Page 25 of Happy Is On Hiatus
That’s what he’d yelled when she’d sat in his office half an hour ago. This had been the second meeting they’d had on the same subject, since the first one had been cut short and subsequently delayed for a few days while he dealt with a high-profile case. Still, it was just as much a waste of time as the first one, no matter how brief it had been.
Actually, it was his way of establishing his perceived control over her one more time. And while in this case the captain would’ve had every right to file a written complaint about her behavior, he wouldn’t because she’d always been too much of a liability to him and the department. She hadn’t considered this at the time, because truthfully, it wasn’t something she thought she’d ever have to do. Floyd Hall was an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid.
The first fuckup he was referring to had happened in January when he’d commanded her to work overtime one weekend. She’d put in her request for time off months prior, and it’d been approved. Besides that, there were already four more detectives than necessary for a regular shift signed up to work—he didn’t need her there. This was just another way to cover up the egregious and unsubstantiated overtime he was authorizing to some of his favorites on the force. Sharae didn’t want to be a part of the scam, and she especially didn’t want to be used to help make the whole sordid plan look more legitimate.
When he pushed her, threatening to fire her if she didn’t show up, Sharae had pushed back, swearing she’d report all the times in the past he’d scheduled more than enough detectives for unnecessary shifts. He’d slammed his beefy hands on his desk so hard that day, the lamp had fallen over the side, breaking on contact as it hit the floor.
Today, when Hall had called her into his office, she’d sat in the guest chair across from his desk, watching him in silence the way she often did. He wanted to intimidate her, had wanted that since she’d applied for this job, but he had the wrong one. Sharae didn’t intimidate easily, and this blustering idiot wasn’t going to be the one to crack her shield.
It hadn’t mattered that in the last week, her testimony—coupled with the investigative work of her and her partner—had convicted a man on two counts of manslaughter and multiple handgun violations. Nor had the fact that she and Malik had the most closed cases in their department for the past three years. No, what mattered most was that she’d once again bruised some fragile male egos in the department.
Boo-the-fuck-hoo.
She couldn’t stand a whining-ass man, and despite the appearance of a pool of testosterone, the police department was full of them.
On top of the nonsense he’d been spouting, the captain had made her late for an appointment she really didn’t want to keep.
She pulled up to the corner and stared at the burgundy-painted 1920s Victorian-styled house that had been the Medwin Harris Funeral Home for the last fifty years. That was what the bronze plaque on the side of the building stated.
Grabbing her purse from the passenger seat and pulling out her phone, she noted that it was four thirty. She was half an hour late. There were also multiple missed calls and text messages from Rita and Jemel. Cursing, she switched her phone from vibrate to sound. She hadn’t wanted to hear beeping and ringing as she sat in Captain Hall’s office, but then he’d pissed her off so badly with that ridiculous threat that she’d forgotten to turn it back to normal.
Climbing out of the car, she told herself she had lots of apologizing to do once she got inside. But before that could happen, the phone rang.
Dammit.It was Desmond again.
This time he’d actually called at a great moment. She was more than ready to cuss somebody out right now, and he’d just picked the short stick.
“Hello,” she answered, not bothering to hide the irritation in her tone.
“Sharae?”
“Ms.Gibson to you.”
“Really?”
Silence. She huffed and decided that was probably a bit much. “What do you want, Desmond?”
“See how that works. You call me by my first name, and I call you by yours. You know, since we’re both adults.”
“I was taught only your family and friends should be able to use your first name freely. Others have to earn that right of familiarity. Andas you’re just a ... um ... you’re just a lawyer ...” She purposely didn’t complete that sentence.
“Are you finished?” he asked after a few seconds.
Why didn’t she like this guy? Maybe because he’d been the bearer of bad and then worse news last week, and ever since then he’d continued to call and email her with even more news that she could live without. Nobody cared what Sanford owned or what his wishes were. Nobody cared about Sanford. At least she didn’t, and she never would.
“Can you just tell me what you want this time so I can get on with my day. I’m already late for an appointment.”
“Fine. I need your signature on the paperwork for the estate,” he said easily.
“What estate?”
“The one I told you we need to open for your father. Everything he left to you will go under the estate, and you’ll manage it as the executor.”
She held the phone to her ear and walked toward the black wrought-iron gate that surrounded the funeral home. No matter how many times she came here, the first thing she noted was how out of place this very regal gate looked on the corner of one of Baltimore’s busiest inner-city streets. For that matter, the blast-from-the-past house that was the funeral home was in stark contrast to the three-story row houses that continued down the rest of the block.
“I don’t want to bother with an estate. Can’t I just get him cremated and sell all the things he owned?” The sooner she could be done with this situation, the better.
“The estate paperwork must be filed in order for you to do business regarding the properties, bank accounts, and investments. All you have to do is sign, and I’ll take care of getting everything filed,” he said.
