Hell Hole Read Online Free Page A

blubber.
    â€œI need one of those angus steak burgers,” he says to his crew. “That fucking yogurt cone isn’t going to hold me, you know what I’m saying?”
    Chocolate yogurt. Explains the brown crud clumped in his whiskers.
    Rumor has it Saul Slominsky only kept his cushy MCU job with the state because he had a well-connected friend in the governor’s office. However, that particular governor gave the New Jersey homeland security job to his boyfriend, got caught, resigned, wrote a book, and told the world about it on Oprah.
    Slobbinsky lost his “friend” when New Jersey lost its first officially gay governor. Now he works with the Burlington County prosecutor’s
office. Seeing how he’s here in a men’s room at 1:00 in the morning, I gotta figure they gave him the graveyard shift. It’s where they always put their best and brightest: in the dark where nobody can see them. This particular GSP rest stop is, of course, in the middle of Burlington County. Slobbinsky’s jurisdiction.
    The fat man is in charge.
    He goes over to the sink. I figure he’s going to wash off his hands after crawling around searching for evidence on the floor of a toilet stall. Instead, he ducks down so he can drink straight from the tap.
    â€œHow’s this fucking thing work?”
    â€œMotion detector,” answers one his guys. This one has a major belly too and is working on a jumbo bag of Chex Mix, shaking it out over his face so he doesn’t miss a single crumb. Guess everybody working the night shift is here for a reason.
    â€œWhat fucking motion detector?”
    â€œIn the black circle. See it there?”
    Slominsky waves his hand around the spigot.
    â€œFucking thing’s broken.”
    â€œStand up and lean in again,” suggests his colleague. “You need to make motion that it can detect—”
    â€œSir?” It’s Dixon. He’s seen enough of the Saul Slobbinsky Show.
    â€œWhat?” Slominsky stands up from the sink.
    â€œThe body? I’m here to identify it.”
    â€œCool your jets, pal. He ain’t going anywhere.” He laughs. So does Mr. Chex Mix.
    â€œSir,” Dixon demands, “what is your name?”
    Slominsky snorts. “Me?”
    Dixon nods. His eye slits are thinner than the space between tightly drawn blinds.
    â€œYou.”
    â€œSaul Slominsky.”
    â€œYour position here?”
    â€œSenior investigator for the Burlington County prosecutor’s office. This is my crime scene. You are here at my invitation.”
    â€œThen show me the goddamn body!”

    Slobbinsky eyes the big man. They probably weigh the same. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Only Dixon is six-three. Slominsky is more like five-two and the soldier’s belly doesn’t flop over his belt.
    â€œShow it to me, now.”
    â€œEase up, ace. Who’d you say you were again?”
    â€œSergeant Dale Dixon.”
    â€œAnd you know this Shareef Smith character how?”
    â€œWe served together. Operation Iraqi Freedom.”
    â€œYou are, therefore, qualified to identify his body in lieu of familial representation?”
    I think some insurance agent told Slominsky to say that so he doesn’t get sued later by the family of the deceased.
    â€œYes. I have known him for several years.”
    â€œDid you know he was a junkie?”
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œHeroin. You know—scag. Schmeek. We found a dime bag on the floor of the stall next to his.”
    I check out the handicapped stall. Two guys move in on their hands and knees to pick stuff off the floor with tweezers and plop it into paper bags.
    â€œWe found his works over there too. Cute little leather wallet-type deal. Guess he came in here to take a dump and fly off to happy land. Decided to take the express route instead. Head all the way home to Jesus. Anyway, I figure Mr. Smith dropped his drug shit when he swallowed the