Concrete Justice Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Concrete Justice

  About the Author

  Follow Ms. Ford on Social Media

  Books by A. R. Ford

  Dedication

  Warning:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Dear reader:

  Darkness Overcomes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Sign up for A.R. Ford's Mailing List

  Concrete Justice

  Book Two of the Warner Series

  A.R. Ford

  Concrete Justice

  (Book Two of the Warner Series)

  Copyright © 2019 A.R. Ford

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion

  thereof may not be reproduced, transmitted, or

  used in any manner whatsoever without the

  express written permission of the author except

  for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  [email protected]

  https://arfordauthor.wix.com/mysite

  About the Author

  A.R. FORD LIVES IN the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia with her husband. She enjoys quilting, crafts, and traveling. She is an avid reader with a preference for books in the romance, erotic romance, and erotica genres.

  Ms. Ford prefers to write dark, twisted, erotic tales filled with action and suspense. If you would like to stay updated on Ms. Ford’s books, visit her website located at https://arfordauthor.wix.com/mysite

  Follow Ms. Ford on Social Media

  READER GROUP: https://www.facebook.com/groups/arfordrowdyreaders/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ARFord6

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/arford50

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/arford50

  Books by A. R. Ford

  Forever My Knight

  Concrete Justice

  Darkness Overcomes, 2/15/20

  The Hunter

  Dirty, Rotten Bastard

  A Rose in Bloom

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to the

  few who take the time to read

  or listen to my ramblings:

  Lisa Mullins

  Julie Thorpe

  Susan Spencer

  Jennifer Thomas

  Valerie Shell

  Without you I would not have solid ground

  on which to proceed. I love you all dearly.

  Warning:

  This book contains adult content and

  Possible triggering content including

  sexual situations, language, violence,

  and stalking. It is intended only for

  readers 18+.

  Chapter 1

  Nick

  D. A. SHAWN CARMICHAEL was hell bent for war. He marched into the precinct as if he owned the place. Of course, he was dressed in an expensive designer suit, shirt, and tie. Light reflected from his Italian dress shoes. He really loved himself, that much was obvious. His primary motive was to promote his political career. He had replaced the former district attorney after an undercover investigation found evidence of corruption and bribery. It made sense to Phil and I why the charges against Roman Bass went nowhere for months. We still weren't sure if the change was a blessing, or a curse.

  Less than sixty seconds later he was at my desk, forefinger beckoning before heading off to an interrogation room for privacy. Phil Walker, my partner for the past five years, rolled his eyes before joining me for the hardcore “find me a criminal, so I can build my career” speech that no doubt waited in the interrogation room.

  Phil was a paunchy, balding detective in his late forties, with two adult children, and a loving wife. The guy was textbook detective—bald, overweight, and praying the button just over his midsection didn’t pop after lunch. He had ten years more experience on the force than I did. His relaxed attitude often eased my irritable nature. We worked well together.

  “It’s about time you decided to join me, gentlemen,” Carmichael snapped. “Leo Soranno ordered a hit on an associate a few days ago. I’d like for you to find the man, and bring him in before Soranno’s men find him. This is the lead we need to put Soranno behind bars once and for all.”

  “Who are we looking for?” I asked while leaning nonchalantly against the wall. Carmichael’s cocky attitude rubbed everyone the wrong way.

  “Neal Genova. Surely detectives of your skill level can find mug shots, or some type of photograph on the guy. He’s a known associate of Leo Soranno. Find him. As of yesterday,” Carmichael ordered before stalking from the interrogation room.

  “If I didn’t know better, Nick, I’d say Carmichael has the hots for us,” Phil grinned, waiting for my response.

  “That’s love?” I snorted.

  “That guy frigging loves us, and you know it,” Phil chuckled.

  A good-natured pat on Phil’s back, along with my laughter, eased the tension that always followed Carmichael. “Let’s go dig up information on our latest target. Hopefully, we get to him before Soranno’s men do.”

  Ten minutes later, the computer program our department uses spat out a driver’s license photo, home address, and details on the late model, black four-door sedan Neal Genova drove. A cold, heavy rain was falling when we left the station’s underground parking. It was day two of the bleak, miserable moisture that left a depressing air hanging over Warner. The streets were slick, so I took my time on the way to Genova’s last known address. Of course, he wasn’t home. None of his neighbors had seen him for a couple of days. We climbed back into our car with intentions of moving on to the next known location. Phil’s cell phone rang as I pulled away from the curb.

  “This is Phil.” Phil listened intently as someone spoke for several minutes. “Where did you find him? Thanks, we’re on our way.”

  “Let me guess. Neal Genova is dead.” I knew it in my gut before Phil could say a word. After working long enough in the department, I had gained an intrinsic gut instinct.

