This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2023 by Chris Culver

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: chris@indiecrime.com

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  Created with Vellum

  A Joe Court Novella

  BY

  CHRIS CULVER

  ST. LOUIS, MO

  Other books by Chris Culver

  Joe Court novels:

  The Girl in the Motel

  The Girl in the Woods

  The Boys in the Church

  The Man in the Meth Lab

  The Women Who Wore Roses

  The Man in the Park

  The Girl Who Told Stories

  The Men on the Farm

  The Man on the River

  Ash Rashid novels:

  The Abbey

  The Outsider

  By Any Means

  Measureless Night

  Pocketful of God

  No Room for Good Men

  Sleeper Cell

  Contents

  Other books by Chris Culver

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Next books

  Contact Chris

  About the Author

  1

  My coffee was hot, my breakfast—ham and cheese on an English muffin—was still warm, and the sun was shining. It was going to be a good day.

  At least that’s what I told myself until I had to slam on my brakes in the middle of Seventh Avenue to avoid colliding with a hatchback in front of me.

  I drove a 1982 Dodge Ram pickup that I had purchased for eight hundred bucks as a cadet in the police academy. The odometer had space for five numbers, so every time the truck passed a hundred thousand miles, it rolled back to zero--a process it had gone through four times. When I bought the truck, the transmission couldn’t shift out of first gear, and the headlights dimmed whenever I pressed on the brake pedal. The exhaust smelled so bad that my mom and dad said they could smell me miles away before I made it home. Still, it was all mine.

  I spent months restoring that old truck. I rebuilt the engine and transmission, installed new brakes, replaced the exhaust, and reupholstered the interior. Dad suggested I chrome out the engine and take it to old car shows, but I had no interest in showing off. I liked fixing broken things and making them work again.

  My old truck was unique and wonderful. My old house was the same. Even my dog, Roger, had quirks. The animal shelter where I picked him up called him unadoptable. They had made me sign a liability waiver just to meet him. He was a hundred and forty pounds, and he had growled at anyone who came close to him. He wasn’t vicious, though; if people had tried to understand him, they’d see what I saw: a scared, abused animal who had lost his home. It took patience, time, and understanding, but he had warmed up to me. Eventually, he had become my friend. Today, Roger had far more yesterdays than tomorrows, but he was happy and healthy. I loved him. I think he loved me, too.

  Unfortunately, none of my hard work on the truck had fixed its lack of modern amenities like air conditioning or cup holders. As I braked, momentum carried my coffee forward, spilling it on the floorboards. My breakfast sandwich followed and splashed in the black liquid. I squeezed my jaw tight. I had missed the hatchback by inches, but its driver had T-boned a minivan.

  I sighed and reached for my purse to pull out my phone. Trisha Marshall, my station’s dispatcher, answered my call right away.

  “Trisha, hey,” I said. “This is Joe Court. I’m at the corner of Seventh and Gray Avenues. There’s been a fender bender. If we’ve got an officer nearby, we might want to send her out. A white Chrysler minivan made an illegal turn from the alley behind Gray Avenue, crossed a busy street, and was hit from the side by a red Volkswagen Golf. The minivan’s driver is either careless or impaired. Either way, she deserves a ticket.”

  “Are they blocking the roadway?”

  “Yeah. Hold on just a second. Something’s going on,” I said. The driver of the Volkswagen—a young woman wearing a white top, high-waisted bluejeans, and a beige cardigan—stepped out of her car. Immediately, the minivan’s door opened, and a woman in her early forties stepped out. She wore jeans and a sequined shirt that left a shoulder exposed. Three women joined the driver. They were dressed to go clubbing. The minivan driver started shouting and pointing at the VW driver.

  “Everything okay, Joe?”

  I rubbed my eyes and swore to myself.

  “No. They’re arguing now,” I said. “The minivan people are pretty aggressive. They’re getting in the face of the VW driver. She’s trying to back off and get in her car. I think they’re drunk.”

  “I’ve routed Paul Tidwell and Tracy Carruthers to you now,” she said. “Paul’s about three minutes out. Tracy’s on foot near the library. She’s running now.”

  The library was close, so I’d at least have backup soon.

  “Thanks, Trish,” I said, unhooking my seatbelt and opening my door. “I’m going to break this up before it turns into a fight.”

  The instant I finished speaking, the minivan’s driver shoved the VW driver against her car.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” I said, stepping onto the concrete. “Knock it off and back up.”

  I held my phone in my left hand and hovered my right hand over my pistol. I wore jeans and a white sleeveless t-shirt, but my badge and firearm were clearly visible on my waist. Somewhere distant, I heard a police siren.

  “Get in your truck,” said a woman. “This is none of your business.”

