Aphrodite by Russell Andrews

And, smiling politely, he drew out of his jacket pocket an SIG-Sauer with a silencer attached, pulled the trigger once, and shot Wallace P. Crabbe right in the middle of his forehead.
    “He sure was surprised to see you,” the first blond said.
    “They’re
all
surprised to see me,” the second one said.
    Then the two men smiled at each other and, professionals that they were, began to clean up.
    Justin was holding the phone to his ear, gripping it tighter than was necessary. It had rung ten times now. He was hoping that the little shit in his spotless, impersonal house would answer the phone, irate at being awakened. He was hoping that Wallace P. Crabbe would give him living hell and then call the East End Harbor police station to register a complaint against him.
    He let the phone ring twenty times before burying his head in his hands and bending over in despair. He only hung up when he was certain that Wallace sounded enough like Walrus that Wallace P. Crabbe wasn’t ever going to answer the phone again.

8
    “Hey, Westwood.”
    Justin was sitting at his desk, his eyes closed, doing what he liked best, which was drifting away in his self-created cloud of darkness. The voice jarred his eyes open and he glanced over at the cop at the desk next to his.
What the hell is his name again?
Westwood thought.
Oh, yeah. Got it. Chalk one up for my side.
    “What do you want, Brian?”
    “I just want to tell you I think you’re an unbelievable fucking pussy.”
    Justin nodded wearily. “Is that right?”
    “You let those guys from Middleview push the shit out of you.”
    “No I didn’t. I just didn’t push back.”
    “You think that missing guy is dead. I heard you with the chief. You convinced him you were right.”
    Justin shrugged. “Well, they didn’t believe me. And there was nothing I could do to convince them.”
    “Bullshit. You just rolled over and played dead.”
    “Maybe it’s because I don’t know if
I
believe me.”
    Brian didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t have to. The look of scorn on his face said more than enough.
    “Westwood.”
    This time it was the other one, Gary. Justin looked up at him but didn’t bother to respond.
    “What’s the deal with the chief and you?” Gary said. He didn’t seem to care if Justin was ignoring him.
    “What deal is that, Gary?”
    “It’s like he thinks you’re …I don’t know what. Like you’re special. Like you know stuff.” He looked at Justin, took off his silly-looking ultra-cop sunglasses and took a long look. “What is it you know?”
    “He don’t know shit,” Brian said.
    Gary kept looking. “Is that right?” he asked, but he wasn’t asking Brian. He was asking Justin.
    “That’s right,” Westwood said. “It’s the first smart thing I ever heard your little friend say.” Then he got up and walked out the door of the station, onto the East End Harbor streets.
    As he walked, he thought about the conversation he had had with the Middleview police.
    He’d called them the night before, right after he gave up on reaching Crabbe. He explained his fear and the department dispatched two men to check out Crabbe’s house. He wasn’t there. The house was empty. But there was no evidence of B and E. No blood. No sign of theft or a struggle or that anything violent had occurred. The sergeant at the desk called Justin back, asked him to explain his suspicions, and then said he thought it would be best if they could talk in person. Next, Justin called his chief, filled him in on what was happening. Leggett was nervous. Justin could tell that he wasn’t wild about the call to the Middleview force, but he agreed to back Justin, said he’d be at the meeting in the morning. And he was. Two cops from Middleview showed up at the station around nine o’clock. They went into the chief’s office and Justin did his best to explain his thought process as calmly and cogently as he could. But as he spoke he realized he didn’t have much. Yeah, he