Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller) Read Free Page A

through the ER twice as a reluctant patient and managed to survive-the first time was six months after he signed on the force when some drunk cold-cocked him from behind with a Budweiser bottle. That one cost him thirty stitches and a concussion. Along with a lesson learned-never turn your back on a drunk even if she is five two and looks like a Miami Heat cheerleader.
    The second time, it was a ricocheting fragment from a 9mm that hit him in the right hip. A car thief cranked off a couple of rounds in his direction during a wild chase through the narrow alleys on a hot Miami night. He instinctively returned fire; after limping up to where the gunman had fallen, could see the blood bubbling blackly out of his nose in the moonlight while he gasped his last breath. Turned out to be a punk fifteen-year old kid.
    It wasn’t much of an excuse, but he liked to think that was part of the reason for all the sleepless nights, the drinking, and lousy relationships that had defined his life for the past ten years. The Department had insisted on psychological counseling for six months after the shooting-a total waste of time blabbing to another empty suit. Better to spend a few hours on a Friday night talking to another cop over a few beers.
    He crushed the empty cup in his hand, briefly considered the distance and tossed the crumpled paper toward the waste can across the room. Rimmed the dented lip and skittered across the waiting room floor. It was going to be that kind of day.
    Time to focus on the problem at hand. He looked across the waiting room at Jean Roland, the floor nurse for the ER. Jean was a leggy California blonde who had come to Miami a few years before when South Beach was still in its prime. Both she and South Beach still attracted some attention on occasion from the tourists, but their glory days were definitely behind them. Jean and he had a little personal history between them going back for a few years-most of which he remembered fondly.
    Somehow, there had seemed to be a distinctly chilly edge to their conversations anytime they had talked over the past few months-could be that her memories of their time together weren’t nearly as positive as his. It was more likely she had just gotten tired of the late night calls when he had been drinking and had struck out at the local bars. Those nights seemed invariably to end with the sheets on his bed being twisted into a sweaty mess and mornings that brought nothing more than awkward, angry departures.
    He caught her attention and gave her his most charming smile from across the room. “Jean, can I get a few minutes alone with your mystery man?”
    She glanced up with an annoyed expression that spoke volumes. That look was usually reserved for the ragged drunks who staggered in through the doors of the Emergency Room every night like the foul smelling tide flowing into the stagnant recesses of Biscayne Bay.
    “Manny, I’ll let you know later. Right now he’s in no shape to talk to anyone. He’s in pretty bad shape-hasn’t been conscious since he came in last night. I think they just brought him back from an MRI. In the meantime, just cool your jets and let me do my job. I’ll check on his status and get back to you,” she said as she twirled on the well-worn marble floor and stalked out of the room.
    “Yeah, she still loves me,” Rivera muttered with an embarrassed smile.
    Even when angry, he still loved the way she knew how to make an exit. The other occupants of the waiting room temporarily took their attention away from watching Oprah reruns long enough to enjoy watching him squirm like an awkward fifth grader at his first dance.
    Rivera suddenly feigned a profound interest in his police radio as he turned up the volume and found yet another way to annoy everyone around him as he started scanning the patrol frequencies. With their unexpected entertainment over for the moment, the rest of the occupants sank back into a resigned stupor designed to carry them