  “I’m a police officer,” I said, hurrying toward them and pointing toward the minivan. “Hands up.”

  The VW driver took the chance and dove into her car. The minivan driver tried to grab her, but then got her hand stuck in the door as the VW driver slammed it shut. She screamed, drew her hand back, and then tried to open the door. Thankfully, the VW driver had the sense to lock it.

  “This bitch thinks she’s getting away,” said the minivan’s driver, now punching the window. A second woman jumped in front of the VW as its tail lights lit up. The car moved back about a foot before hitting my truck. I yelped and jumped. For some reason, one of the ladies from the minivan removed her shirt and threw it at the VW. I guess she was trying to blind the VW driver and keep her from fleeing. The woman had poor judgment, but she clearly exercised regularly.

  For a moment, I was flummoxed. Then reality hit me, and I saw a situation spiraling out of control.

  “Sheriff’s Department. Everybody breathe, step back, and put your hands in the air,” I said.

  Two ladies raised their hands. Then the topless woman did likewise.

  “Ma’am, put your shirt back on,” I said. As she dressed, Officer Tracy Carruthers came running from an intersection two blocks north. Officer Paul Tidwell’s marked cruiser followed a few moments later. Finally, the minivan’s driver stepped back and put her hands in the air.

  “She’s got a gun,” she said, looking at me. “Arrest her.”

  “Of course she’s got a gun. That’s Detective Court,” said Tracy, panting. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “Put your hands on your heads. I’m placing you under arrest.”

  The women complied with Tracy’s orders while Paul Tidwell checked on the VW driver. I would have preferred if she hadn’t hit my truck, but my bumper had absorbed the impact.

  “She didn’t say she was a cop,” said the minivan driver. She blinked and put a hand on the minivan to steady herself.

  “She announced herself multiple times.”

  The voice came from my phone. I didn’t realize I still had it on, so I held it to my face.

  “Thanks, Trisha,” I said. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes. We’ve got it under control here.”

  She wished me luck and hung up. I slipped my phone into my purse. The minivan driver said nothing, but she swayed in the breeze.

  “Are you drunk, ma’am?” I asked.

  “None of your business,” she said.

  “You were driving,” I said. “Are you going to refuse a field sobriety test?”

  “Eat me.”

  Paul snickered and looked away. Tracy held up a hand and sighed.

  “That’s just plain rude, ma’am.”

  Tracy and Paul could handle the drunks. I walked to the VW. The young lady behind the wheel lowered her window. She was younger than she had looked earlier. I softened my voice.

  “Hey,” I said. “Can you do me a favor and turn off your car?”

  For a few seconds, she didn’t seem to register what I said. Then she did as I asked.

  “Sorry. I screwed up,” she said. “I’m late. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “I imagine you didn’t,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a comforting manner. “What are you late for?”

  “Work. I’m a loan officer at First Bank. This is my first job. I just graduated from college. I’ve never been late for work.”

  “Are you dizzy?”

  She thought for a moment and nodded.

  “I’m hot.”

  I reached for my purse and pulled out my phone. It took a moment, but I got its built-in flashlight working.

  “This will be bright,” I said. “Hold on just a second.”

  I flashed it in her eyes and watched as the pupils slowly constricted. She eventually squinted.

  “Do you have someone I can call?” I asked. “Mom and dad? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Sister?”

  She paused and shook her head.

  “I just moved here. My mom’s in Chesterfield.”

  Chesterfield was a western suburb of St. Louis and was about sixty miles northwest. I smiled at her and called my station to ask for an ambulance. Trisha said she’d get one out ASAP, so I slipped my phone back into my purse.

  “When you were pushed, did you hit your head?”

  “A little.”

  “You might have a concussion. Sit tight. I’ve got paramedics en route,” I said. She processed what I said and nodded. I walked to Paul and Tracy.

  “Morning,” I said. “You guys have this in hand?”

  “Yep,” said Paul. “Happy Saturday.”

  “Yeah, happy Saturday,” I said. “Take the drunk ladies and book them for fourth-degree assault, public intoxication, and resisting arrest. Maybe offer the driver another shot at a field sobriety test. If she refuses, we’ll throw everything at her that we can. I’ve got paramedics coming to check out the VW driver. If she’s concussed, upgrade the minivan driver’s charges to third-degree assault. I’ll write a report when I can. Make sure you get pictures.”

  Tracy and Paul agreed, so I got back in my truck, swore again when I saw my coffee and breakfast on the floorboards, and then drove five minutes to my station. Before going inside, I cleaned the car and threw away my ruined breakfast.

  The St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department worked out of an old Freemason temple the county had purchased years ago when the Masons left town. With its ornate columns out front and wide steps, the Federalist-style building reminded me of a bank every time I went inside. It was gorgeous. Unfortunately, the interior smelled like mold and vomit.

