The 509 Crime Stories: Books 4-6

Chapter 1

Andrew Miller stood at the corner of Wall Street and Sprague Avenue, waiting for the traffic light to change. The late morning sun bounced its rays off the surrounding buildings. Downtown was sure to be hotter than the predicted eighty-eight degrees.

Across the street was the Spokane Transit Authority’s bus plaza, the central hub for riders coming and going through the heart of the city. Along with its vital mission, the plaza also acted as a central point for low-level crime. Trespassing, loitering, and panhandling were daily irritants for surrounding businesses. Over twenty-five years, the community had grown immune to the weirdness the plaza attracted.

Andrew smoothed his tie with his right hand while in his left, he held a soft leather briefcase. His blue suit, white shirt, and gray Hugo Boss shoes made up his favorite ensemble; his girlfriend nicknamed it his power outfit. He was ready for the afternoon presentation that he and his assistant had spent three days assembling. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun.

“Walk. Walk,” repeated the audible signal in its robotic tone.

Andrew opened his eyes. From the opposite side of the street, several people moved into the crosswalk.

An older man, bent over from age, scurried forward as if late for an appointment.

A husky woman pushed a baby stroller.

Two teenaged girls, oblivious to everyone except themselves, giggled as they approached. One of them filmed the other with her cell phone.

A man in his late twenties wore an Independent hooded sweatshirt and stood on the edge of the sidewalk.

Andrew’s eyes scanned them all, but it was the man in the sweatshirt that caught his attention.

He stepped into the crosswalk. It’s too warm for a hoodie, he thought.

The hooded man walked slowly now, as if purposefully separating himself from the others.

Andrew stepped out of the way for the older man, then the woman with the baby stroller.

Across the street, the crosswalk’s indicator now flashed red.

The teenagers were at Andrew’s shoulder when he noticed the blade in the hooded man’s hand.

Andrew stopped in the middle of the crosswalk.

“Gimme some money,” the man said. His hand shook slightly as he raised the knife. He blinked several times, and his left cheek twitched. He was unshaven, and his eyes appeared tired, as if he hadn’t slept in some time.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asked, pointing to the cars across the intersection. One of them honked in protest. When he brought his right hand back down, his left lifted the briefcase in front of his chest. He now held it with both hands.

“Hey!” the man yelled, his face scrunching in anger. He lunged with the knife, burying it into the soft leather.

Andrew released the briefcase with his right hand and punched the man. This caused the attacker to stumble backward and lift both hands to his face. Then Andrew dropped the briefcase, which still had the knife in it and stepped forward. He twisted quickly and struck the man’s upper left leg with a roundhouse kick.

In agony, the hooded man crumbled to the ground. He grabbed his upper thigh, and fear flooded his eyes.
Andrew leaned over him, his fist clenched, ready for another strike. Adrenaline coursed through his system, and blood pounded in his ears. His vision had tunneled onto the fallen man.

Several cars now honked.

Andrew Miller stepped back from the man who lay sprawled on the ground, picked up his briefcase, and yanked the knife free. He dropped the weapon before walking away.

If he hurried, he would still be on time for his appointment.