Street Justice

By Holly S. Roberts

Detective Lincoln Street works crazy hours and exists on little sleep. He’s at a stage in his life where one-night-stands turn him off. He’s looking for a stable woman to rock his world and settle down.

Shelby Ryan and her Shepadoodle, Daisy, live next door to an uptight detective who avoids her like the plague. When police pick Shelby up mistakenly for prostitution, her stodgy family refuses to help and Shelby is forced to ask a guard to contact her neighbor to care for Daisy. Shelby was only on the street to offer prostitutes a way out because an insane killer is targeting them. She doesn’t need a lecture or the condemning eyes of a hotter than hell detective.
Street Justice combines a sexy alpha cop, a bohemian woman with a heart of gold, and a half-Shepard half-Poodle mix with a leg-humping need to prove who’s top dog in the neighborhood. With suspense, humor, and steamy romance Street Justice will have your alpha-cop fantasies on full alert.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holly S. Roberts
• Release date: Nov 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781946256027

Holly S. Roberts

Holly S Roberts is a retired homicide detective and the USA TODAY Bestselling Author of Play and Ruck (Completion Sports series). She is excited to announce a new crime thriller series published by Bookouture Hachette releasing 1/13/2023. For Holly's spicier side, you'll love her anti-hero bad boys who will curl your toes (Hotter Than Hell series) and a lighter (not so spicy) humorous paranormal series with shifters and Hellhounds (Marinah and King). She also writes cozy mysteries under the pen name Suzie Ivy. She lives with her two spoiled dogs high in the mountains. Holly is a self-defense instructor and owned a martial arts gym where she taught women to kick butt. Visit wickedstorytelling.com for more info.

Book preview

Street Justice

A Hotter Than Hell Novel

Holly S Roberts

Wicked Story Telling

Copyright © 2017 by Holly S Roberts

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

About Holly

Also By Holly

Chapter one

I’m exhausted. Ten straight days of double shifts with no end in sight. We have two dead women identified as known prostitutes and I’m worried there will be more. Standing from my desk, I stretch and try to alleviate the pain in my middle back from writing this damned report for more than three hours. My joints pop as I bend. I’m getting too old for this and I’m only thirty-two.

If anyone told me when I signed up to catch bad guys that being a cop consisted of eighty percent report writing, ten percent putting up with political bullshit, and ten percent catching bad guys, I would have decided on tree trimming. I come from a long line of men in law enforcement and they omitted a few details about this job.

I stare down at the words in my report from my standing position.

Victim: Maddy Hilcox

Gender: female

Date of Birth: 07/24/1993

Age: 23

Occupation: Prostitution

Victim: homicide, aggravated assault, sexual assault

Notes: ritualistic knife wounds

I have another similar report dated three months prior. The ritualistic wounds are the same. The name, birth date, and age are the only differences. No one wants to admit we may have a serial killer on our hands, least of all me. The brass doesn’t ever want to hear those words. It makes it harder that the victims are prostitutes. These cases don’t garner public sympathy, but with or without the public’s help, I swear I’ll take this guy down.

I tip my head to the side and relieve some of the ache in my neck, rotate my head forward and then to the other side. I’m just about to sit down again when my phone rings.

Detective Street, I answer.

Detective, this is Alphonso from the jail. I have an arrestee here who insists on talking to you.

Alphonso’s a good guy, but I don’t have time for this shit. What’s he been picked up for?

He’s a she and the arrest paperwork says prostitution.

Hell. I guess I’ll make time. This could be the break I need. I have no information about the murderer except his MO. The son of a bitch is smart and uses a condom. I have a hunch he shaves himself too. Fucking Hollywood gives these guys the basics for how to escape detection. It’s one of the only things Hollywood gets right. The lab is still isolating DNA on the first body, and with the victim’s line of work it will most likely not pay off. The woman sitting in jail better give me something fucking good.

County jail is ten minutes away from the downtown station, where my office is located. I make it in five. The sally port opens and I pull my car inside. I hate this place—the smell of shit and urine seeped into the walls within a month of the new jail’s highly publicized opening. It’s been eight years now and those odors are part of the foundation.

