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    21 Weeks: Week 9
    21 Weeks: Week 9
    21 Weeks: Week 9
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    21 Weeks: Week 9

    By R.A. LaShea

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    About this ebook

    A dying man in prison for a murder committed by their serial killer, the team must search for a way to free him, while their current murder is especially troubling for everyone, and, to keep her adopted family safe, Detective Beck Nash proves there is nothing she won’t do.

    21 Weeks is a fast-paced police procedural thriller series that ramps up in intensity with each victim that falls until its explosive final week.

    Warning: This series is about a serial killer. There will be violence. There will be language. There will be other adult things. It is intended for a mature audience.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRiley LaShea
    Release dateJan 31, 2016
    ISBN9781311505651
    21 Weeks: Week 9
    Author

    R.A. LaShea

    R.A. LaShea is a pen name of author Riley LaShea. Under this name, LaShea writes police procedural/thriller 21 Weeks.

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      Book preview

      21 Weeks - R.A. LaShea

      21 Weeks

      WEEK 9

      …

      R.A. LaShea

      21 Weeks: Week 9

      Copyright 2015 R.A. LaShea

      Smashwords Edition

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form, without written permission of the author. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights and buying an authorized edition of this e-book.

      Visit http://www.lasheathrillers.com/sign-up/ to sign up for the 21 Weeks mailing list and receive updates on upcoming Beck Nash thrillers.

      CONTENTS

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      Week 10 Teaser

      1 - Ely State Prison - Monday, 3:15 p.m.

      Visiting hours over, Bishop had the place all to himself. Figuring it was a better venue for an informal conversation than the windowless interview room barely bigger than the cell where the man spent his days and nights, he looked up as the yellow metal door swung open, letting Isaiah Dixon into the visitation area.

      Moving at a shuffle, it was as fast as Isaiah could move, and Bishop knew why. He’d been briefed on the man before he came, which was why they had no choice but to think about this now. As much as they were needed elsewhere, as much as they had to do, they couldn’t put Dixon off until they were through with their serial killer. Sound of the man’s wheezing perceptible across the table, even with one bum ear, Bishop wasn’t sure Isaiah would make it that long.

      What do you want? Pausing to draw the breath he couldn’t fully take in from the door to the chair, Isaiah dropped into the seat and stared across the table.

      You don’t even know me. Not surprised by the cold open, Bishop did find it slightly unwarranted.

      I know enough. Isaiah wheezed. You look like an old-ass cop. Probably friends with the old-ass cop who put me in here. That’s all I need to… Breaking off in a raucous cough, it was the best thing for Isaiah. Otherwise, he might have just kept on talking, and that wouldn’t have been in his interest at all.

      You sure you don’t want to save your breath for more important things, Bishop uttered as a warning.

      Though Nash’s intuition, or telepathy, or whatever the hell it was she had that made her guesses so freakishly, and irritatingly, accurate, didn’t like this case, didn’t like the answer they found, Bishop still didn’t like that Nash didn't like it. Back in the day, the case belonged to Braeburn, Bishop’s former partner who died in the line of duty. They weren’t partners at the time. Braeburn was with Stanton back then, but Bishop still took issue with Nash saying Braeburn got it wrong. They let her go through past cases long enough, Bishop suspected Nash would find at least one strike against all of them. Everyone made a mistake at some point in a career. It was just, in their line, mistakes mattered more. This one mattered more, and it mattered now.

      Wound far too raw to let some inmate with a chip on his shoulder blaspheme Braeburn’s name, though, Bishop might let him rot in there if he wanted to continue being disagreeable.

      You want a soda? Knowing they were off on a really bad foot, Bishop pulled the coins from his pocket and jangled them in his hand.

      Inspecting the offering, Isaiah rolled his eyes so hard, he probably pulled his optic nerve. Not that Bishop could blame him. He was, after all, the one trying to buy the man’s trust with a few dollars worth of vending machine fare.

      Sure. Why not? Isaiah uttered.

      Dropping the coins onto the table, Bishop pushed them across its surface, and Isaiah looked up as if he was being coaxed into tacking another five years onto his sentence.

      You know I’m not allowed to handle the money.

      It’s all right. I say you can, Bishop returned.

      Staring at him a beat more, Isaiah tried to figure out what game they were playing. Head turning toward the guard who waited inside the door, he reached for the first quarter. When nothing happened - no interference, no impromptu pat-down - Isaiah gathered the rest. How nice for you to have some sway around here, he declared as he headed to the vending machines against the wall.

      It would have been more polite to ask Isaiah what he wanted, maybe, instead of making the man struggle for breath all the way across the room. It certainly would have hastened the process. But courtesy and speed weren’t what Bishop was going for. The only thing he could give Dixon was the slightest measure of control back in his life, and hope it weakened his defenses. If only by the smallest margin. When a man had been in long enough, he forgot not every conversation had to be a fight.

      Isaiah making it back to the table a few minutes later, he pushed what was left of the money back to Bishop as he set his soda next to a bag of chips and a snack cake on the table.

      Keep it, Bishop said.

      They’re just going to confiscate it as soon as I walk out of here, Isaiah responded. But, if you’re feeling charitable, feel free to drop a twenty in my account on your way out. Peeling open one snack-size bag, he popped a corn chip into his mouth and the crunch echoed in the vacant space.

      I heard you’re sick.

      Where’d you hear that? Isaiah twisted the cap off his bottle of Sprite.

      Warden.

      He’s sharing my personal business? I’m not surprised. He’s a real asshole.

      I asked.

      Why? Am I costing the taxpayers too much money?

      Yeah, Bishop said. You’re really bleeding the system.

      Well, I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to be sick, Isaiah returned. "But I ain’t volunteering for no euthanasia. So, scratch my name

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