Two to Worry About (Turner Hahn And Frank Morales Crime Mysteries Book 4) - B.R. Stateham

Two to Worry About (Turner Hahn And Frank Morales Crime Mysteries Book 4) by B.R. Stateham

Book excerpt

He stepped into the bright light of the early afternoon sun and slipped on a pair of expensive aviator shades. Turning his head to look to his right, he scanned the immediate area. And then turned to do the same to the left. It was standard procedure. First to his right. And then to his left. A quiet moment of careful observation before acting. A trait he learned from long experience after deliberately, or not so deliberately, walking into a puddle of serious trouble in his line of work. In front of him the four lanes of Van Pelt Drive were the dull roar of its usual heavy traffic at this time of the day. Trucks, buses, cabs. Everything, including a traffic cop, could be found on the Van Pelt at a quarter past four on a Tuesday, all going about fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit.

A typical day.

On either side of the door leading into the small hole-in-the-wall taco shop, the mini mall contained a large liquor store on his right and a loan company to his left. At the corner of the block, to his right, was a gas station. Directly in front of him, his new acquisition. Sitting at the curb was a fully restored ‘67 Olds 442 convertible, fire engine red with freshly installed white vinyl interior. In the passenger side bucket seat was his carrot-topped genetic monster for a partner. The big nightmare was sitting with one elbow resting on the door while his massive paw of a hand gripped the upper edge of the Olds' windshield, Fingers drumming idly in the process.

He couldn't help it. The grin exploded across his features before he could catch it. A big smirk of a boyish grin flashed across his thin lips as he looked at the ugly kisser of his friend and partner.

Frank Morales was, and there was no polite way to say this, just friggin' big. Even sitting in the bucket seat of the Olds didn't help him look any smaller than a parked Russian tank sitting atop a squashed industrial boiler. Frank was, like him, a nudge over six feet four. But unlike his relatively modest 258 pounds sitting on a relatively firm athletic skeleton, Frank weighed, easily, a good fifty pounds heavier. With no neck. But with long, stringy carrot-colored red hair pulled back past his ears and balled up into a man bun. To match this hirsute splendor, the giant had a thick bush of red hair for a mustache underneath his nose and a thin, scraggly-looking shadow of a beard covering his cheeks and chin.

To be honest, Frank’s newly acquired mustache and beard, plus the man bun, gave Turner images of some long-lost Viking freshly thawed out of a block of Arctic ice and somehow resuscitated.

The smirk of amusement on his lips widened perceptibly as he visualized the Viking image to himself. Apropos to say the least.

But Frank had other qualities as well. Like the man’s arms. The giant had arms on him as thick as the cement trusses holding up an interstate highway bridge. Hands as big as snow shovels. The big lug had that kind of face which was unforgettable. Hard to explain. But completely unforgettable once burned into someone's memory.

The man’s head swiveled somehow on those massive shoulders as he gave his thinner, and definitely more photogenic partner a frown just as Turner handed him the bag of tacos. Walking around the front of the car, the better-looking of the two detectives slid in behind the wheel, closed the door, and leaned forward to start the engine.

"Did you get anything for yourself?"

"There’s twelve tacos in the bag. Twelve. Save me two. That's all I ask. Just two."

The corners of Frank's mouth twitched, his odd little way of silent laughter, as he nodded and reached inside the bag for a taco. Turner glanced over his left shoulder, eyed the flow of traffic passing by until a gap miraculously appeared, and then rolled the big but elegant-looking Muscle Car out into the traffic lane and accelerated rapidly. The top was down. The heat of the sun felt good. The afternoon daylight was still bright and clear. And they were headed for the first squawk of the day.

The city's South Side Precinct of the Metropolitan Police Department was the largest of the six precincts. The precinct was five miles wide and eight miles deep. Forty square miles. Figuring, on the average, seventeen blocks per city mile, it didn't take long to figure out the precinct was big. For those forty square miles the precinct had, on each shift, eight pairs of patrol officers working in tandem and six detectives. A total of twenty-two men to cover forty square miles of territory.

Or to look at it another way. The city's population averaged 5,200 people per square mile. The South Side precinct was an area of forty square miles. Two hundred thousand, eight hundred people lived in the South Side. With only twenty-two officers, per shift keeping the chaos from boiling over into a certified disaster.

The city’s population was a little over eight hundred thousand strong. Eight hundred thousand basically honest people just trying to live day to day and make a living for themselves. But in that eight hundred thousand decent people there were, like Italian wiseguys like to say, you’re typical Gagootz to deal with. The crazies. The homicidal freaks. The thieves. The usual clientele Frank and I worked to collar on a nightly basis.

In the metropolitan area of the city were four other smaller cities with their respective police departments. All told, the urban area of the city and its surroundings contained a population of roughly 5.5 million people. Not as big as New York or LA. Certainly, nothing like a Tokyo or Mexico City. But big enough. With its own particular set of troubles.

Like today.

By 6:30 in the evening, just two and a half hours after the shift started, the patrolmen were tied up doing other things. So when the call came in there was a cowboy, an honest to god, genuine cowboy, lying dead in the middle of the intersection of Roach and Pine Streets, the desk sergeant routed the call to Turner and Frank.

Of course the two had to investigate. Who wouldn't want to go out and stare at a dead cowboy lying face down in the street.