I read an article once that championed the legalization of
prostitution. After all, the writer insisted, it is the
oldest profession known to civilized man. At that juncture
in the article I had paused to frown at the use of
prostitution and civilized in the same paragraph. No
offense to ladies of the night, but there is absolutely
nothing civilized about the profession.
Case in point: I, Merrilee Walters, am standing here on a
Nashville street corner way east of 2nd Avenue and
Broadway, not exactly the ritziest section of town. You
know the section I mean. Friday-night traffic is heavy.
The weather is unseasonably warm for late March, so the
convertible tops and windows of cars are down, allowing
drivers to enjoy the first previews of summer.
The hot pink skirt I'm wearing barely covers my rump. The
fishnets are making my legs itch and my feet are
absolutely killing me in these damned thigh-high stiletto
boots. As if that isn't bad enough, the matching pink tube
top keeps creeping down to give a preview of its own.
I can't believe I agreed to this. What self-respecting
redhead would wear hot pink?
If the outfit isn't barbaric enough to make you shudder, I
have to put up with all the wolf calls and lewd comments
shouted at me from the passing cars. I don't have to
actually hear the words. I see the faces leaning out
windows. I can fill in the blanks. And, well, lip-reading
is my specialty.
Don't let anyone kid you. Prostitution is pure hell. And I
haven't even gotten to the part with the johns yet.
My mother always told me that bad girls β translation
according to the Southern Mothers' Dictionary: any female
who has sex outside marriage β went to hell. Well, I'm
here to tell you, she's right. This is surely hell.
Actually I'm not a hooker. I'm a detective in Metro's
Homicide Division and this is an undercover operation to
nail a scumbag who likes to damage prostitutes, to the
point that two have died. As if that isn't bad enough,
he's suspected of having killed a cop β one of Metro's
finest. I can tell you right now, I wouldn't want to be
him when he's finally caught.
With the creep in hiding, there is only one way to lure
him out.
I shifted my weight to the other foot and watched the
woman across the street. Tall, smooth dark skin. Very
pretty with sleek black hair cascading around her
shoulders. Shameka had survived an attack by this low-
life. She'd escaped certain death by the skin of her
teeth β and plain old street smarts. Once she'd gotten
over the initial fear, she'd marched into Metro and
demanded to be used as bait to catch him. A gutsy move
from a gutsy lady. And exactly the break Metro had been
looking for.
She was scared tonight though. I could tell. But she would
die before she'd back down. She wanted to get this guy
almost as bad as we did β we being the cops.
I haven't always been a cop. Just over three years ago I
was an elementary school teacher. Really, I was. The only
four-letter words I used on a regular basis were Spot,
Dick or Jane. Well, okay, truth is, that hasn't changed.
As much as I try to fit in, foul language just doesn't
work for me. Now my colleagues, well, they go into a bar
and five minutes later sailors come running out. But they
watch their mouths around me out of respect. I like that.
And I love being a cop.
Getting back to how I ended up on this street corner...
I grew up in a houseful of boys, all cops or fire-men β
except my dad, he's a CPA, weird huh? Anyway, three years
ago I lost my hearing. I don't mean it faded so that I
needed a hearing aid. I mean, I came away from a merciless
infection with profound loss. I hear nothing at all. Not a
single sound. Sometimes I think I do, but my doctors say I
don't really hear, I simply remember what things sound
like so I think I'm hearing when I'm actually recalling.
At first I was totally devastated. I locked myself away at
my parents' home and felt sorry for myself. I lost my job,
and my fiancΓ© β who wasn't such a loss as it turned out.
My life felt as if it were over.
With my family's support I went into counseling and
intensive training for the hearing-impaired. I learned
signing and, more important, how to read lips. I got
myself a job in the historical archives of Metro and then
I developed an interest in solving cold cases.
Since I knew no one would want to hire a deaf policewoman
or detective, I did my crime-solving on my own. Bringing
down a murderer who had escaped justice landed me in lots
of hot water, but also garnered me lots of attention. The
Chief of Detectives at Metro offered me a position with
Homicide, and I brought down mob boss Luther Hammond by
using my own unique weapon β reading his evil plans off
his own lips.
So here I am. One year later.
