Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 (2 page)

I heard him on the radio saying he was going to circle the block in the car, his wheezing masking the gruffness caused by his smoking. I kept my sights on the back of the kid, not even breaking a sweat yet. Just as he was about to jump over a chain link fence, which separated the neighborhood from an overpass, I noticed a white cop car in my peripheral. Using the bumper for momentum, I was able to toss myself through the air and onto the back of the kid, knocking the wind out of him and onto his belly on the ground.

Jerking him up from the ground, his insistence of no wrongdoing already playing on a loop. Leaning him over the hood of the squad car, I patted him down for weapons. “Why did you run if you haven’t done anything?” I asked him. His jacket was zipped to his neck, spinning him around I tugged at the zipper and as the two sides of his jacket gave way, a fancy ladies’ purse was revealed.

Carson took over reading him his rights and placing him in the back of the squad car.

“You got lucky today, kid,” he spoke, continuing to write his notes.

“Luck had nothing to do with it and you know it,” I called back to him. He looked up, a question looming in his eyes. I leaned in his direction so the other officers couldn’t hear what I was about to share. “Listen, every night you get enough sleep so you can show up mentally ready. You eat dinner at home with your wife so you have the energy to survive.” He nodded slightly, indicating he was listening.

“My father told me to always be ready to do what is necessary.” I looked around to see if anyone else was listening. “For me, it means being in the best condition I can possibly be. Treating my body like a well-oiled machine.” He dropped his pen and pad to his side. “If you want, I’ll help you,” I offered with a small smile.

It wasn’t an easy change for Carson; being a middle-aged man who loved his wife’s cooking and beers with the guys. I never gave him any demands I couldn’t perform myself. I encouraged him when he thought he was going to die. It took the better part of a year, but he did it. Lost his “man baby,” he called it; the area around his middle, proof of the quantity of over-indulgence he had exposed himself to.

Our professional and person relationship changed a lot in that year. When notice went out to the counties, searching for additional detectives, Carson tossed my name in the ring. With my record, college degree and recommendations, I was promoted to the assault and battery division. I worked hard for the department, using every ounce of skill I learned to place criminals behind bars. A year later, the narcotics division needed a crossover detective. Again my superiors called me in and offered me the promotion.

After the celebrating was in full swing, lips loosened by the consumption of too much alcohol, one particular person began to run his mouth as to why such a young punk was chosen over more experienced men. Carson stood from his chair and told the crowd my promotion to Detective was on my own merit and not because my father and granddaddy were two of the most prominent attorneys in the state.

Now three years later, I was the lead investigator for the city of Charleston. I had five men and two women on my team to investigate crimes dealing with narcotics as well as assault. Carson and I still met once a week to tackle what he described as the mountain.

Ravenel Bridge spanned across the Cooper River for nearly three miles, connecting downtown Charleston to the affluent Mount Pleasant, where my parents called home. I remembered the first time I tried to run across it. My brothers had discovered the advantages to having a fit body—girls flocked to that shit, and they were all about the female population. Hell, what normal guy wasn’t?

The first time I thought about running over it, I told my little brother Chase, “What’s the big deal, I run every day?” He looked me in the eye and told me to go ahead, he would be right behind me. On an early Sunday morning, my two brothers and father witnessed me struggle to crest the first half of the bridge. It became my obsession to conquer the “big bitch,” as I named her. Chase ran right alongside me, pushing and encouraging me every step of the way.

“Dylan, always keep your competitors behind you. Run as fast as you can so that all they see is the back of your head. They will think this is easy, as your face will tell a different story, but since they can’t see it, they will never know.”

Chase and my middle brother, Austin, ran with me as I took that “big bitch”— three days before Chase went to Marine boot camp. Motherfucker showed off as he ran backward on the way up.

Today was my weekly run with Carson, with the bridge in view and the sun’s first rays gracing the wires, which spanned across the bridge, I could see him still stretching. He no longer resembled the man I met my first year as a cop. He was now muscular, a result of all the weight he lifted instead of a fork to his mouth. Carson had entered the run, which was held on this very bridge every year, celebrating the blooming of the Azaleas.

“Hey, man!” He called as he began his own run. Just as I inspired him to be ready, he now inspired others; teaching classes at the local YMCA and volunteering with one of the local football teams. Hell even his wife joined him in this change.

“Morning, ole man. You ready?” I asked as I passed him on the right.

“Better than the likes of you,” he returns his arms elongated above his head, stretching one last time. His eyes searching me over, looking for any traces of the long night before. Carson knew me, better than most. It was no secret that he didn’t care for the way I lived in my off time.

He was from a different era, a time where men wouldn’t dream of approaching women the way I preferred. He met his wife in high school, took her out, cherished her and stayed faithful. I wanted nothing to do with relationships. Having a girlfriend wasn’t something I was interested in; marriage didn’t even register on my radar.

“Did you at least give her cab fare?” Carson questioned, knowing good and well I wasn’t
that
big of a douche.

Last night I stopped by McGuire’s pub, a small neighborhood tavern in Charleston. It had been open for as long as I could remember. Several people had owned it over the years, with the current owners cashing in on the college students who resided nearby.

Dollar pint nights were a crowd pleaser; drunken college girls were a Dylan pleaser.

“Fuck no! I didn’t give her a damn dime,” I tossed back. “She puked all over the floor before we even got to the john.”

Carson shook his head as we began our run. “So you went with plan B, then?”

