Goddess of Justice Dwayne Clayden (i read book .TXT) 📖

“Always a pleasure to see you.” Brad grabbed his coffee. “I’ll have the sergeant show you out.”

“There’s a fine out-of-the-way restaurant in Chinatown. The Royal Garden. Say six?”

“Not tonight, Sadie.”

“Headache?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Brad read and re-read the murder files. They were connected, but nothing to point to a killer. After over three hours, his brain was mush, and his shoulders and neck were tense. He needed to relieve some stress.

Something that wasn’t working out in a barn in winter. He hadn’t been to the shooting range since he qualified two months ago. He tried to get Briscoe to come with him, but Briscoe had ‘a thing’ with his kids.

The range was on the fifth floor in the middle of the police headquarters. It was well insulated, with concrete walls and thick soundproofing. Brad sniffed the air, heavy with the smell of gunpowder and lead.

He grabbed a handful of 9mm ammunition from a box on a shelf in the observation area and donned earmuffs and protective glasses. He stepped through the first door into no-man’s-land. When the door closed, he opened the second door and stepped in. There were two other cops at the six-bay range. He didn’t recognize the guy at the far end, but he recognized the cop third from the door, Sergeant Toscana. She wore a black, scoop-necked T-shirt and jeans.

She nodded. Brad nodded back.

He placed a target on the frame and moved it out five feet. He dropped the magazine from the pistol, ejected the bullet from the chamber, and placed them on the counter behind him. He filled three spare magazines with bullets, slammed in a magazine and chambered a round.

He rolled his shoulders and neck, arms loose at his sides, and wiggled his fingers like some western cowboy ready for a gunfight. Well, in some ways that was what this was about. Not the gunfight tonight, but the one that might be around the corner.

With his pistol holstered, he eyed the target. Then his left hand darted to his holster, the gun swung up to his chest then out toward the target. Shots rapidly exploded. He dropped the empty magazine into his hand and replaced it with a full mag. He slid the pistol back in his holster and recalled the target. It was his usual pattern. Five to the head, four to the groin and four to the chest. All tightly grouped.

With a new target at ten feet, he balanced his stance, and drew the pistol. On the fifth shot, the gun jammed. He slapped the bottom of the magazine, racked the action and fired.

For the next forty minutes, he shot at various distances, round after round, replacing the targets frequently and clearing the gun several times. As he recalled the last target, he felt a presence behind him. Toscana stood just off to the side and gave him two thumbs-up.

With a new target at five feet, he fired another magazine. He repeated the process at ten, fifteen, and twenty feet. That was enough for the day. He swept the cases into a pile, collected the remaining bullets, and headed out of the range through the double doors to the observation area.

Brad tossed the remaining bullets in the ammo box on the shelf and set his pistol on the cleaning table. He pulled a small plastic container of cleaning supplies from his gym bag, disassembled the gun and cleaned the individual pieces.

“That was outstanding shooting.” Toscana set her gun and cleaning supplies on the table next to Brad.

“Practice,” Brad replied.

“That was brilliant.”

“In TSU, we did a lot of shooting.”

“That accounts for some of it, but you must be a natural shooter.”

Brad glanced at her pistol. “You’re shooting a Browning Hi-Power as well.”

“I want to be proficient with it.”

“It’s a dependable gun when it’s not jamming. Why not the .38 revolver?”

“Rules say I have to use the .38 at work. But TSU uses the Hi-Power and I need to be proficient. I’m going to be the first female member.”

Brad stared at her targets. There was nothing wrong with her groupings. Not as tight as his, but they were all killing shots, and that’s what counted.

“You’ve got excellent groupings on your targets. You’ll be fine with your shooting.”

“I practice a lot.”

“You must be a natural.”

Toscana was cleaning the barrel of her pistol. She glanced around.

“Something wrong?” Brad asked.

“I think I left a magazine on the counter on the gun range. I was so distracted by your shooting, I missed it.”

“I’ll get it,” he said.

“I’ll get it after I complete my cleaning.”

“I’m nearly done,” he said. “You keep going.”

Brad tossed his cleaning cloth on the table. He stepped through the two doors and to the bay where Toscana had been shooting. Less than a minute later he came back into the room holding the lost magazine. “I had to search around. It must have fallen onto the floor and then you kicked it.”

She took the magazine from him and smiled. “Thank you. There are still gentlemen in the world.”

“Don’t let that get out.” Brad rubbed the back of his neck. “It would ruin my reputation.”

“Oh, your reputation will survive.”

Brad picked up the gleaming pieces of his pistol and expertly assembled the gun. Toscana did the same.

“Hey, I have some questions about TSU. Can I pick your brain some time?”

He glanced at his watch. “Do you work tonight?”

“Nope, my night off. I was done at seven this morning.”

“How about now?” Brad asked. “I can’t be late, or my dog will be pissed at me. But I need to eat. How about Olympia Pizza in Mount Royal?”

Brad was sitting in the back booth facing the front door, the back door behind his shoulder. For four years he’d worked this area as a street cop and had spent many hours here, sometimes just coffee or to get out of the cold, other times for one of the best pizzas in the city. He inhaled the fragrant aroma of garlic and tomatoes.

“You drive like a maniac.” Toscana stomped the