Page 7 of The Smart Killer
Savannah scoffed, shaking her head. She shifted from one foot to the next and paced a little. “Noah, your personal vendetta against Luther Ashford is blinding you. Those sewers go everywhere,” she said, holding up the map in front of his face. “Hell, they even run under here.” She set the map down and then thumbed over her shoulder. “Get your shit together. You’re suspended until further notice.”
“Hold on! What?”
“You heard me,” she said as she walked away.
Noah threw up a hand. “Come on, Savannah. You can’t be serious.”
“We will discuss this later.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I made a call.”
“Yeah, the wrong one.”
“I’m your friend; please, don’t do this.”
She turned back to him with a stern expression. “Yes, you are. But here, I’m your supervisor. Don’t get the two confused. You lied to me and got another officer to cover for you. I could have your badge. I’m sorry, Noah, but for now, go home.”
“Savannah.”
“Go home, Noah.”
He’d never seen her so angry, and yet he understood. With promotion came more responsibility, and it was her neck on the chopping board as much as it was his. Shit rolled downhill, and right now, she would have to crawl out from a pile of it.
It would be her who would have to explain to the DEA and higher-ups what had happened.
Noah ran a hand over his head. He stood there for a moment before sinking down onto one of the benches and letting out a sigh.
Maybe she was right.
Had his pursuit of the truth become a vendetta against Luther Ashford? After what he’d discovered about him, the threat on Ray’s life, and his father’s involvement in a real estate business, he was beginning to think that the Ashfords had more reasons to thank him for the drug bust that had led to the brief closure of High Peaks Pub and Brewery.
His phone jangled in his pants pocket.
Noah reached over and fished it out.
It was his brother. He tapped accept. “Noah. Meet me down at that new neighborhood, Brookstone Community.”’
Noah sighed. “Ray, this is really not a good time.”
“Is murder ever a good time?”
3
The deceased family was at the morgue when Noah maneuvered his Ford Bronco through the new east-end neighborhood. Raindrops tapped against the windshield like hurried footsteps, falling from a canvas sky of muted grey.
Approaching the scene, Noah peered out at the area cordoned off by yellow crime tape. A neighbor in a raincoat walking his dog lingered to see what was happening. Ray’s cruiser was parked in the driveway of one of the cul-de-sac homes.
As he shut off his engine near the charred remnants of the house, the rain intensified, casting a melancholic sheen on the destruction before him. The remainder of the burned-down house stood like a monument of tragedy, its skeletal frame a testament to the unforgiving power of fire.
Noah waited a moment for a break in the rain before climbing out.
The air was heavy with humid residue, a reminder of the stifling discomfort the town had endured amid rolling blackouts in the days prior.
Almost in synch, Ray stepped out of his cruiser into the rain-soaked morning, his footsteps splashing through puddles formed by the downpour.
“Noah. Thanks for coming. Crazy weather we’ve been having. The home could have used this yesterday.”
“What have we got?”
