Sweet Arrest

By: Jordyn Tracey


He took her arm in a gentle grasp. “A'isha, I'm going to put you in my car—"

She shrieked.

"—and take you home. I'll question you there, but I don't want you to try to run again. You're not under arrest. Do you understand?” In his line of work, he had come across many people, male and female, who were so upset at seeing violent death, they went into shock and had a hard time understanding simple statements. Even while A'isha exhibited the symptoms, he hoped she wasn't too far gone to hear him. He needed to get her story before the details began to fade.

"Y-Yes, I understand."

Irrelevantly, he wondered if she remembered him or if under normal circumstances she would date a white man. Shaking himself to focus on the task at hand, he moved her in the direction of his unmarked car. After slipping her inside, he returned to the scene, Carl approaching with a plastic bag in hand.

"Murder weapon?” Connor inquired.

Carl held up the bag. “Ever seen a pocket knife with a pink handle? Not a giveaway at all."

"Shit.” Connor took the bag and examined the contents, careful not the rub across the surface, possibly marring fingerprints. “Let's not jump to conclusions.” Did you really do this, A'isha?

Carl squatted beside the now covered body and opened his notebook. “The vic is Cammie Clark. She worked as the baker's assistant. A'isha Greene is the baker. Testing will show, but it looks like Ms. Clark was killed with that knife here in the store sometime before five. Check this out.” He pulled the covering down.

Connor trusted his team and knew the CSI techs had already taken a million photos in the time it had taken him to chase down A'isha and calm her enough to wait for him in his car. Thinking of her, he decided he had better wrap this up before she lost patience and bolted. He did not need another fiasco like what had happened four months ago.

"Whatcha got?” he asked Carl.

His partner pointed with his pen. “See here? Footprints, small. I'd say what, size six, six and a half? And over here, she rests her hands there. It looks bad for Ms. Greene. All we need now is a motive to bring her in."

"Fuck!"

Carl glanced at him curiously. Connor saw the wheels turning in his head as he wondered if the rumors had been true. Connor had a fetish for women who killed. For fuck's sake, one incident—a lie—and his reputation had been called into question. He would go by the book, keep A'isha at a distance and do his job. That was it. He grumbled as he stood and moved toward the door. The first thing he needed to do was start thinking of her as Ms. Greene.

Outside on the street, he hailed a tech and had the man follow him to his car. With trepidation, he opened the passenger side door. “Ms. Greene, I'm sorry, but I'm going to need you to take off your shoes and hand them to this man."

Confusion clouded her beautiful face, but she obeyed. The tech caught the shoes in an oversized baggie, zipped it, added a note and strode away. After Connor had slammed the door, climbed in on the driver side and pulled away from the curb, he realized he had already broken protocol. He should not be taking her home.

* * * *

Pulling up to A'isha's house, Connor lectured himself. Get in, question her and get out. His train of thought zigzagged the second she stepped out of the car, and he locked onto her ass. He liked to think he was not normally led around by his dick, but not having had a woman in almost a year since his last ugly breakup, and the jarring attraction he felt for A'isha was screwing with his head.

He suppressed amusement when she held her arms out to the side, hands turned upward while she tiptoed up to her front door. Waiting for her to search out her keys from the expansive red leather bag she carried, he became aware that someone was watching them. With a deliberate movement, he lifted a hand to his hair, shielding the direction of his eyes with his palm. A man leaned a shoulder on a streetlight not far away.

"Hey, A'isha, baby. What's up?"

She jumped. Connor would have approached the guy except she held a hand in front of him. The tremors were no longer visible, and she seemed less pale. “Just a neighbor,” she told him. “Hey, John."

"I thought you were going to give me a try after that last guy. Now you got you a white boy? What's up with that?"

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