I could swear sometimes Carson lived vicariously through me. Different girl whenever I wanted, no strings, empty promises or bitching to contend with.

“You could say that,” I answered, deciding to throw him a bone. “Shayla showed up with her friends. We talked for a little while…had a drink.” Every once in a while I would share a story with him, let him remember what it was like to be a young and single guy. I adjusted my breathing as my feet found a solid rhythm, letting life fall to the side for a little while.

“And by talking you mean you bent her over the sink and fucked her.”

Carson wasn’t one to mince words; he said exactly what was on his mind. It was refreshing and appreciated.

“Of course, what else would I do with her?” I prepared myself for the backhand slap, which would come in my direction at any second. Carson had a strong opinion on the way I chose to spend time with the fairer sex.

I had rules, plain and simple. If a girl was interested in spending any time with me, she knew up front what was going to happen. No promises of calling her later or flowers sent to her work the next day. Our encounter would be brief and enjoyable, for both of us.

There would be no real exchange of names; I didn’t give a shit if she called out my name or the guy she had running around in her head. No discussion of birth control, it wasn’t needed; I always wrapped my dick. And hell, you couldn’t get a chick pregnant if you didn’t fuck her pussy. I preferred backdoor fucking, and judging by the amount of
ass
I was currently getting, girls liked it too.

“You know, Dylan, your whole adult life you have surrounded yourself with weak-minded women. One day, and I hope I live long enough to see it, you’re going to find a girl who punches you in the gut and rips that calloused heart of yours right out of your chest.”

I had lowered down my guard as he spewed his bullshit. Just as we crested the top of the bridge, he reached out and smacked me in the center of my chest.

“Goddamn it, old man! You knocked the wind out of me.” I slowed down my pace, my breathing cluttered with coughing. My right hand balanced on my thigh as I tried to regain control of the sputtering.

My eyes watered as the coughing increased, blurring my vision in the process.

“Is he okay?” A labored voice sounded to my left. Glancing up, my still hazy vision landed on the body of a young girl.

“He’s fine, darlin’,” Carson snickered. “Just isn’t used to running this much, is all.”

I would have been embarrassed by his lies, but as my vision cleared, I came face to face with the owner of the out of breath voice. Sadly, no amount of alcohol would ever erase her from my memory.

Hair pulled back from her face, skin aged from exposure to repeated trips to either the beach or a tanning bed. Wrinkles staking claim to the areas around her mouth and eyes. All that could easily be forgotten, it was the massive overbite she desperately needed corrected. Teeth sticking out so far her lips had no room to close.

“Well, don’t give up, young man. You keep tryin’ and one day you will be able to run the entire bridge without a break.”

Thankfully, she patted my shoulder and left, taking her Billy Bob teeth with her and leaving me to deal with Pinocchio and his growing fucking nose.

Carson’s body nearly bent in half as his laughter took possession of his body. “Laugh it up, motherfucker.” I kicked the side of his running shoe as I began my run again.

“What’s this? Not running after her?” Laughter in his voice.

“Not my type.” I called over my shoulder

“Bullshit, she is exactly your type—breathing with a heartbeat,” he replied as he caught up to me.

Carson was more like an older brother, giving me as much shit as I gave him. Calling me out on shit when I needed it.

“So what happened with the blonde from the sorority?“ His subject changes rivaled mine. Carson knew when to tease and when to back off.

“She tried to kiss me.”

Carson’s smile fell from his face; he knew the significance of this. I didn’t kiss…ever. Now there were exceptions: I did kiss my mother’s cheek and Nana’s forehead. But some girl I was about to fuck, nope, not gonna happen.

“What was the emergency this time?”

Years ago, I figured out a way to make my cell phone ring by pressing the home button. When a girl was heading in a direction I didn’t want to go, I would hit the button, making certain she noticed my belt buckle made from an old Texas Ranger star. The design was retired long ago, yet my nana managed to find a belt maker who sold them.

I’d pretend to talk to my supervisor, an emergency situation would be discovered and out the door I would head.

“Actually, the call was real.”

Last night a doctor at University Hospital was attacked as he returned from a coffee break.

“Two punk assed bitches beat the shit out of one the docs over at University ER.” I hated when the scum of this city pussed out and attacked innocent people for a few bucks or the jewelry they wore. Too fucking lazy to get a goddamn job like the rest of us.

Carson boasted he had the perfect solution for people like this: lead poisoning in the form of a single bullet to the head, cheap and effective. He felt the judicial system was full of suit wearing criminals who stood up for the vagabond thugs we worked so hard to arrest everyday. Allowing them to return to the streets and continue to disrupt the lives of the law-abiding citizens of Charleston.

“After I finished with Shayla, I went by the station. Captain had the arresting officers grab the surveillance tapes from the hospital security.”

The bottom of the bridge was now in range, Carson and I would kick up our efforts as we reached the halfway mark.

“I can’t wait to see the Suits try and defend them against recorded evidence.”

Carson began to gain on me as we turned around. I glanced at the bottom of the bridge. Traffic was minimal at this early hour, yet some asshole was honking his horn at the car in front of him.
Dumbass.

“Still optimistic, I see.” His derogatory tone was lost on me. This was just how Carson was. Fed up with the system and all of its flaws.

“Hey, it’s my job to track down the facts, put the puzzle pieces together.” Passing him with ease, I smirked. “That way you can continue to enjoy your morning donut,” I teased as I dug into the run, Carson fast on my heels.