Crossing the Line Read online

  Contents

  Review request

  Copyright

  Other Titles

  Disclaimer

  Title

  Preface

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  More Sammy Greyfox

  Further reading

  Review request

  As an author, there’s nothing I like more than hearing how people enjoy my books. Your reviews are not only welcome, but are also really helpful to other’s who are seeking good books to read.

  Please consider taking just a few minutes to leave a brief review.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2021 Hugh Macnab

  All rights reserved. This work is entirely fictional

  and any similarity to people or places

  is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication should be reproduced

  in any form, or by any means, without explicit

  permission from the author.

  Other titles

  New Releases 2021/2

  Sammy Greyfox series

  Russian Brides (Release April 2021)

  Crossing the line (Release July 2021)

  No way back (Release October 2021)

  Head of the snake (Release February 2022)

  Lost Souls (April 2022)

  Dan Weissman thriller

  (with a supernatural twist)

  Seminole killer

  Self help

  Relieve Anxiety

  Lift Depression

  This work is entirely fictional and any similarity

  to people or places is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication should be reproduced

  in any form, or by any means, without explicit

  permission from the author.

  Crossing the line

  Hugh Macnab

  Copyright © 2021 Hugh Macnab

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798594992405

  Preface

  I open the apartment door.

  She looks contrite.

  I never expected to see her again. Not after what happened a few nights before.

  She holds out a six-pack.

  I invite her in.

  She hangs her coat and pops the caps on two bottles, then offers me one.

  I take it and chug it down.

  She lays down her beer and slips off her dress.

  She wears her bruises like badges of honor.

  As I admire them she pops another cap and hands me a second beer.

  We clink bottles.

  The bruises are exciting. I chug my second beer.

  She lays down her beer, and one at a time, detaches the black stockings from her garter belt, slowly unrolling them, stretching her long legs out before her each time. Revealing more bruising.

  I help myself to another beer. I can’t believe my luck.

  She moves to stand before me, removes the detective’s shield from my belt and unbuttons my shirt.

  I feel light-headed with excitement. This will be better than before.

  She slides the shirt off my back and drops it to the floor. I need to sit.

  She tells me no and leads me into the bedroom.

  I lay on the bed, strangely calm.

  She climbs astride me.

  I’m drifting. This is a fantasy come true.

  She runs her nails down my chest, leaving red weals.

  I gasp.

  Her fingers probe my ribs. First, second, third, counting methodically.

  I can no longer move.

  I see the knife for the first time. Long and thin with a sharp tip.

  The point glistens in front of my eyes.

  It sparkles and shines.

  She places the point just to the right of my sternum, between the second and third rib.

  I remain calm.

  She gently pokes the tip of the knife into the exact point she has chosen.

  I feel a small drop of blood run down the side of my chest. I’m not concerned with that.

  She looks me in the eye.

  I stare back as she raises her body and applies her weight.

  I can feel the knife enter, gradually working its way through skin and muscle, before penetrating my heart.

  Still, I’m strangely calm. It will be a small hole. Still nothing to be concerned about. I can call 911. They’ll know what to do.

  She pushes her hands away from her, then towards her, causing the embedded tip of the knife to see-saw.

  Now I realize I’m in trouble. But, as long as she leaves the knife in, there’s still hope.

  She waits. I wait, feeling more confident with the passage of time.

  She slowly slides the knife out. No gushing of blood from the tiny incision, just a trickle.

  She steps off me.

  The bruises on her thighs, are the last thing I see.

  1

  The early alarm has gone off, but still I lay in bed thinking about the recent past and significance of the day ahead. That the past nine months have been tough would be no understatement. Responsible for the deaths of two children in very different circumstances.

  A two-year-old caught in a cross-fire. A death the Department had investigated and found no reprimand necessary. An outcome that didn’t help me sleep at night.

  Recently I met with the mother of the child I shot and killed. The toughest thing I’ve ever had to do. She accepted my apology with a grace that embarrassed me. That moment was one of those that changed me. With her grace, she has shown me something I could aspire to. A better version of myself. Where I thought I would come away sad and feeling worse about myself. The opposite was true.

  The other child whose death I’m responsible for was my unborn child, whom I named Bossy-boots and had terminated. A decision made without consulting the father, leaving me feeling guilty on so many levels. I prioritized my role as a homicide detective over my unborn child’s life, and over any rights of the father. It still hurts to think I can be so selfish and cruel. It doesn’t fit my self-image. Yet, I can’t deny it. I am selfish and I am cruel. Something I must learn to accept.

