Conviction of the Heart by Alana Lorens Read Free Book Online Page B

officers posing as ladies of the evening. Nick was happy to do either. Street busts meant quick turnaround, the exchange of offer and acceptance in a few words between hooker and john. The city had started impounding cars used for solicitation, and that put some dollars in city coffers and won commendations.
    The down side, of course, embodied risk. These patrols often took place in areas like Homewood, or along Liberty Avenue, where gang activity and heavy drug use created situations that were often volatile and dangerous.
    In recent years, the department spent more time busting Internet prostitution rings spawned off Craigslist and the classified ads of the City Paper. Advertisers boldly teased their wares, believing that because they were anonymous on the Net, they couldn’t get popped as fast as on a street corner. The Pittsburgh police did their best to disabuse these criminals of their beliefs.
    Either way, Nick might volunteer. A bit of the old days would be good for him.
    Nick’s former patrol partner, Hank Ferguson, peeked in the door. The man, who’d lost most of his hair and the paunch he’d hauled around for sixteen years on the force to a recent bout of chemotherapy, wore a brown polo shirt and slacks. Nick guessed Hank wasn’t wearing a suit because he was buried in paperwork and knew he’d get no street time.
    “You got thirty minutes for a bite, Nicky?”
    Nick eyed his desk. He didn’t. But he needed to get some air. “Sure, Hank.” He grabbed his jacket from behind the door and followed him out.
    Before they left the squad room, Nick caught sight of the major cloud on the office horizon. The Three Amigos, three officers in their mid-twenties. Individually, each of the three malcontents performed well as officers, properly motivated. Together, they resonated off each other, compounding their bad attitudes, steeped in inner city piss and vinegar.
    Emilio Vasquez, a Puerto Rican from the Bronx, stood three inches over six feet, once firm muscle sliding over into fat, in much the same way his work ethics softened as he contemplated the options for someone not born a white middle-class male in a city like Pittsburgh.
    Jojo Washington hailed from the city of Atlanta, raised up by a single mother under some of the toughest conditions a boy could face. Somehow, that education by fire produced a wiry young man who now felt the world owed him a living.
    Clara Malron—pronounced the Creole way, with a long O and accent on the second syllable, she was quick to remind people—was the slender peasant-shaped daughter of Haitian immigrants, who’d worked hard to overcome economic and educational deficits. Of the three, she seemed most likely to move up like a rocket through the ranks.
    Washington and Malron carried twelve months’ seniority over Vasquez in the department and had worked under Nick for nearly twice that. Vasquez complained from the beginning about the assignments he received, blaming management for giving the “island boy” less than glamorous duties, and whipping up racist sentiment among those in the lower echelons. Before long, Nick started hearing similar bitches across the board.
    Although he addressed the concerns immediately, in group settings as well as one-on-one, they hadn’t ended. The simmering dark eyes of Jojo Washington verified their persistence as Nick and Hank left the office.
    “Hey, man,” Washington said. “What’s up with this robbery detail?”
    Nick remembered he’d assigned him to investigate a string of convenience store stick-ups, the latest one early that morning. Nick straightened his shoulders, his feet set a foot apart. Fully in command mode.
    “What about it?”
    “You think because I’m black that I can catch a black kid who stuck a gun in some clerk’s gut?”
    Looking at their three stone faces, Nick summoned patience from a place in his heart. “No, Jojo, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I decided to send you because I need to know what the clerk