Taylor sold the first book for ten grand, not much in the pantheon of contemporary book deals, but it was a hardcover deal to a publishing house that took its writers seriously and promoted the hell out of them.
Taylor Robinson had worked herself bleary-eyed for Michael, and she had brought him from a third-rate publisher to the top of the heap. They’d worked closely together, with Taylor bringing all her editorial talent and skills to bear on the books. They had become true partners in a life’s work.
And now, with this contract, she was set to make him rich.
So, Taylor Robinson wondered that icy February afternoon in her overheated office, why was she so uneasy?
CHAPTER 6
Master Patrol Officer Debbie Greenwood carefully wheeled her blue-on-white Ford Taurus squad car down the exit ramp off I-40 and onto Charlotte Avenue just a few short blocks down the hill from the Tennessee State Capitol. The sun had finally burned off the worst of the gray cloud cover that seemed to hang over Nashville for weeks at a time during the winter months. A dazzling, clear blue sky, accompanied by temperatures in the mid- thirties, had begun to melt off the worst of the black ice that Greenwood knew was waiting to ensnare careless drivers at the foot of the exit ramp.
Shaded by the freeway bridge and the traffic passing overhead, the ramp always seemed to be the last place to show pavement again after a thaw. Since the cold front had moved in five days ago, bringing with it the worst ice storm in a decade, Greenwood had already written up a dozen accidents at this very spot.
The light on Charlotte changed to red, and Greenwood lightly tapped the brakes of the Ford. She felt the rear wheels begin to slide and was instinctively beginning her counter-steer when the wheels caught and the car slowed. Four years on the force-and four Februarys patrolling the dangerous winter streets of Nashville-had taught her to stay ahead of the curve, to anticipate the dangers that might lie in front of her. More than once, that instinct had served her well.
The light in front of her changed, and Greenwood slowly lifted her foot from the brake pedal. True to form, though, a kid in a Toyota to her left raced the yellow and ran through the light just as her squad car began moving.
“Typical,” Greenwood groused, briefly considering pulling the car over and issuing a ticket. But it was cold outside, and she was near the end of a long shift. The overtime gods had been good to Debbie Greenwood this winter, but one can have too much of a good thing. Feeling slightly guilty at letting the kid off, in addition to irritated, Greenwood pulled out onto Charlotte Avenue and turned left, heading away from downtown and out toward Centennial Park.
A half mile or so down, Greenwood wheeled her squad car into the parking lot of a convenience store that perched on the edge of a large housing project. The store had been robbed three times this year already, and the desk sergeant had asked that all patrol officers try to do a drive-by at least once a shift. Greenwood didn’t mind; the coffee was hot and fresh, and the clerks were always glad to see her.
As she parked the car, she spotted an elderly black man in a ragtag overcoat, torn stocking cap, and dirty, worn Nikes pushing a grocery cart down the sidewalk through the gray slush and onto the parking lot of the convenience store.
Greenwood smiled, knowing what was coming next. Like most of the other Central Sector patrol officers, she knew that despite a lifetime in prison, the old man-known only as “Pops”-was completely harmless, if a bit disconcerting at first.
Greenwood parked the squad car and sat there for a few seconds with the motor running. As Pops struggled to push his grocery cart through the slowly melting frozen mud, Greenwood turned the car ignition off and stepped out of the Ford. A bitter wind caught her square in the face, causing her to shiver and pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders.
“Hey, Officah!” Pops called out from the other side of the parking lot.
“Hey, Pops,” Greenwood answered. “You keeping warm?”
“Yeah, but I just got me one question.”
Greenwood smiled, knowing what was coming. “What is it?”
“You ever let a ol’ niggah eat yo’ pussy?”
Greenwood cleared her throat, thankful that the parking lot was empty except for the two of them.
“No, Pops, can’t say I ever have.”
The old man smiled a toothless, pink grin at her. “Well, you evah decide to, you call me, ya hear?”
“Sure thing, Pops. I’ll let you know.” Greenwood turned toward the front door of the market. “You want a coffee?”
she yelled back over her shoulder.
Greenwood knew Pops had been banned from the store years ago. If he wanted anything from inside, somebody else had to get it for him.
“Just like me, baby!” he yelled. “Hot and black!”
Greenwood assumed that was a yes, but truth was, you could never be sure with Pops. She entered the store, nodded to the clerk, made small talk, and walked around the store a couple of times. She was close enough to the end of her shift that if she killed a few more minutes, it would be time to head in and sign out. Just another day at the office.
Greenwood poured two Styrofoam cups full of coffee, added a packet each of sugar and artificial creamer to hers, then capped them both. The clerk-a pretty, young African-American woman-offered her the coffee for free, but Greenwood smiled and made her take a five. The woman made change, thanked Greenwood for coming in, and smiled pleasantly back at her. It felt good that the girl was glad to see her.
Out on the sidewalk, Greenwood dodged the few icy patches left on the concrete and walked around the front of the store to the corner. Pops’s grocery cart was pushed up against the cinder-block wall next to a large Dumpster. Hanging out of the Dumpster, she saw the baggy seat of the old man’s pants, followed by his bony legs dangling from his two-sizes-too-large trousers and wondered how the hell he ever managed to stay warm.
“Gotcha coffee, Pops,” Greenwood announced.
The old man pushed himself out of the Dumpster, his feet sliding as they hit the frozen ground. Suddenly the old man let out a whooping sound as he struggled to regain his balance.
“Man, dey’s some nasty shit in deah!” he yelled.
Greenwood held out the cup of coffee toward him. “Be careful, it’s slippery out here.”
“You gots to see dis,” the old man said.
“I don’t gots to see nothing,” Greenwood said. “It’s a Dumpster, Pops. Of course there’s some nasty shit in it.”
The old man ignored her outstretched hand. “No, lady, you gots to see dis. I ain’t seen nothing like dis since dey had da riots in ‘76.”
Her curiosity piqued, Greenwood took a couple of steps closer to the grime-and filth-encrusted Dumpster, thankful that at least with the brutal cold, there was no smell.
“Pops, what the hell are you-”
