The Value in Our Lies (#5) - paperback

Chapter 1

Parked nose-first into the rear of an abandoned industrial building, the red brake lights of the Subaru Outback shone brightly into the night.

The security lights attached to the structure’s exterior no longer functioned. The last of them burned out long before the building finally vacated. Darkness blanketed the parking lot while a series of broken pole lights provided no illumination.

The Subaru’s brake lights resembled the eyes of an angry monster hiding in the blackness. When the brake lights winked on and off several times, it was as if the terrible thing in the darkness blinked—a warning to approaching interlopers.

Even though this stretch of the city experienced redevelopment recently, this property, along with those to the immediate east and west, avoided it since they were hung up in litigation. Hard times had fallen on the cluster of properties that formed a small manufacturing plant, and a bankruptcy petition was filed. The ownership, now consisting of the original partners’ eleven adult children, filed multiple lawsuits against the company and each other, all of which were still in court. Even the IRS was involved, having demanded payment of back taxes and subsequent penalties. When those demands were not met, the government began the process of seizure. To say the properties were stuck in a legal quagmire would put it mildly.

The occupants of the Subaru were unaware of the manufacturing plant’s history and, frankly, they wouldn’t care. They only knew this to be a quiet location to conduct personal transactions, the kind that polite society kept hidden in dark places like this.

The location was not a secret for this type of activity. Many private dealings had occurred in this same spot over the years, even while the manufacturing plant operated at full capacity, and the parking lot remained well-illuminated at night.

With its headlights off, a black Dodge Charger pulled slowly behind the building. Gravel crunched under its tires. From its hiding place behind a large clump of weeds, a feral cat burst into the open and sprinted across the parking lot.

Despite the movement behind the Subaru, its brake lights continued to wink on and off—the monster cautioning potential intruders from nearing.

Hip-hop music played from inside the car and rattled its license plate cover.

Spokane Police Detective James Morgan stopped his car and placed it into Park. As he watched the monster blink its warning from the shadows, he was unafraid.

Morgan did not notify dispatch where he was. In fact, his police radio was turned off. With a mini-Maglite in hand, he slid out of the car, leaving his door open. The in-car light did not turn on, as this feature had been previously disabled for moments like this.

The detective deliberately walked toward the driver’s door.

A white male in a dark suit, his tie loosened, reclined in the driver’s seat. His eyes were closed, and his face twisted in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

Stretched across both the passenger and driver’s seats was a woman with her head down in the man’s lap. Due to her short afro and long skinny frame, Morgan felt confident it was the woman for whom he was searching.

He pulled his badge from his belt and tapped it several times against the car’s window. As the music continued to thump from inside, neither of the vehicle’s occupants looked up. Morgan clinked his badge against the window again, this time clanking his flashlight against the side of the car door in a matching rhythm.

The man’s eyes opened then, and he dreamily looked toward the detective. The woman, however, never broke her pace, her head and hand bobbing together in the same determined tempo.

With his flashlight, Morgan illuminated his badge.
It took a moment for recognition to occur to the man. When it did, a flurry of activity suddenly happened inside the car. The man grabbed the woman by the shoulder and yanked her back. He then tucked himself away and zipped his pants. As the woman adjusted herself, the driver returned his seat upright and clicked the radio off.

A nearly silent calm suddenly returned to the night.

Morgan clipped his badge back to his belt.

The man behind the steering wheel began to lower the window. As it dropped, he placed his face near the glass and asked through the ever-widening opening, “What can I do for you, Officer?”

“License and registration,” Morgan said.

The man glanced at the woman before facing the detective, the window now completely down. “But I wasn’t driving.”

“License and registration,” the detective repeated.

With apparent resignation, the man muttered, “Yes, sir.”

Morgan bent down to make eye contact with the woman. With a frown, she shook her head. Then she turned forward in her seat, crossed her arms, and stared at the concrete wall in front of the car.

