Out of the Blues by Trudy Nan Boyce Read Free Book Online Page A

building was one of the largest in the Southeast, now only echoing the glory days of catalog commerce, when the rails received goods and then sent them out again, destined for little towns throughout the region. Those rails had delivered, made real, what the treasured catalog had brought into the realm of possibility. Aunt Fanny got the Sunday corset that made her look and feel like a movie star. Great-uncle Jim got heavy overalls—the good ones for town—and a pipe. Cousin Hazel ordered flower seeds, almost any kind—just looking at the packets could make her dream.
    Salt parked, gathered a considerable bouquet of flowers from thebackseat, and walked from the oil-stained parking lot onto the receiving dock and into the cavernous superstructure. The high ceilings would have accommodated tons of merchandise and all those boxes, stacked, waiting on pallets to be shipped. An ancient elevator with a filigree brass door lifted her slowly past the smoky windows of the empty floors until the bounce stop at the eighth floor where she got out and rolled the elevator panels closed. She walked through to the front side of the building where the windows faced Ponce de Leon Avenue and looked across to what should be hallowed ground, the place where Jackie Robinson broke the color line in 1949 by playing the all-white Atlanta Crackers in old Ponce de Leon Park. Now it was a parking lot for some big-box stores. The old stadium was built in 1907 and torn down in 1966 when Atlanta joined the major leagues with the acquisition of the Braves, along with a new facility built closer to the center of the city and expressways. Atlanta was derelict in honoring its past. A massive magnolia tree that had marked center field and fair ball territory still stood high on the hill above the retail strip, while all that was left of the old green-painted wood bleachers and green-and-yellow dirt playing field were old photos that hung in a restroom corridor of one of the food markets. Atlanta’s black fans had been segregated to an area under the railroad trestle that ran above and alongside right field. Jackie had stolen home in the third game of the exhibition series with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
    At the door to the Homicide offices, Salt switched the bundled camellias to her left arm, swiped her card, and waited for the green light on the panel.
    â€œLook at you, Girl Detective,” Rosie said standing from behind the receptionist’s desk. She was six foot seven in heels and wore an electric-blue sheath dress. “That pink matches your lip color so perfectly.”
    â€œThey will look even more perfect on your desk. For you, Rosie.”Salt handed her the bouquet. “These will have to do till the roses come in.”
    â€œOh, my God.” Rosie looked down into the pink and green in her arms. She had been, before beginning the transition, a beat cop and renowned headbanger. When she looked up, her eyes were brimming. “No one’s ever. Oh, shit.” She opened a drawer, fumbled, and came up with a handful of tissues. “Go on. Go back there to your cubby and let me get these in a vase.”
    Salt punched the numbers and pushed through to the inner office. As she made her way to the back, one of the day-watch guys and Barney were the only heads visible over the tops of the partitions. The under-cabinet light was on above her desk and where yesterday there’d been only a few bent paper clips and dust now sat a state-of-the-art computer, flat-screen monitor, and keyboard. She switched on her Handie-Talkie, then touched a key and the monitor lit up with a law enforcement search screen. Radio was quiet. She was still getting used to not being bound to the constant demands to answer calls as she’d been as a beat cop, whose time is owned by radio calls. In Homicide her time was hers when she wasn’t on a fresh scene, but she would be owned by the cases and her solve rate.
    The broken chair was gone,