CHAPTER ONE
The house had a fever. I sensed it as soon as I stepped out of the car. The air felt heavy and oppressive, weighing on my shoulders like a thick blanket. I swallowed hard and had a sudden urge to strip out of my jacket, despite the chilly, late January air. No doubt about it; something terrible had happened here.
This was no great leap of deduction. Even if I hadn’t been magically tuned in to my surroundings out of sheer habit, there was still the small matter of the curious throng of neighbors and onlookers, barely held at bay by a couple of bored-looking patrol officers and a thin line of yellow police tape. I took a moment to absorb my surroundings.
The house itself was nothing special to look at. It was a tan, two story structure, on the smaller side for this area, but well maintained with a neatly trimmed lawn and a few bushes out front. The neighborhood was one of dozens of suburbs located in and around Atlanta, populated mostly by normal, quiet folk just looking to live their lives. This made it all the more news-worthy when that peace was broken by blood and violence.
My partner and training officer, Bill Perkins, came around and stood by me, taking in the scene in silence. I was glad for his presence. Bill was a tall, black man in his mid-thirties. His large frame and square features made him seem like the quintessential ‘bad cop’, but he was always quick with a smile and an encouraging word and I had it on good authority he wasn’t above playing My Little Pony dress-up with his two girls when the mood hit him.
“You up for this, Mel?” he asked, his tone low. I nodded.
If anyone else had asked me that, they’d have gotten a razor-sharp reply that made them slink off somewhere quiet to lick their emotional wounds in solitude. But I knew Bill’s words came from a place of honest concern, not condescension. He’d been training me for close to six months, ever since I’d been transferred to Special Criminal Cases. It was a new unit, a joint operation between the Atlanta Police Department and Fulton County Sheriff’s Office, setup to handle high-profile cases; grisly murders, robberies where an exceedingly large amount of cash or high value object stolen. That kind of thing.
And this was to be the first case where I was the lead investigator. If I handle this right, and I was a full-fledged member of the team. A lot of eyes would be on me. Speaking of which…
“Ah, Shit,” I said quietly as I spied Lieutenant Calloway’s tan Ford sedan parked at the curb.
Rick Calloway was the second-in-command of the S.C.C. and had no love for me or anyone who peed sitting down. On the force since before the term ‘gender equality’ meant something, he made it no secret that he thought the only thing female officers were good for was fetching coffee and reading parking meters. Suffice it to say, we’d clashed more than once since my transfer.
“That was quick,” Bill remarked. “He must have run lights and siren all the way here just to get ahead of you. Asshole.”
“Nothing to be done about it,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Let’s get this done.” We approached the police line and stopped in front of one of the officers. I flashed my I.D. and badge. “Melanie Graves and Bill Perkins, S.C.C.” He gave a short nod and lifted the tape a few inches.
Before we could cross, though, my attention was caught by a young woman wearing an expensive, leather coat standing among the other onlookers. Even this early in the morning, she had on a thick layer of makeup and her blond hair was carefully styled. She was wrestling with a four or five-year-old little boy who, obviously bored at just standing around in a crowd for so long, had begun tossing rocks up in the air and catching them for something to do.
She grabbed his wrist roughly and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “You better be good or one of those cops over there will take you to jail.” Oh, hell no.
I walked over and crouched down until I was eye level with the little boy, whose eyes grew wide with fear and tightly clutched his mom’s arm. He relaxed when I gave him my best smile and handed him a piece of chocolate I had in my pocket.
“Hi, I’m Melanie,” I said brightly. “What’s your name?”
“David.”
“Well, David, it’s always important to listen to your mother, but we aren’t going to take you to jail. Cops are good guys, and we only take bad guys to jail. And I can tell you’re not a bad guy. Right?” He popped the chocolate into his mouth, grinned widely and nodded. “So, remember, if you ever need help, you come find a police officer. We won’t be mad and we won’t take you to jail. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Attaboy.” I handed him two more chocolates, being sure to save some for myself, then stood up and looked politely at the mother who was glaring railroad spikes at me for contradicting her in front of so many people.
“In the future,” I said sweetly, “it might be a good idea not to make your child think that police officers are just looking for an excuse to cuff him and throw him in a cold, dark cell. We want him to be able to come to us if he’s ever lost or hurt and need assistance. Don’t you think?” I didn’t bat my eyes innocently, but I came close.
The mom opened her mouth like she wanted to say something smart, then closed it again with a snap and nodded sullenly. I beamed.
“Good. Now, unless you saw or heard something relevant to