The man pulled his wallet from his rear pocket, dug his license out, and handed it to the detective. He dropped the wallet into his lap, reached across the car, and opened the glove box. He quickly retrieved some paperwork. When he settled back into his seat, he handed the papers to Morgan.

The detective’s eyes flicked over the driver’s license. “Erick Dupree?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

Morgan compared the address on the driver’s license to that on the vehicle registration. “Still live up north?”

“Uh-huh. That’s right.”

“A little far from home, aren’t you?”

Dupree didn’t answer but quietly watched the detective. His Adam’s apple bobbed several times as he nervously swallowed.

Morgan removed his cell phone from his pocket and initiated its camera function. He held the mini-Maglite between his teeth, the license in his left hand, and activated the phone with his right. When he finished snapping a picture, he put the phone away.

“Tell me, Erick,” the detective said, “what are you doing down here?”

Dupree glanced at the woman again. “We were… you know.”

“No,” Morgan said. “I don’t.”

The man put his hands on the steering wheel and stared ahead at the block wall. “Well… I guess… you saw, right?”

“You going to tell me she’s your girlfriend?”

Dupree blinked repeatedly but didn’t turn to the detective.

“Because she’s not,” Morgan said.

The man’s tongue wetted his lips, and his blinking turned into several scrunches of the face.

“She’s a prostitute.”

The man’s facial contortions stopped, but he still refused to look at either Morgan or the woman.

“I’m not telling you anything you already don’t know, am I?”

Dupree now resembled a mannequin—a crash test dummy waiting for a collision test to end so he could be removed from the car and returned to the safety of a factory shelf.

“Have you paid her?”

Frozen in panic, the man stared straight ahead.

Morgan bent to look at the woman. “Has he paid you?”

The prostitute rolled her eyes before saying, “He paid me.”

“How much do you have left in your wallet, Mr. Dupree?”

Turning to face the detective, the driver asked, “Sir?”

Morgan glanced around the darkness before repeating his question. “How much is in your wallet?”

The man opened the leather billfold in his lap, and Morgan shone his flashlight upon it. Several bills were tucked orderly inside, and Dupree quickly thumbed through them. “About four hundred,” he said.

“About?”

“Four hundred,” Dupree weakly said.

“Give it to the girl.”

With surprised eyes, Dupree peered up at the detective. “I already paid her.”

“Pay her,” Morgan said. “Again.”

“But that’s more than she’s worth,” Dupree muttered as he examined the money in his wallet.

The prostitute looked out her side window and shook her head. Morgan noticed this movement and felt a surge of anger toward the man behind the steering wheel.

“Hey, Erick?” Morgan said, his words coming quick and loud now. “How about I arrest you and haul your ass to jail?”

The man shook his head. “Wait—”

“You can call your family to come and pick you up—you got a family, right? A wife, maybe? Some kids?”

Dupree’s face slackened.

Morgan’s smile was cruel. “Thought so.”

“I—”

“When I’m done with you,” the detective continued, “you won’t have either. How about I also do this? I’ll issue a press release. Something that says I ran a sting to catch johns like you. We’ll put your name in the paper.” Morgan stood upright and yelled into the night sky, “Erick Dupree has sex with prostitutes!”

When the detective bent down again, the driver’s eyes filled with tears, and his mouth hung open.

“And when you’re convicted,” Morgan continued, “because you will be, you’ll have to register as a sex offender. You won’t pick your kids up from school ever again. Your friends and family will know. The people at church—”

Dupree shuddered.

“Now that we understand each other, is keeping this whole thing quiet worth something? Is that woman over there worth an extra four hundred dollars?”

“That’s extortion,” Dupree mumbled through trembling lips. His hand shook as he fingered the bills in his wallet.
His voice low and threatening, Morgan said, “Give the money to the fucking girl.”

Dupree thought about it for a moment further, then reluctantly handed the money to the woman. She snatched it from his hand and tucked it into her purse.

