He thought revoking my private investigator license would end my career, until I showed him the photographs that could end his life.
Writer’s Prompt:
I dropped a box of chocolates onto Sherry’s secretarial desk, pressed a finger to my lips, and slipped past her into Captain Jeff Watkins’ office.
The latch clicked. Four paces brought me right to his mahogany barricade. I slammed both palms flat against the varnish, leaning down until our noses nearly touched.
“Spill it, Jeff. What’s the beef? Why are you yanking my ticket?”
Watkins leaned back, adjusting his gold tie bar. He offered the smirk of a man sitting on four aces. “Deuce, you’re finished. I’m salting the earth so bad you won’t find work between here and the Mississippi.”
He was still sore because I’d cracked two homicide cases his golden boys couldn’t touch. Fifteen years in this racket taught me that pride gets you buried, but playing dirty keeps the lights on. Watkins wanted to dive into the muck, forgetting Deuce Jenco lived at the bottom of the river.
“Real confident, Jeff,” I purred. “Mind telling me where you were last Sunday while your sweet wife was singing hymns at First Baptist? Or better yet, what Marco Sandevol tucked into that manila envelope under the corner booth at Giovanni’s?”
The smirk cracked. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
“I’ve got the negatives in a safe-deposit box,” I whispered. “So, about my license…”
Watkins didn’t blink. The silence stretched thick enough to choke on. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, his right hand drifted toward the top drawer of his desk—the one where he kept a loaded snub-nosed .38, right next to the official departmental seal.
A quiet click echoed from the wood.
“You really think those negatives leave the bank alive, Deuce?” he asked softly.
How does Deuce get out of the precinct? You’ve got to figure out Deuce’s escape since he’ll be back. Write the ending to this standoff in the comments below.
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