  Then, there’s the one last struggle I’ve been having, and that’s to recommit to being a detective. I’ve had to cross two bridges to get through this.

  First, refuse an excellent life-changing job offer I’d received to head-up security at the Seminole Casino and legalized Brothel. This was a tough decision, as the package on offer was tremendous. But I would have to give up my detectives badge, and I don’t want to do that.

  Second, I had to realize I could be responsible for further loss of life, because it comes with the job. When I’m honest with myself, I’ve accepted this, but I know there’s still doubt. Maybe the uncertainty is something I’ll need to live with.

  Aware that I’m having the same internal dialogue I’ve been having for nine months now, I
swing my legs out of bed and head for the shower.

  While the water cascades over me, I force my mind to consider the more positive aspects of the past nine months.

  I seriously damaged my left knee when a perp had tried to run me down. They recommended surgery, but I opted for a slower but more natural recovery. I wore a brace for eight weeks, then an orthopedic neoprene support for a further six before starting physiotherapy sessions three times a week. Now my knee isn’t one-hundred percent, but it’s improving. What’s more important to me is that I can run again, as long as it isn’t too fast or too far. I’m definitely getting there.

  Another positive step I had taken was to offer the Sheriff my resignation.

  When I was suffering the worse pain I have ever experienced, I stupidly accepted painkillers from a local drug-pusher. I foolishly thought he was being kind. He wasn’t. He was setting me up for blackmail. I was to be what he called his inside blue-bitch feeding him information. When I explained this to the Sheriff, he accepted it and waved away my concern. He told me to focus on my recovery and get back to work as soon as possible. I was truly grateful for that.

  Turning off the faucet and stepping out of the shower, I dry myself and study my face in the mirror, and ask myself if I’m sure I’m ready to get back to work?

  I don’t know what I’m expecting to hear, but I’m still disappointed when I don’t get an answer. It certainly isn’t a resounding - yes!

  Regardless, twenty minutes later, the running gear is on. My badge and Glock are clipped at my side - I’ve learned once before to keep them available at all times. A lesson I do not need to learn twice. One last look round the apartment and I’m off.

  Early mornings in February are cool in Florida, so I have an extra light-weight jacket on top of my normal running gear. Today, I select a middle-length route and quickly settle into a simple rhythm, pounding the empty streets, heading towards the beach. Before my recent difficulties, my brain would switch off as I ran, but not now. Today, I’m thinking about Bossy-boots and how he or she would already be a reality by now. Only recently I admitted that I had secretly assumed it was a girl. I was forever being told what to do by this tiny monster inside of me. It had to be female.

  By now she would be six weeks old. I don’t know if I would have been breastfeeding or not? Would I have her in a routine, or feed on demand? Would my bottle of Corona have made way for bottles of prepared milk in the fridge? Would my apartment smell of baby? Would I smell of baby? Would my breasts leak at work? Would I even be at work? I feel like shouting aloud at myself to shut the fuck up and concentrate on running. But I don’t.

  Forty minutes later, I rock up at EJ’s eatery. I do some warm-down exercises, then enter and slide into my usual booth. My first coffee of the day arrives before I even open the menu. I order waffles and syrup and sit back to think ahead. Will the office be different? My direct boss, Dan Weissman, has checked in with me pretty regularly, so I know he hasn’t changed. I also know he will understand the challenges I will face.

  What about everyone else? What will they think about me killing a two-year-old? Will they say? If they do, will they say what they really think, or be polite? How will I know? Fuck. I accept that I’m going to have to face all of this, but I’m not looking forward to it.

  I demolish the stack of waffles, finish my coffee top-up, put it all on my tab and head in. The office is only ten minutes away. I walk instead of run. Somehow, the closer I am, the less enthusiastic I become. The thought of my colleagues not being straight with me is causing my stomach to churn.

  As I cross through the carpark behind the Sheriff’s office block, I see my vacant space. The space where I used to park my trusty steed. My clapped-out Chevy. Sadly, that’s one thing that I’ve had to sacrifice in the past nine months. I got nine hundred bucks for it, and that helped me clear my previous tab at EJ’s and hold a few hundred in reserve. I’m not flush, but am getting by.