“Out of the car,” Morgan ordered the woman.

She sighed heavily, but still climbed out. The door slammed behind her.

“Mr. Dupree,” Morgan said, bringing the man’s attention to him.

“Sir?”

“Go home,” the detective said while politely handing Dupree his driver’s license and registration. “And have a nice night.”

The driver tossed the paperwork into the passenger seat, started the car, and reversed fifty feet with the engine whining. When it was far enough back, the Subaru turned around. The brake lights winked several times—a monster blinking away its fear before scampering out of the darkness.

When the silence of the night returned, the prostitute put her hands on her skinny hips. Her large purse lay on the ground next to her feet. She wore a yellow T-shirt, brown shorts, and dirty tan Converse tennis shoes. Her T-shirt featured the likenesses of Muhammad Ali and George Foreman with the words Rumble in the Jungle. When Morgan highlighted her with his flashlight, a black bra showed under the threadbare shirt.

“Damn it, Morgan,” she snapped.

“I texted you, Joey.”

Josephine Green shook her head and lifted a hand to protect her eyes from the flashlight.

“I even called you,” he said. “Several times, but you never hollered back.”

“I was working, Morgan. You know I gotta eat.”

“That’s not our deal,” he said as he walked toward his car.

“Hey,” Joey called. When the detective didn’t respond, she picked up her purse and hurried behind him. “What’s this about?”

When he got to his patrol car, Morgan opened the rear door and highlighted the backseat with the flashlight.

Joey stopped and stared at the seat. Morgan watched her until her shoulders slumped, and she unenthusiastically moved by him. She dropped her purse on the floorboard before sitting on the edge of the seat. Her feet remained outside the car. “What’s this about?” she repeated.

Morgan pointed his flashlight to the ground, which gave them ambient light to talk by. He pushed his baseball cap slightly back on his head. “What do you know about The Eight?”

“The gang that folks are whispering about? Sounds like a bunch of bullshit.”

“The California agencies say they’re for real. Supposedly, they’re moving a crew up here, but we can’t find anyone that fits the bill.”

“Why would they give a shit about this zip code?”

Morgan shrugged. “Territory probably, but we don’t know for sure, and that bothers the brass.”

“This affects me how? They don’t run girls. Or do they? Do I have to be worried about them?”

“They don’t mess with working girls. Even if they did, you wouldn’t have to worry. You’re one of my people, Joey. Just keep your eyes and ears open for them, understand? If you hear anything about new players doing anything, let me know. Okay?”

Joey smirked. “I’m not your people, Morgan.”

Morgan leaned into her. “What’s that?”

She looked away into the darkness.

He leaned in and tapped her sternum. “Because of what I did for you,” he tapped harder, which caused her to lean back, “you belong to me. Never forget that.”

Her eyes bore into him. “How can I ever forget? You won’t let me.”

The detective smiled as he straightened. “The Eight. Start poking around.”

Joey clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Fine.”

Morgan studied her for a moment. “Need anything?” His voice had softened.

Her shoulders relaxed, and she shook her head. “I’m good.”

“Heard from Scrimmy?”

“She’s back,” Joey said.

“When?”

“Few weeks ago.”

Morgan leaned on the car door and flicked his chin with a thumb. “Huh.”

“I was sad to see her,” Joey said. “I thought she escaped.”

“Me too,” Morgan muttered.

“She hasn’t been the same since Rado got himself killed.”

“How’s her pimp going to take it?”

“Junior will smack her around for a few days, but she’s an earner, so he won’t take it too far.”

They stayed silent for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Hey, Morgan?” Joey whispered.

His eyes moved to her.

“You going to make me earn that extra four hundred?”

Morgan stiffened, his nostrils flaring.

“Shit,” she said and shook her head. Joey then reached into her purse and pulled a condom out. “Come on, Detective. Let’s get this over with.”