  “You guessed it. Three blocks east of the corner diner in the alley near Crescent and First. Patrol has the area blocked off,” Phil said. “Damned Leo Soranno is as slippery as an eel. He’s always ten steps ahead of us.”

  A blue plastic sheet was draped over Neal Genova’s body. I lifted the corner and peered at the body. I immediately noticed two bullet holes in the back of his skull. The man had been shot execution style. It was a fate reserved for traitors and rats in Leo Soranno’s world. I wondered which role Neal Genova had assumed in the days before his death. Phil returned a few minutes later with information on nearby security cameras.

  “Get the film, get more details on possible witnesses. And possibly learn who executed Neal Genova,” Phil said. He wrote notes in a tiny spiral-bound notepad while I tied things up at the scene.

  We paid a visit to the businesses in the area. Each business owner was more than glad to provide us with copies of the last twenty-four hours surveillance. Our investigation was off to a good start before we returned to the precinct. C
armichael should be pleased.

  I popped the first CD into the DVD player before fast forwarding through the first twelve hours. At three in the morning the grainy footage showed two men shoving Neal Genova to his knees. Less than five minutes later the man was dead after two bullets found their way into his brain. A second angle showed a possible witness. A woman walking across the street from the alley paused, looked into the alley, then ran like hell. The men ran down the street to the east as if in pursuit of the unidentified woman.

  Desperation built within me as I worked with the CSI team to sharpen the images. Two remaining CD’s revealed little information. The CSI sat up straight, and pointed at the screen. “She has long dark hair, caucasian, tall, and slender. And the uniform she’s wearing, if I could just sharpen the image of the logo,” he paused, and manipulated the image a bit more before slapping both hands on the table. “Bingo.”

  “Corner diner. I’d recognize that logo anywhere.” A fist pounded the counter. Elation bloomed inside me. This was our lucky break. “My sister and I eat breakfast there every Saturday. Now we just need to find our witness.”

  Leah

  CITIES ARE COLD, CONCRETE fuckers that didn’t give a damn if you live or die. That’s exactly where I stood at the present point in time with Warner. I called the city my lifelong home. My mind swirled around the reason I was currently huddled under a bridge in pouring rain, and a temperature that hovered in the low fifties.

  It’s simple really. I happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and saw something no one should ever see. I saw a man forced to his knees in an alley, while he begged and cried, promising to return the money stolen from someone. The two goons wearing suits didn’t seem to care. One of them put a gun against the back of the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. Two bullets ended his begging, tears, and hope for tomorrow. I thought they saw me, maybe. That’s why I ran as hard as I’ve ever run, then found my way here.

  It was nearly dawn when I crawled from beneath the bridge. I headed for the bus stop a block away. Buses are miniature versions of the cold, concrete fucker that I called my home. People couldn’t care less if you took a second breath while riding the bus. It was crowded, thoughtless, and relatively safe. I made it to the restaurant in time for the extra Sunday shift I’d agreed to take late Saturday evening. Thankfully, the diner offered employee locker rooms. I took a hot shower before clocking on for the shift.

  Bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, and coffee. These were the requisite breakfast items that people ordered every morning here. After working a restaurant job long enough, you learn the only thing good on the menu is coffee if its strong, and black. Thank fuck this restaurant had the coffee down pat.

  I was halfway through the eight-hour shift when I saw the cops in plain clothes sit in a back booth. Cops, coffee, and restaurants aren’t an unusual event here. I didn’t think much about it until I spoke to the cops to take their order. One of the cops was a good-looking guy with brown eyes, a tan, a day or two growth of beard, and neatly cut, and styled hair. The other cop was a paunchy forty something that probably had three or four kids, and a bored wife at home.

  “What can I get you to drink, guys?” I asked, order pad and pen at the ready.

  “I’ll have coffee, four scrambled eggs, and two sides of bacon,” the younger cop said with a smile. His dark eyes and hair, combined with a neatly trimmed beard, made me take a second look. He was my type. Too bad the badge put him off limits.

  “I’ll have coffee, and the tall stack of pancakes,” the paunchy cop replied.

  “Be back with that coffee in a second,” I replied before heading behind the counter to hang the order. Two cups of coffee, and creamer were an easy thing to carry on a tray while weaving through the Sunday breakfast crowd.

  The good-looking cop stood up when I appeared with the coffee. The short hairs on the back of my neck reacted while a shiver ran down my spine. I knew why they were here without being told. “You wouldn’t happen to be Leah Craig, would you?”

  There was no use in lying. Of course, they knew who I was, where I worked, and probably every other intimate detail including my bank account balance. “Yeah. What’s this about?” The coffee splashed on the table when I sat each cup down hard.

  “Is there some place we could speak privately? I’m Officer Nick Fowler, and this is my partner Phil Walker.”