  Trisha sat behind the front desk in the lobby. She smiled when she saw me.

  “Morning, Joe,” she said. “I told the boss you were working on a call so he wouldn’t think you were late. I also brewed some fresh coffee. It’s in the break room.”

  “You are a true friend,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She started to say something else, but then she pressed a hand to her headset and turned toward her computer. Trisha was a sworn officer, but she stayed behind the desk. She had a calming voice, even in tense situations. She must have gotten a call because she waved and started typing.

  I walked to the break room. Trisha’s coffee wasn’t as good as the stuff I had brewed at home, but it was hot. Sometimes, I took what I could get. As I took my first sip, my shoulders and chest relaxed, and some of the tension left my gut. I leaned against the counter and started searching the upper cabinets for snacks to make up for my lost breakfast.

  “Morning, Joe.”

  It was Preston Cain, Sasquatch. At twenty-three, Preston was the youngest officer on staff. He had grown a lot over his first year in uniform. I liked him. One day, if he wanted, he could be a decent detective. He poured a cup of coffee.

  “Morning, Sasquatch.”

  He finished pouring his coffee and sipped.

  “Trisha said you arrested a bunch of drunk soccer moms.”

  “Yep. Their minivan hit a young woman on her way to work. Then they tried to beat her up. Somewhere along the way, one of them took off her shirt and put on a show. Typical Saturday morning.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that, but maybe I’ll get lucky tonight. It’s reunion weekend at Waterford, so there are probably going to be lots of drunks this weekend.”

  I glanced at him.

  “I hadn’t heard that,” I said. “So you think we’ve got more of this to look forward to?”

  “A whole weekend of it.”

  I looked at my cup and swirled my coffee around.

  “I should have brought vodka.”

  2

  Once I had a cup of coffee, I walked back to my desk in the bullpen. Theoretically, our building had room for each detective and supervisory officer to have a private office, but little additional space was safe. The third floor was always closed because of termite damage to the floor joists. An exterminator had fumigated the building to prevent future infestations, but the county had no money to fix the structure. The second floor was structurally sound, but very few rooms had working lights. That left us with the first floor.

  I couldn’t complain. The bullpen was clean, relatively comfortable, and mostly smell-free. It wasn’t an awful place, although privacy was limited. It was 9:00 A.M. The car accident and fistfight had given me an hour’s worth of paperwork. My department, like all police departments, ran on paperwork. If a suspect had to use the restroom during an interrogation, I wrote it down so his lawyer couldn’t later claim we refused to let him meet his needs. If I called a victim’s mom, I wrote it down, so we’d have a record of the call in case it came up in court. When I interviewed witnesses, suspects, and experts, I took notes—which I then typed and entered into the official record.

  Professionalism mattered. I wanted to be fair. I didn’t want to be the maverick cop who broke the rules and argued the ends justified the means. If you planted evidence or broke into houses without search warrants, maybe you would put some bad guys in jail. You’d also put innocent people in jail and destroy the trust your community placed in your department. It wouldn’t be worth it.

  So I followed the rules. Sometimes, that made my day a lot harder, but it didn’t matter. It was the right thing to do. With the events fresh in my mind, I sat at my computer and typed an account of the traffic accident and the fight afterward. The young VW driver, Emily Waldman, had a concussion. Doctors at St. John’s were keeping her in the ER for a few hours for observation, but hopefully they’d send her home. That meant we had upgraded the charges against the minivan driver, Angela Douglas, to Assault III. That was in addition to DWI.

  “Did I tell you about the book I’m writing?”

  I glanced to my right. Sasquatch was at the desk beside mine, ostensibly typing at his own computer.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your favorite colleague is an author,” he said. “That’s me, by the way. Your favorite colleague.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Where can I purchase this book?”

  “It’s not done yet,” he said, quickly. “I’m still writing it.”

  I pointed to my screen.

  “I’m writing, too,” I said. “It’s about intoxicated women who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

  “Erotica,” he said. “I like it.”

  I shook my head but said nothing and tried to keep typing.

  “Mine’s a serial killer novel,” he said. “It’s about a small-town detective. It doesn’t have any sex in it like yours, but it’s good.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I’m just going to finish my work here.”

  “Do you want to hear what it’s about?”

  I sighed and pushed back from my desk.

  “Evidently, it’s about a celibate detective from a small town who investigates a serial killer.”

  “He murders his victims and then purees them in a blender so he can pour them down the garbage disposal. I’m going to call him Sir Smoothie.”

  I stared at him for a moment and then crossed my arms.

  “So that was just floating around in your head?”

  “It took time to develop,” he said.

  I considered him before raising my eyebrows.

  “Did Bob give you an assignment today besides sitting here and talking to me?”

 

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