Jack Davis Mystery - 01 - Shakedown by Joel Goldman

didn’t matter what we wanted, we couldn’t have it, not then. Things were different now and her frank sexual banter was another reminder that it was time for me to move on. I didn’t know if she’d been like this when she was married. I didn’t know anything about the relationships she may have had since she was divorced five years ago. I only knew that I wanted her and that, by some unlikely alignment of the planets, she wanted me.
    I tried to remember whether I had ever felt that way about Joy, believed that I must have, but couldn’t summon the memories. We’d driven our love for each other into the ground, leaving it cold and hard.
    “I want to go to the college of facial knowledge.”
    “Classes start this weekend. They run Friday night to Monday morning.”
    “How about an advance session? I’m having dinner tonight with Wendy and Colby Hudson. If he ?ares his nostrils, I need to know whether he’s lying or just has allergies.”
    “You want to learn how to read micro expressions by tonight? What are you, drunk? This isn’t some parlor trick you can learn to do in one easy lesson. Could you teach me how to kick in a door, plant a wiretap, or work undercover before lunch?”
    “Not a chance.”
    “Exactly. So stop being stupid. I’m offering you a weekend of personal instruction and you’re about to blow it, big-time.”
    “Personal instruction?”
    “Very personal.”
    “So today is not a good day for a quickie course?” I asked, finally getting into the ?ow.
    “Today, no, but hold onto that option. I do have another idea, which happens to be a good one. I’ll join you for dinner and interpret afterward.”
    I was never good at waiting, letting a case come to me, depending on a drug dealer, embezzler, or terrorist to do me a favor by screwing up. I got in my car, a two-year-old Chevy Impala, and drove back to Marcellus’s neighborhood. There was a chance that my squad would be canvassing the neighborhood again and following up on leads. I didn’t want to put any of them in a tough spot, forcing them to report to Troy that I had been nosing around. I decided to tour the surrounding blocks first for any sign of my people. If the streets were empty, I’d take a shot at the neighbors.
    A KCK patrol car and an unmarked Crown Victoria were parked in front of a house three blocks to the west of where Keyshon, his father, mother, and the Winston brothers had been killed. Two uniformed cops were milling around in the front yard. I slowed down when I saw Marty Grisnik standing on the sidewalk talking to a heavyset black man nearly as tall as he was. Grisnik glanced at me and then barked something to one of his officers, who ?agged me down, motioning me to the curb.
    Grisnik walked slowly to my car. He bent down, his broad frame cutting off the sun and the cool morning breeze coming through my open window.
    “You lost?” he asked me.
    “If I was, I’m found.”
    Grisnik examined the length of my car, running his hand across the paint. “Not much of a ride for an FBI agent.”
    “It’s paid for.”
    “Good thing, too. Last time I saw you, I wouldn’t have given much for your chances of getting a car loan. You doing all right?”
    “No complaints that count.”
    “I hear they put you on the shelf.”
    “Just temporary.”
    “That why no one over there can remember your name when I called looking for you? Had to talk to someone in human resources just to find out that you were on leave. After your performance the other night, it wasn’t hard to figure out what happened.”
    The law-enforcement community is a small one, smaller since 9/11. We were all told to put aside the petty jealousies and resentments that fed the stereotypes local cops and feds had of each other and learn to play nice. For the most part, we had succeeded. One of the unintended consequences of those closer relationships and better communications was that it was harder than ever to keep a secret.
    “Out of sight, out of