  I took a deep breath, weighed my options, and knew that I couldn’t outrun this guy. Last night under the bridge left me exhausted. So, I led Officers Fowler, and Walker, into the stock room. “What’s this about?” Maybe the clueless tactic would work.

  “We have reason to believe you may have witnessed a crime last night,” Officer Fowler said in a hushed tone. “We need your help, Ms. Craig.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need to get back to work.”

  Officer Walker blocked my path through the doors to the restaurant. There was no escaping now. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  I’d had enough of their bullshit. “Difficult for who? Me? You? The guy that got his brains blown out last night? Yeah, I saw some guy get shot. But I have no clue who he was, or who the other guys were. So, fuck off. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Ms. Craig, I’m going to place you in protective custody,” Officer Fowler said before pulling the cuffs out.

  “Give me a fucking break. I don’t know what happened. I can’t help you. You have no right to do this.” Of course, my complaints, cursing, and bravado did no good in the face of the cops who were determined to force me to give information about the crime. For some reason, it was important to them. Less than five minutes later, I found myself in the back of an unmarked police car headed who knows where with Officer Nick Fowler by my side. At least he didn’t put the handcuffs on me.

  There wasn’t time to tell my boss, James, anything about what was going on. So much for the extra hours, and pay. I had a feeling this was a life-altering moment.

  Nick

  LEAH CRAIG WAS THE tall, slender Caucasian witness with long dark hair. The security camera footage didn’t show how drop-dead gorgeous she was. High cheekbones, full lips, and brown eyes flecked with gold, combined with perfect breasts that begged to be kissed, made her absolutely my type, and irresistible.

  Fuck me. I had to stop imagining what she would look like naked under me. Double fuck me.

  Every bit of self-control I possessed flew out the window the second I laid eyes on her in the corner diner. She had sass, and attitude. The crotch of my pants were unbearably tight by the time I slid into the back seat of the car with her.

  “We appreciate your help, Miss Craig,” I said as Phil headed toward the precinct.

  “It’s not voluntary, so don’t go thanking me.” Her arms were crossed, her angular jaw set. “I’m getting screwed without getting kissed, Officer.”

  I would do more than kiss you, baby.

  “I’ll thank you anyway.”

  “Mm, hmm,” she grunted. “I’ll bet you, your partner, and some slick D. A. already have it planned out. Just know I’m aware that I mean jack shit to you, and your cronies. You’ll take what you need, then kick me to the curb. So, cut the bullshit, Officer.” Leah’s brown eyes caught and held my gaze for the longest sixty seconds of my life. She leaned close enough to whisper in my ear. “It’s a shame, actually. I like dark, brooding guys with a nice package, and bedroom eyes. If only you knew what I’d like to do to you if the situation was different.”

  Well, hell. I cursed my shitty luck. It was the hottest thing I’d heard in over two years. I’d love to let Leah have her way with me. The situation we were in would make that impossible.

  Leah

  “TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED in the alley, Leah,” Officer Nick Fowler asked for the hundredth time in the past few hours.

  “I’ve already fucking told you what happened in the alley. A guy got shot. He died. I think they saw me. I ran. I hid under a bridge until morning. Took a bus to work for an extra
shift. Which, by the way, I really fucking needed.” The truth of the matter was that I wanted to donate the extra money to the food pantry. Officer Nick didn’t need to know that. I glared. He sighed, and flipped the notebook closed before taking a drink of coffee. “Could I get a cup of that? It looks deadly.”

  Nick left the room for a few minutes. When he returned, he had two styrofoam cups of the witch’s brew cops call coffee. It was bitter, and scalding hot. Just the way I like it. We sat in silence while drinking coffee. The room smelled like old tennis shoes, and sweat. Sound-reducing foam glued to the walls some time ago now had hunks ripped from it. Questioning people for hours leads to erratic behavior it seems. Of course, they didn’t need to know my behavior was completely normal when I haven’t had food, or sleep for going on twenty-four hours.

  A knock came at the door before it opened. Some guy wearing an expensive suit entered with Officer Phil. They pulled two more chairs into the room, and sat down. Great. Life’s a party, and I’m sure that’s what they wanted me to think. I knew a good party, and this sure the hell didn’t meet criteria. I’d bet my bottom dollar the suit was attached to the district attorney.

  “Let me guess, you’re D.A. Somebody, and you’re here to tell me how important it is that I testify at some trial for a criminal. And you really need to put this guy away, but I’m the only way you can do that. How am I doing, Mr. D. A.?” I leaned back, drained the cup, handed it to Phil, and said, “Could I get some more witch’s brew?”

  Mr. D. A., Nick, and Phil exchanged glances. Mr. D. A. spoke. “You’re doing great so far, Ms. Craig. I’ve been listening for some time now. The details you’re giving us are sketchy at best. We need better information. And by the way, I’m District Attorney, Shawn Carmichael.” He held out a hand.