I walk over to the lockers and store my gun. This gives me a stupid big-ass key on a large round key ring that I loop onto my belt. They make the ring holding the key to fit around your wrist. I refuse to carry the fucking thing that way and place it on a belt attachment I carry for just this reason.

Alphonso is sitting behind the glass at the first entrance and I give him a wave. He speaks on his radio and I’m immediately buzzed through the heavy door, wait for it to close, and hear the buzz of the second door. Gray is the color scheme of choice throughout the entire building—every wall, every door, every counter. You would think they’d use baby-shit yellow to accent the smell.

She hasn’t shut up since vice brought her in. She gave me your name and said she wouldn’t talk to anyone else, Alphonso says as soon as the door makes a solid clang behind me. I’m not one of the cops who chats with detention officers. I’m not a chatty fellow at the best of times and when I enter the jail I’m here because I made an arrest. When I leave I’ll spend hours writing a report. Who has time for niceties? Thanks for giving me a heads up, I’m heading back there, I say as civilly as possible. It’s not Alphonso’s fault I’m a dick.

I’ll notify the tower so they buzz you through, he says with a smile.

I nod my chin and head to the next series of doors that lead to general holding. It’s a slow process. The tower guards have no problem making me wait before unlocking each door. On the last one, a solid minute goes by and I flip the camera the bird. For my impatience, I wait another minute. Power. Give a little and the guards fuck around with you because they can. I resist lifting my finger again and miraculously the door opens.

There are two community holding cells—one is the drunk tank, the other is the tail talk. I hear the soft crying before I turn the corner. There are two types of tail—the criers and the crabs. I have no idea what mine will be. I don’t expect the bold brown eyes of the woman standing in the cage holding the bars. She’s my sexy as sin, nutcase next door neighbor, Shelby Ryan.

Her glare is one hundred megawatts of anger. I know the feeling. What the hell? slips from my lips before I stop myself. Fuck, I’ve been having sexual fantasies about a prostitute.

It took you long enough to poopadoodle over here, she responds testily. No embarrassment or remorse anywhere in the statement and her imaginative words drive me crazy.

I think about turning around and walking away. She’s the last woman I’d peg as a hooker. She has the goods to be a high-class escort but walking the streets for money stumps me.

Come to momma, says an older prostitute standing behind Shelby.

I ignore the older woman, back away, and hold up my hands in classic I give up style. Nothing I can do about this. You’ll see the judge in the morning for your arraignment.

Her eyes roll. You think I asked you here to get me out Marshal Puckerbutt? she bitches in the voice I remember from our prior run-ins. Each and every interaction with her has been a disaster, so why is she at the top of my fantasy list? She crosses her arms and taps her dainty little foot. I’m not going anywhere. I’m asking you to let Daisy outside when you get home.

My legs freeze. I hate that damn dog and she knows it. Who in their right mind names a male dog Daisy? I lower my hands. You’re on your own, honey, I say unsympathetically and turn to leave. Her long, loud sigh makes me grit my teeth.

Fine, if you want me to beg, Lincoln, I’ll beg. Her voice hasn’t softened in the slightest, and wow, a prostitute begging, what a concept.

I pivot and give her the famous Street stare. It’s a family trait and usually leaves men shaking in their boots. Of course it could be more than the stare. I’m six foot four with plenty of muscle to back it up. I’m one of five strapping boys, as my mother likes to say, and all of us gifted with great genes. I want nothing to do with that beast from hell you call a dog. Shivers run down my spine remembering every contact I’ve had with the mutt. Daisy on his hind legs can rest his front paws on my shoulders. He has no training to speak of and enjoys jumping. I could handle the jumping if the dog didn’t latch onto me and hump my fucking body every time. Not a gentle humping. We’re talking grab hold with his front paws, put his entire pelvis into it, and try his damnedest to create puppies.

My stare appears to have no effect on Shelby. However, her brown eyes have turned pathetically pleading and she bats her lashes for good measure. She’s the queen of manipulation. It irks