Chapter 3
As a detective with the Princeton Police Department, Vaughn Ryan knew better than to enter a private residence without either just cause or a warrant.
He presently had neither.
Vaughn reached for the handle anyway.
It was unlocked, and he opened the door. Leaning inside, the first thing that struck him was the smell: a distinct musk, a combination of acrid sweat and sour alcohol.
Jesus.
Vaughn turned his head and took in a mouthful of outside air, holding it as he entered.
The place was a disaster. Fast food containers on the counter making friends with more empty and half-crushed beer cans than Vaughn could count.
Shaking his head, he moved deeper into the home, using the sound of thick, wet snores as his guide.
The bedroom door hung open a few inches, and Vaughn pushed it all the way with his foot.
The reek of sweat now overpowered the stink of alcohol. Surprising, considering that the number of opened beer cans in the room rivaled those in the kitchen.
They littered the bedside table where a black belt (complete with a gun holster, the weapon still safely tucked inside) dangled over the edge.
A man lay on the bed. Large belly, mostly white underwear. A bottle of Jack Daniels tucked under one arm.
The man snored, hiccupped—you can hiccup in your sleep?—then rolled over, showing Vaughn the crack of his ass.
“Hey, wake up,” Vaughn snapped.
No answer.
“Wake up.”
A snort.
Vaughn reached out and grasped the man by the shoulder, gave him a little shake. His skin was warm to the touch.
“Darnell, get your ass up.”
The man farted and flipped over once more.
“Darnell!”
The man’s eyes finally opened and he blinked rapidly.
“Vaughn?”
The lids closed.
“C’mon, get the fuck up. It’s time to go.”
“I’m—” Darnell cleared his throat, swallowed a wad of phlegm. “I’m up.”
No, you’re not.
“Get dressed.”
Vaughn backed out of the room, grateful for a lungful of moderately less foul air. He picked up a couple of beer cans, tossed them in the garbage under the sink.
Now able to access the coffee maker, Vaughn opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of grounds. Filled the filter. Took the carafe and moved to the sink, which was so full of spent cans that he had to angle it to fill it.
Jesus, Darnell . . .
Vaughn started the coffee.
“Vaughn?”
“Can’t you get one of those instant coffee makers like a normal person?” Vaughn asked, his back to Darnell.
“I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not exactly normal.”
Vaughn turned.
Darnell was still in his underwear, but now his gun hung loosely from one hip. His large, dark belly hung over the belt, hiding most of the glossy nylon.
Darnell scratched his balls.
“Yeah, I got that. Go get dressed—we’re running late.”
“Yes, boss.”
Mock salute before returning to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
With the coffee now percolating, the bitter aroma slowly starting to cut through the funk, Vaughn heard Darnell’s radio come to life.
Heard the man clear his throat again, spitting this time—where?—before answering.
Vaughn couldn’t make out the words.
You can’t keep going like this, Darnell. You’re going to give yourself cirrhosis before your fifty-third birthday.
The bedroom door flew open.
“Vaughn? We got a case.” The thick grooves around Darnell’s mouth grew even deeper. “And fair warning, it’s a nasty one.”