  Inside, I take a second shower in the locker room and change into my jeans and a simple black round-neck T-shirt. Clip on my badge and Glock, then head upstairs.

  The Detectives’ Bureau is a large open-plan office with around thirty cubicles. Normally, even at seven-thirty in the morning, the place is buzzing. We start early and finish early. Well, start early anyway. When we’re on a case, the clock doesn’t have a say in when we knock off.

  Today, the place is empty. No sign of life. I head towards my cubicle when suddenly there is a loud roar and people spring up from their cubicles cheering my name and chanting. ‘Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!’ They’re all smiling and laughing. Then they gather round, clapping me on the back and offering support. This floors me and isn’t what I’m expecting.

  The last to greet me is Dan Weissman, with a huge grin on his face. ‘You didn’t think you were going to slink back in with no one noticing, did you?’

  I can’t speak. I’m tongue-tied.

  Without saying another word to me, he turns to the gathered detectives and asks. ‘Who here has been responsible for a fatal shooting?’

  A third of the room raise their hands. I’m astonished. I had no idea.

  ‘I’m having Sammy head into the small conference room and I want each of you to go talk with her one-on-one. I want you to tell your story and tell her how you have learned to deal with it. I know how boring you guys can be, so I’ll supply regular coffee to keep her awake. I’ll go first.’

  With that, Dan picked up two coffees and led me into the small conference room.

  To be honest, after that, the morning is a blur. People kept coming in and telling their stories. How bad they felt taking a life, even although they had no choice. How they dealt with the guilt. At one point, both the Sheriff and the Under-Sheriff also came in.

  If you ask me now, who did what, I wouldn’t have a clue. What I have learned is that I’m not alone, and that counts for a lot. And they are all genuinely glad I’m back. Knowing that, any doubts I had are washed away.

  2

  After lunch, I sit at my desk and log on, expecting five-trillion emails. There are only a handful, and they’re all current. I stick my head up above the cubicle wall and shout across to Dan. ‘Has someone stolen my emails? My account’s empty?’

  Dan’s voice drifts back. ‘Don't complain. It’s the only break you’re going to get. I think we’ve just got a fresh case.’

  Instantly forgetting my missing emails, I walk the few steps to his cubicle and sit. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘No time. Looks like we’ve lost one of our own. Let’s go.’

  On the way, Dan explains that they’ve just found a detective from the Narcotics Division dead in his apartment. He hadn’t turned up for work the previous day, and two of his colleagues checked out his place on their way into work this morning. Getting no answer, they badged the super and gained entry. Found the body and called it in twenty minutes ago.

  The apartment is in Jasmine Circle, a better area than mine for sure, there again almost all areas would be. It’s in a small circle of blocks around a grassed open-area, between Goodlette-Frank and Rte 41, only a ten-minute walk from work. We’re there in less than that.

  Two patrol cars and an unmarked are already outside when we arrive. Patrol officers have already secured the scene and one is keeping the record of those who enter. Looking at the list, I can see that Arnie Collins, the Medical Examiner, is already onsite with a team of three from Forensics. The two detectives who found the body are standing to one side, smoking and looking pretty shaken up. We head their way.

  Dan asks if they are okay, then that they tell us what happened. They had convinced the super to let them in and found Mark Jason in bed. His eyes were closed, and they assumed he was asleep. When they went to raise him, there was a small stain of dried blood on the duvet and his body was cold and stiff. They touched nothing further, just called it in and stepped outside to wait.

  With nothing more to learn from them, we slip on plastic booties and gloves and enter the apartment. I
’m right; it is much nicer than my place. More windows, so much lighter, and it looks recently decorated. The furnishings are comfortable rather than flashy, but I see enough to wonder if detectives in Narcs are being paid more than in homicide. One of the forensic team is taking pictures of anything and everything while a second is dusting for prints.

  We leave them to it and enter the bedroom where Arnie is examining Mark Jason. He nods his acknowledgement as we enter, but continues his work in silence.

  He has folded the duvet down to the bottom of the bed to reveal Jason is still half-dressed, wearing gray loose jogging bottoms with a string-tie around the waist, and trainers. He’s lying on his back, eyes closed, with a small pool of congealed blood underneath his upper torso. Arnie is muttering to himself as he examines a small puncture wound in the chest. The source of the blood.