EXCERPT: CHAPTER 1, PART 1

JUSTICE BETRAYED

BY PATRICIA BRADLEY

(used with permission)

Click to read the Prologue on the Lone Star Book Blog Tours 8/15 tour stop!

1

August 2017

Elvis is in the building, and he wants to see you. 🙂

Homicide detective Rachel Sloan stared at the screen on her phone and then glanced at the clock. Four fifty-five on Friday after­noon was no time to joke around about the possibility of staying late.

She frowned and rolled her chair so she could see around the partition that boxed her in. Her heart sank at the sight of an aging Elvis look-alike in a white sequined jumpsuit standing at office manager Donna Dumont’s desk, talking to one of the sergeants in Homicide.

The middle of August in Memphis meant Elvis Week and a city full of Elvis wannabes, but why did one of them want to see her? And where was Donna?

She rolled back to the desk she’d just cleared off for the weekend and dialed the number on the text. “What does he want?”

“He won’t say, just that he needs to see you,” the detective said.

“He called me by name?” She slipped off the heels she’d worn for the court appearance earlier in the afternoon. It’d been the DA’s idea for her to wear the heels with a knee-length skirt and white blouse under her suit jacket. He’d said it would make her look professional, but the two male jurors ogling her hadn’t escaped her attention.

“Yes. He actually asked for Det. Rachel Winslow Sloan . . . oh, and his name is Vic Vegas.”

“You’re kidding.” She wiggled her toes. “Tell him to give me five minutes,” she muttered and glanced toward the cubicle across the aisle. Her gaze collided with Lt. Boone Callahan’s dark brown eyes as he stood in his doorway. The air between them crackled with electricity, and Rachel quickly dropped her gaze.

She thought he’d left for the day. No, she’d hoped he’d left. She and Boone had gone out a few times before she joined the Homicide division, but then she broke it off with him. Since then, they’d mostly avoided each other, him working the shift opposite hers until this week.

“Do you need something?”

His rich baritone sent shivers down her arms. “No. I thought you’d left for the gym.”

“Gym?”

“Yeah, getting ready for tomorrow’s competition.” He was determined to beat her time. But that had never happened and wasn’t happening tomorrow, either.

Rachel had inherited her father’s competitive gene, a trait that had surfaced before kindergarten. Even as a four-year-old, she had to be the best dancer, then in school she went after the top honors, and athletically, she pushed herself, practicing until she was the top player, no matter the sport. That hadn’t changed when she became a cop, and tomorrow would be no different.

“I’m ready for you,” he said with a slow smile. “Tomorrow I’m taking that trophy.”

“Not happening, Boone.” She tried to ignore the way her heart beat against her rib cage like a bird trying to escape.

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

“You’re the one with the bad math,” she called after him. Her shoulders slumped as he turned the corner. If her heart kept whacking out every time he spoke to her, it would be impossible to work the same days as Boone, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was on loan from Burglary and had no seniority. And it was clear she still had feelings for him. But he was her supervisor now. As long as she was in Homicide, there could be no relationship. It was against the rules. She’d known that when she
trans­ferred in.

She waited until she was certain Boone had left, then walked up to the front entrance where Vic Vegas waited.

“Miss Rachel?” the man asked, a questioning smile on his full lips. Then he nodded and hooked his thumbs in the huge rhinestone belt encircling his ample waist.

“Yes. We can talk at my desk.”

Once they were in her cubicle, he said, “The last time I saw you, you reminded me of a colt—all legs and trying to get your feet under you. I understand you married . . . and that your husband died. So much tragedy in your life. I’m sorry.”

A chill shivered down her spine. How did he know so much about her? She didn’t remember ever seeing this man before in her life. The creepiness factor even overshadowed the usual lead weight of guilt that settled in her stomach when Corey was mentioned. “Do I know you?”

His shoulders drooped. “You don’t remember me?”

She studied him. A faint memory tickled her brain. Her mom with an Elvis look-alike on either side of her. One of them had called her Miss Rachel. “Maybe. It was a long time ago.”

“Seventeen years,” he said.

“A charity event,” she replied, still searching her memory bank. “An Elvis tribute affair . . .”

“That’s right. For St. Jude. It was a competition at the convention center. I’m on my way now to one being held at Blues & Such tonight.”

Rachel sneaked a peek at her watch. “How can I help you?”

He indicated a chair beside her desk. “May I sit?”

She mustered a smile. The day had just gotten longer. “Of course.”

He settled in the straight-backed chair and arranged the white cape attached to his jumpsuit so that it didn’t wrinkle. Then he took a photo from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “This was taken the last time I saw you.”

Rachel stilled. Her fingers shook as she examined the picture. Four Elvis impersonators stood beside her mother and Rachel, who was presenting a trophy to the winner. She remembered exactly when the photo was taken because later that night, her mother had died. The gala was the last thing they had done together. She swallowed. Her entire life had changed the night her mother was murdered.

She’d been pushing memories of that night away for the past week.

Focus. Trying not to look at her mother, Rachel studied the men in the photo. It took a second look to recognize that the man standing next to the winner was the one sitting across from her. He appeared to be in his late thirties in the photo, but the intervening years had not been kind to Vic Vegas. Seventeen years would only put him in his midfifties, but he looked older. Maybe it was the jet-black pompadour and long sideburns . . . or the forty pounds he’d added. She lifted her gaze. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s the last time we were all together. I’ve written everyone’s name on the back,” he said.

She tried again. “I still don’t understand.”

“A few nights after this was taken, Harrison Foxx was murdered. He’s the one you’re handing the trophy to. His murder has never been solved.”

Click to read Chapter 1, Part 2, coming on the Lone Star Book Blog Tours 8/22 tour stop!