Her Lost Alibi by David Berens (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📗

embroidered on her chest. His voice was almost as buttery as his skin. With his right hand, he pushed jet black hair straight back on top of his head—had to be implants, nobody has hair that thick and perfect.

“Miss Cross,” he started.

“Officer Cross,” she corrected.

He snorted, but gently. “Of course. Officer Cross. You don’t know who I am,” he paused, searching her eyes for recognition, “do you?”

“I’m sorry, no,” Amber said, forcing her words to come across as confident and stern. “But I will after you produce a legal driver’s license and registration, sir.”

The man bit his lower lip in such a way that his teeth looked even more perfectly symmetrical and white—geez did the guy just come from the dentist?

“Officer Cross,” the man said, the slightest tinge of impatience slipping into his tone, “my name is Ballentine. Rock White Ballentine.”

It was Amber’s turn to snort. It just slipped out. Ever since she was four, she’d developed a bad habit of snorting when she laughed. It only happened when laughter surprised her … as it had just then.

“You find that funny, Officer Cross?” Now the man’s smile had fallen completely away and he suddenly looked dangerous.

“No, sir,” she rasped. Without looking away from the man, she tore away the first ticket on the top of the pad and handed it to him. “You can just mail that in. No need to go to downtown.”

She nearly jogged back to her car and slammed the door. Her radio crackled as she pulled out and raced away from the man still parked on the side of the road.

“Ber, are you there? What the hell is going on?” It was Lenny. Of all the other officers, he was the one that had been the nicest to her when she started.

“Nothing. All good.”

“Okay, cool. Look, just let this one go.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Caddy. No ticket. Just let it go.”

Amber turned onto River Street, her hands just beginning to stop shaking. “It’s all good. Already issued the citation. On my way for number two down by the river.”

“Oh, shit,” Lenny said.

“Huh? What?”

“You wrote a ticket to Ballentine?”

A trickle of ice-cold fear crept into her spine. “I did. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Just come on in. Chief’ll get it tossed. No biggie.”

“Tossed? Wait, what are you talking about?”

There was a pause on the radio. “Senator Ballentine is protected by the general assembly law. The assembly is in session. He can’t be ticketed right now.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You just ticketed a member of the general assembly, who, by law, cannot be ticketed right now,” Lenny said. “It’s fine. Just come on back. Decker will make it so it never happened.”

When Amber pulled her cruiser into the station’s parking lot, Fat Rick was standing out front, arms crossed shaking his head. The nausea was too much. She opened her door and vomited on the pavement.

“Christ, Ber,” he grunted. “Get ahold of yourself. Chief needs you in his office right now.

The dressing down was short, heated, and then over in less than fifteen minutes. And that’s when her life on the K.E.Y.S. beat began.

Until today ... three days before her twenty-fourth birthday.

2

P’s and Q’s

Chief Felton Ambrose Decker had been with the Savannah, Georgia police department for over thirty-five years. He’d patrolled school zones, parking lots, alleyways, crack houses, sex-trafficking hovels, and murder scenes. Throughout his thirty-five years, he’d been slowly climbing the ladder, serving as Narcotics Unit Sergeant, Training Section Commander, and Operations Support Section Commander, where he supervised the SWAT Team, K-9 Unit, Gang Intervention Unit, and Pattern Crimes Unit until he was finally promoted to run the three main stations that make up the prestigious department. He was only the second black man to hold the position since its founding in 1864. He was proud to have an unblemished record and was looking forward to retiring as a celebrated leader of the community.

When a man like Chief Decker is on the force longer than most of the politicians he serves under, he often receives calls from them when they come into office. Some are fresh, young optimists who want to change the world and, sometimes, reinvent the wheel. Others are hardened, a little shady, and seeking kickbacks and special favors. Governor Jerry Cruz was something different. He and Felton had shared bourbon and cigars on many occasions. The Governor had always been a straight shooter and had never asked the chief to do anything untoward or even slightly gray in the black and white scheme of things.

When

called, Decker answered the phone … always.

“I have a call from the Governor for Chief Decker,” the voice on the line said.

Felton shook his head. They had just called, asked for the chief, been put on hold, then connected to his office. He wondered if it was a subtle power play on Cruz’s part to have his assistant speak first to assure that it was the chief on the line.

“Hold on, let me see if I can find him,” Felton said. “He was out back in the poker room just a minute ago sweeping mountains of chips off the table into his lap. For all I know, he might’ve won enough to finally retire.”

“Hello there, Chief Decker,” the assistant said with a smile in her voice. “I’ll put the Governor through now. Nice to speak to you again.”

“Thank you, Cassandra,” he said, a grin spreading across his face.

He leaned back in his chair, the damn thing screeching like a pregnant crow. If I wasn’t leaving in a month, I’d throw this thing out the window, he thought. He propped his feet on the corner of his desk and waited for Cruz to pick up.

“Felton,” he boomed, “How the hell are you, buddy?”

Same line. Same booming voice. Same distinct lack of any ethnic accent. A polished politician with Latin heritage. He was everything a voter could want, whether they be red or blue.

“Better than I should, given the sad state of funding in this town,” Felton said.

He said it with