly taking over.

      And it was up to KCPD to stop it. A.J. spared a glance at his watch. Straight-up midnight. Their informant, Edgar Vaughn—Mort’s former business associate—said that turf negotiations were going to take place at midnight at the Jazz Note between a dealer nicknamed Slick and an unknown suspect. All A.J. and Josh had to do was follow Edgar’s dealer inside the club and find out whom he met with. One picture—and maybe a fingerprint and some eaves-dropping—would be worth a thousand words when it came to breaking open the case.

      The low-pitched hum of a well-tuned engine passed by and A.J. lifted his gaze in appreciation as much as curiosity. A pricey steel-gray sedan pulled into an empty parking space across from the Jazz Note. The car itself was polished enough to fit in with the neighborhood’s cruise-by clientele of affluent baby boomers, yet nondescript enough to avoid drawing too much attention from the locals.

      But the guy who climbed out didn’t fit either category. His dark, pin-striped suit and the silver tie he adjusted as he scanned his surroundings weren’t casual enough for the club. And no way was he one of the working class residents of the area.

      Slick. A.J. scooted up in his seat, his blood pumping quicker in even-paced anticipation. “Josh.”

      “I see him.”

      He didn’t need Edgar to step from an alleyway and follow the dealer in for A.J. to know their man had arrived. With a brief glance up and down the empty street, he got out of the car, straightened his black leather jacket over the bulge of the guns at either side of his waist and strolled toward the front door of the Jazz Note.

      “I’ll come in through the alley entrance and try to spot him from that direction.” Josh was moving, too.

      Once through the club’s glass door, A.J. paid the cover charge and slipped inside. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark interior, though the heavy scents of smoke and alcohol were a little harder to get used to. He let the lazy beat of the electric bass onstage set the rhythm of his movements as he followed the suspect at a discreet distance. First, an uneventful trip to the men’s room. Then to the bar.

      Slick ordered a double scotch. Neat. His furtive glances over the rim of his glass before he bolted the amber liquid were a dead giveaway to A.J.’s trained eye. The man was nervous. Probably had never been to the Jazz Note before. Maybe had never even met his contact.

      His nervous energy put A.J. on guard as he tailed Slick to an empty booth away from the stage.

      A.J. found a seat at a table nearby and ordered a beer. With a wink and a decent tip for the waitress, he took an obligatory sip and tapped his foot in time with the soulful, driving music. Josh stood at the end of the bar, using the mirror behind the bartender to keep their man in sight.

      A half hour later, the crowd began to thin out.

      Slick was on his third scotch. And the mystery guest he was supposed to meet hadn’t showed.

      “Edgar’s heading for the door.” Josh’s voice whispered over the radio. “You think we’ve been set up?”

      A.J. had memorized the face of every person in the club, from the teenager bussing tables to the blind, balding maestro working magic at the piano. Something deep in his bones was trying to tell him that this didn’t feel right. That there weren’t enough people here for a club that played music this hot. It was as if he were watching a play, and each patron and employee was an actor carefully placed around the stage.

      “I think our man’s been set up.” Suffused with an instantly wary energy that didn’t change his outward appearance, A.J. shoved aside his warm beer. He used a subtle nod at the buxom waitress for a fresh drink as an opportunity to scan the room one more time. What he was looking for, he wasn’t sure. Trouble. Someone else keeping a curious eye on their man. He tossed a five onto the table and whispered into his microphone. “You follow Edgar. I’ll stick with Slick.”

      In the minutes that followed, the band played its last number and started to pack up. Odd. The lights didn’t come up. There was no announcement about the last call for drinks—as if someone didn’t want the few remaining patrons to move. Slick checked his watch and made a call on his cell phone that was more about cursing than conversation.

      After hanging up, Slick downed the last swallow of scotch and shot to his feet. He grabbed his forehead and swayed a couple of steps as the booze hit him hard. Great. He’d fished his keys out of his pocket. Drunk drivers were about as high on A.J.’s list as drug dealers. As Slick staggered past him, he wondered if the waitress or bartender would say something. He wondered if he could stop Slick somehow without giving away his presence.

      Hell. A.J. blinked and cast the thoughts aside. This wasn’t about a personal agenda. He had a job to do.

      By the time Slick had stumbled through the front door, A.J. was close on his heels. He lingered out of sight beneath the awning over the Jazz Note’s door and kept his man in sight. “He’s outside, Josh. Our boy’s been stood up.”

      “I see him.” Josh would be hiding somewhere in the shadows as well. “Edgar grabbed a cab about five minutes ago. He seemed pretty eager to get of here.”

      “I don’t blame him. Something’s going down.”

      Figure it out, A.J. Figure it out. He scanned every inch of the street, studied empty storefronts, read license plates, shook his head at the drunken man cursing the car that nearly ran him down in the middle of the street.

      Slick dropped his keys to the pavement before squeezing them in his grip and unlocking the car door.

      “Son of a bitch.”

      “Talk to me, A.J.” A.J. left the shadows. СКАЧАТЬ