I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
Challenge #3
Brett Connors had been a homicide detective for 25 years. He couldn’t remember doing anything else, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had a day off.
His lieutenant had given him no choice – take the week off or cover the precinct’s front desk for the scheduled school tours.
Although he resisted, Brett decided to get the hell out of Dodge – or more accurately, San Francisco. He hopped on a plane and found himself sitting on a beach in Encinitas, California. Located in the north county of San Diego, Brett considered it as one of the few true beach towns left in southern California.
“Sawubona,” came the whispered voice.
Looking up from a book he wasn’t really reading, Brett responded, “Excuse me?”
“Sawubona. It is from my native Zulu language.” Her accent was slight, but her beauty knew no bounds. Standing nearly 6 feet tall, the soft-spoken woman appeared in her mid-20s with skin as soft and smooth as rich, dark chocolate.
Trying not to stare, Brett asked, “What does it mean?”
“It means I see you. I recognize you as the worthy person before me.”
“And how would you know that?”
She only smiled. “Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing to the blanket he sat on.
“Knock yourself out. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Arranging her long, flowing skirt around her ankles, she raised kohl-lined eyes to gaze into what felt like his very soul.
“You have yet to discover it.”
“Okay, Mystery Lady, what have I ‘yet to discover’?”
“If I tell you, it is my discovery, and not yours.”
“Look, I don’t know what your game is but I am not big in the patience department right now. So why don’t you tell me what you want or take your pretty little ass off my blanket and move down the concrete path to the exit.”
Adjusting her legs in a yoga-like position, Mystery Lady reached out a long-fingered hand, covering Brett’s in a cupped shell of velvet warmth.
“Search your heart and you shall discover it.”
Captured in her hypnotic stare, any words he had froze in a throat gone dry. Slowly rising with the grace of a dancer, she smiled that sweet, knowing smile.
“Sawubona, Brett. Look to your heart.”
And then she was gone. How had she known his name?
“I’ve got to stop hitting those after hours bars.”
Shaken more than he cared to admit, Brett rose and shook out the blanket. Packing it, and the little he brought with him, Brett worked his way to his home away from home. Home alone – again.
A landslide of emotions crowded his mind. Had he imagined the encounter on the beach? Maybe his lieutenant knew how on edge Brett was, how much he needed the time away.
Leaving Moonlight Bay, Brett walked past Old Highway 101 and the library, tucked across from Viewpoint Park. Brett had grown up in Encinitas and it always felt like home. Maybe that was why he chose this place to heal.
Unlocking the door of his rented studio, Brett tossed the blanket across a chair. Puzzling over thoughts of his Mystery Lady, Brett decided it was time to shut it down. Like a kid in need of nap time, he stretched out on a bed designed for something smaller than his 6 foot 4 inch frame.
Closing his eyes, the whispered sound soothed him off to sleep – Sawubona, Brett.
Challenge #4
Only time will tell if he made the right decision. It wasn’t exactly what his lieutenant had in mind when he ordered homicide detective, Brett Connors, to take some time off. Standing before the lieutenant was his best detective, telling him he wanted to quit.
“Hell, Brett. If I’d known you’d come back from Encinitas with this in mind, I would have handcuffed you to your desk.”
“You’re not my type, LT. I prefer the ladies – experience preferred.”
“Funny, Connors. Why don’t you give it some time? Think it over.”
“I have thought it over. I need out while I’m still known as a decent cop.”
Try as he might, the lieutenant could not talk Brett out of it. Assured his job would always be there in San Francisco, Brett sold most everything he owned. If he could figure out a way to nail plywood over the pain, he would have done that, too.
His last case left major scars. It was always like that with the murder of a child. But, this one really got to him. Maybe he was having his own mid-life crisis. Now 46, he married young and divorced not long after – a common casualty of cops.
So here he was, flying down the coast – a coastal ride to turn the tide. “Maybe my new career will be a goddamn poet,” he smirked. Brett floored the pedal of his vintage Mustang, the one he nicknamed Gold Rush.
He didn’t know what his new life scenario would be. He had a healthy nest egg, thanks to his grandmother, Nana Connors. She raised Brett when his mother died from an overdose. He had no idea who is father was, and could care less about his identity. He promised himself he would never throw away his kid – if he ever had one.
With that thought, the image he could not erase appeared once again. With cruel, Technicolor recall, the crimson canvass painted all the intricate detail of a lifeless, 7-year-old child. The image brought its usual influx of rage and pain.
Abruptly jerking the steering wheel, Brett pulled Gold Rush to a halt on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Winter was coming. The once velvet touch of the ocean air slapped against the door, serving as a road block, preventing escape. Escape. Now there’s a thought.
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