my jurisdiction again. Regardless of what
Zeke thought, Momma didn’t raise no fool.
You can stop laughing now.
Chapter Eleven
The idiot behind me in the champagne Lexus
honked his horn one too many times, thereby justifying opening the
Vette’s sunroof to the August oven and poking up my middle finger
in a southern salute.
Four lanes of traffic had screeched to a dead
standstill while news choppers circled what had to be a massive
wreck up ahead. Wasn’t like I could do anything other than inch
along like every other Tom, Dickhead, and Harry. Like it or not, we
were all in this together. Snarled. Stuck. Pretty much screwed
until Dallas’ finest finished the task at hand. I did what any
other woman would do in this situation – turned up the music to
drown out the honking horns.
Hey, it was either that or have a road rage
incident captured on camera for the five o’clock news. After the
night I’d had – or lack thereof – Mr. Impatient did not want a
visit from Miss Bitchy.
The headrest cradled my aching skull as I
leaned back with a sigh. The questions I’d been dragging around and
trying desperately to ignore bounded into my brain like a lioness
pouncing on her prey. She just wouldn’t be placated any longer with
table scraps, and instead wanted a bite out of Reggie’s hide.
What would we do if we caught the
blackmailer? The only way to stop him or her was to turn the
perpetrator over to the police. But turning him or her into the
police would create another paper trail, which would then be part
of the public record, which would then expose Reggie’s past for
public consumption. The purpose of this pursuit was to keep
Reggie’s past from exposure, but by paying off the blackmailer,
Reggie still had no guarantee he or she wouldn’t release the
records anyway. And if he paid the blackmail now, who’s to say the
blackmailer wouldn’t later return for another taste?
Since I was still trying to make sense of the
insensible, I’d kept Reggie out of my looping thoughts. No need to
bother him with pesky problems over details.
Last night when I’d laid my head to rest, or
more like early this morning, I’d had every intention of dropping
the gang angle in favor of exploring others on the suspects list –
for now. However, Zeke’s mention of Bobby had me stirring with the
guy on my mind. And no, not for any reason involving sexually
charged dreams about Ford F-150s. Simply as a friend. Honest.
Besides, I hadn’t caught up with the guy for a few weeks, and it
was high time I touched base.
That didn’t mean there weren’t ulterior
motives for visiting.
After losing his wife and unborn son, being
imprisoned and then released from murder charges, Bobby had
relinquished his position as the new children’s pastor at
Celebration Victory Church in favor of starting a prison ministry.
Not like prison ministries weren’t common, but one run by a pastor
who had been wrongly imprisoned like Jesus and most of the
disciples made Bobby think he could relate to the prisoners better
than most. I’d refrained from reminding him that the majority of
characters housed in those cells nowadays were incarcerated because
of actual guilt and not because of trumped up charges from some
anti-religious district attorney.
But I digress.
Since Bobby was in touch with the local
prison populace, he might know of or be able to learn information
about the local gangs, thereby helping with Reggie’s situation
without actual further contact on my part. ‘Course, I’d have to
tiptoe around the reasoning for asking. But if there was one thing
about my pastor friend, it was that he was the king of discretion –
unlike most of the gossipy church attendees I’d grown up
knowing.
Call me surprised when I finally pulled into
the driveway of Bobby’s three-bedroom home to see a For Sale sign parked in the yard – and a familiar red Mercedes convertible.
Little ol’ Nosey Nana offered up a finger wave and a smirk from her
front
Zeke thought, Momma didn’t raise no fool.
You can stop laughing now.
Chapter Eleven
The idiot behind me in the champagne Lexus
honked his horn one too many times, thereby justifying opening the
Vette’s sunroof to the August oven and poking up my middle finger
in a southern salute.
Four lanes of traffic had screeched to a dead
standstill while news choppers circled what had to be a massive
wreck up ahead. Wasn’t like I could do anything other than inch
along like every other Tom, Dickhead, and Harry. Like it or not, we
were all in this together. Snarled. Stuck. Pretty much screwed
until Dallas’ finest finished the task at hand. I did what any
other woman would do in this situation – turned up the music to
drown out the honking horns.
Hey, it was either that or have a road rage
incident captured on camera for the five o’clock news. After the
night I’d had – or lack thereof – Mr. Impatient did not want a
visit from Miss Bitchy.
The headrest cradled my aching skull as I
leaned back with a sigh. The questions I’d been dragging around and
trying desperately to ignore bounded into my brain like a lioness
pouncing on her prey. She just wouldn’t be placated any longer with
table scraps, and instead wanted a bite out of Reggie’s hide.
What would we do if we caught the
blackmailer? The only way to stop him or her was to turn the
perpetrator over to the police. But turning him or her into the
police would create another paper trail, which would then be part
of the public record, which would then expose Reggie’s past for
public consumption. The purpose of this pursuit was to keep
Reggie’s past from exposure, but by paying off the blackmailer,
Reggie still had no guarantee he or she wouldn’t release the
records anyway. And if he paid the blackmail now, who’s to say the
blackmailer wouldn’t later return for another taste?
Since I was still trying to make sense of the
insensible, I’d kept Reggie out of my looping thoughts. No need to
bother him with pesky problems over details.
Last night when I’d laid my head to rest, or
more like early this morning, I’d had every intention of dropping
the gang angle in favor of exploring others on the suspects list –
for now. However, Zeke’s mention of Bobby had me stirring with the
guy on my mind. And no, not for any reason involving sexually
charged dreams about Ford F-150s. Simply as a friend. Honest.
Besides, I hadn’t caught up with the guy for a few weeks, and it
was high time I touched base.
That didn’t mean there weren’t ulterior
motives for visiting.
After losing his wife and unborn son, being
imprisoned and then released from murder charges, Bobby had
relinquished his position as the new children’s pastor at
Celebration Victory Church in favor of starting a prison ministry.
Not like prison ministries weren’t common, but one run by a pastor
who had been wrongly imprisoned like Jesus and most of the
disciples made Bobby think he could relate to the prisoners better
than most. I’d refrained from reminding him that the majority of
characters housed in those cells nowadays were incarcerated because
of actual guilt and not because of trumped up charges from some
anti-religious district attorney.
But I digress.
Since Bobby was in touch with the local
prison populace, he might know of or be able to learn information
about the local gangs, thereby helping with Reggie’s situation
without actual further contact on my part. ‘Course, I’d have to
tiptoe around the reasoning for asking. But if there was one thing
about my pastor friend, it was that he was the king of discretion –
unlike most of the gossipy church attendees I’d grown up
knowing.
Call me surprised when I finally pulled into
the driveway of Bobby’s three-bedroom home to see a For Sale sign parked in the yard – and a familiar red Mercedes convertible.
Little ol’ Nosey Nana offered up a finger wave and a smirk from her
front
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