After a couple of months on the job, I went off to the
police academy. Eight months later I was fortunate enough
to be accepted at the Tennessee Forensics Academy. I got
back on the job a couple of months ago. Metro wanted to
assign me to profiling or forensics and, at first, that's
what I thought I wanted. But I was wrong. I couldn't make
the difference I yearned to make behind the scenes.
This is where I wanted to be β out here in the trenches.
My life is all I could hope for on a professional level.
On a personal note, my family finally accepted my new
career. I have an on-again, off-again romantic interest,
but don't tell anyone β because he's my boss now.
His name is Steven Barlow. We worked together on my first
official case, bringing down a local mob boss. It's true.
Even Nashville had a mob circuit.
Barlow is the Chief of Homicide now so this thing between
us has pretty much been slipped to the back burner. But I
would be lying if I didn't confess I still get tingly
whenever he's around. Except when I'm pissed off because
of some decision he has made. He likes attempting to keep
me away from danger. I understand his motivation on one
level, but I hate it on all others because more often than
not, it cramps my style.
He's not happy that I'm working this sting, but he'll get
over it. Truth is, he's not thrilled about my change of
heart where profiling and forensics are concerned. Most of
Metro's brass would feel a lot better with me working
crime scenes the way folks on the television program CSI
do. But then I'd miss all the real fun.
Barlow and the rest need to get real. This is where I want
to be. And it's homicide...the work revolves around
unlawful death. Can't have unlawful death without a little
danger.
Enough of the reflecting. Shameka still looks nervous. But
she's hanging in there. I didn't feel totally comfortable
about being across the street from her but the operation
commander insisted it was the best strategy.
Still, my instincts were humming. My gut says I should be
over there with her.
No sooner than I had taken two steps to put the thought
into action than the watch on my left wrist started to
vibrate. I glanced at its face, read the frantic message:
What the hell r u doin???
You see, since I can't hear, the op commander can't
communicate with me through the typical earpiece. Metro
had this special watch designed just for me. It isn't just
a watch, though it does show the time. It has a display
for text messages similar to that of my cell phone for the
hearing-impaired, only smaller.
The watch vibrated again, the same message flashing in
warning.
I ignored the question. Just kept swaying my hips, the way
I'd seen the other ladies of the night doing, and moving
toward my destination.
"Hey, Shameka," I called out.
What's up, girl? She smiled, but her lips trembled with
the effort, making reading her words a little tougher.
I sidled up next to her and flashed her the widest, most
encouraging smile I could summon. "I was lonely way over
there all by myself."
She looked directly at me and said, Thank you. Her relief
was palpable. She'd willingly put herself out on this limb
to help capture a murderer, but she's only human. The fear
wouldn't be denied. Has something to do with that danger
Barlow likes me to avoid.
We chatted and laughed for nearly an hour while nothing
happened. Understandably the rest of the team was getting
antsy. The op commander would likely blame me if this
whole effort turned out to be a bust. If I'd stayed on my
side of the street...if I hadn't done this or that.... At
least he didn't send me any more messages. I might not
have a potty mouth, but I do have somewhat of a reputation
for being obstinate. So shoot me.
Shameka is a civilian. She has feelings and I can't ignore
those, not even to catch a suspected cop-killer.
The traffic had thinned for a bit but now it picked up
again as folks left clubs and headed for all-night
restaurants. Others were just beginning their nights at
the bars and clubs. Within another hour the op would
likely be shut down. As much as we all wanted to get this
guy, this many resources couldn't be focused on one case
forever.
My nerves jangled with anticipation. I surveyed each
vehicle that approached our position while doing my level
best to maintain a broad, inviting smile. I kept one hip
cocked, showing off every inch of fish-net-clad thigh
exposed between the hem of the micro-mini skirt and the
top of the black leather boot.
God, the shoes were killing me.
Women who wear shoes like this have to be masochists. It
just isn't normal.
The band on my wrist vibrated. As I started to glance down
at it, something in the edge of my peripheral vision
snagged my attention.
Black pimped-up Caddy, moving slow.
The car swerved into the lane closest to our position. My
gaze collided with Clarence Johnson's at the exact instant
that his weapon leveled in our direction.
"Get down!" I shouted.
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