The Murder Business…new writing, unedited, incomplete…

In the abandoned warehouse section of Fredericksburg, two black Tahoe’s with dark tinted windows were parked side by side with their lights off. Fifteen minutes later another black Tahoe joined them. Tia Mathers, Chief of Police for the town of Fredericksburg, got out. She was joined by Mayor Tim Smith, and thrice-failed politician Khalid Mohammed.

“Has he made it,” Tia questioned her compatriots. Both men shook their head no.

“He said midnight,” Khalid said. Mayor Smith looked at his watch, it showed 11:52 p.m.

“He has a few minutes,” Smith said.

The ‘he’ that they all referenced was a man who until recently was unnamed. ‘He’ had threatened Tia at one point when she refused to put Detective Konan back on cases.

After Chief Mathers put Detective Thermopolis Konan back to work, ‘he’ had introduced himself.

His name was Billy. He worked for an unnamed organization that had ties to the highest levels of government. He could make their dreams come true.

All they needed was for him to show up.

Detective Thermopolis Konan couldn’t sleep. He sat on the edge of his couch reading Enders Game. The red digital numbers on his desk clock read 12:34 a.m. He was fully dressed in his boots. “That may have something to do with me not sleeping,”

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was coming his way. He walked into his kitchen and turned on his coffee pot. While the pot warmed up, he checked his phone. There were no messages. Since his last case things had slowed down. It always made Konan happy when there was a decrease in murder. Of course, when there were murders it ensured he would have work. “Job stability,” Konan called it. The lull wouldn’t last forever. Nothing ever did.

Tiffany Louise Watkins, one of the law clerks for Judge Patty Traylor, was one drink away from blackout drunk. The Bar at Copperhead Road was crammed to capacity. The band began to play Keep Your Hands to Yourself by the Georgia Satellites.

“That’s my jam,” she squealed as she ran onto the dance floor. She made it halfway across the floor before she felt the urge to puke.

“Oh God,” she thought as she hit the brakes. Instead of dancing, she stumbled out into the parking lot and leaned against a multi-colored van. A wave of nausea washed over her. Tiffany leaned over and puked.

A black gloved hand pulled her hair back from her face. “Thank you,” she muttered. She turned to face the kind person when a solid fist crashed into her jaw.

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