Last Breath

6

At 3:30 P.M., in the women’s locker room at Newton Station, C.J. changed out of her uniform. She stowed her boots, belt, gun, PR24 side-handle baton, and other

accessories inside the locker, then donned civilian clothes-Nikes and a blue jumpsuit, along with a handbag that concealed her off-duty weapon, a J-frame Smith amp; Wesson. 38.

She clanged shut the door of her locker, then leaned against the cold metal, her eyes closed. Again she saw it-the gun in her face, Ramon Sanchez’s angry glare.

She hadn’t told Walt Brasco or any other cop about that part of her adventure. The way she’d related the story, she had disarmed Sanchez without incident. Sanchez, of course, would say nothing to contradict her version of events. Pointing a gun at a police officer was a felony charge he could live without.

Her reason for hiding the truth was simple enough. She didn’t want to be pushed into therapy for posttraumatic stress. Let a shrink get hold of a thing like that, and she would be on a couch for six months spilling her guts about every little thing… and eventually about things that were not so little.

Things like the boogeyman.

No one in the department knew about that. And no one would ever know.

Every cop had a private reason for wearing the uniform, she supposed. Hers was probably no weirder than anyone else’s. Even so, she didn’t intend to share it. Sharing would be too much like reliving the experience-not that she didn’t relive it anyway, in bad dreams and memory flashes and every close call on the street.

She detoured into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. A shower would have been better, but she preferred to shower at home.

Drying her face with a paper towel, she looked at herself in the mirror. She wondered if anybody could see how scared she was. Not just today, but all the time. It was a fear that never left her, a fear that had dared her into defying it. She had challenged that fear by enrolling in the LAPD Academy, by earning a badge, by riding patrol in one of the city’s roughest divisions.

People said that confronting your fears was the way to banish them. People were wrong.

She had been facing death and danger for the past three years, first as a rookie with a training officer, and now as a full-fledged patrolwoman with the rank of Police Officer 2… and still the fear hadn’t left her. She doubted that it ever would.

Was it fear that had goaded her into entering the Sanchez residence this afternoon? Was she still trying to prove something to herself, and if so, how long would she continue? Until she ended up getting killed?

She studied her reflection. Green eyes, pale skin, and a bob of chestnut hair that could be tucked neatly under her cap when she was on duty, or unclipped to fall loosely to her shoulders when she felt free to relax. A woman’s face, not a child’s. So why did she feel like a child so much of the time? She was twenty-six years old. She had been working patrol since she was twenty-three. She had seen more, faced more, than most men or women twice her age. But she hadn’t seen enough, apparently.

“Well, screw it,” she said aloud.

This was a mood. It would pass.

She headed out through the station, swinging her handbag over her shoulder. The place was busy in mid-afternoon, but not as busy as it would be after dark. Phones rang, voices shouted, and a news update droned on the TV in the patrol squad room.

She navigated the maze of hallways, past bulletin boards cluttered with departmental memos and the divisional softball team’s scores. Some of the night-watch cops said hi, others said nothing. But they all looked at her, following her with their gaze.

She was used to it. They never stopped watching, just as they never stopped with the ribbing and the moronic jokes and that stupid nickname that had dogged her everywhere since her second month on the job. Sometimes they smiled at her and sometimes they didn’t, but always they watched.

Their eyes studied her from every angle, memorizing the clean lines of her body, the suntanned curve of her neck, the dusting of freckles on her sinewy forearms. They watched her as she clipped back her long chestnut hair to hide it under her cap, as she twisted in the seat of her patrol car to grab the daily log, as she jogged up to the first officer at the scene to get a recap of what she’d missed.

She was crossing the squad room, wondering if she ought to get a cup of coffee before heading out, when she noticed a blondish man in the uniform of a Sheriff’s deputy standing by the coffee machine, filling a foam cup.

What was he doing here?

He saw her too. “Hey, Killer,” he called, drawing a laugh from some of the night-watch guys who had come on duty at 2:15. “Waste anybody today?”

“That’s funny, Tanner.” She detoured across the room to face him, for no reason other than to prove she wasn’t running from a fight. “Why’re you crashing our turf?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. As always, he was wearing shades. The thought crossed her mind that she had never seen him without sunglasses. He probably wore them at night.

“Hey,” he said in a quieter voice, “chill, okay? We’re all on the same team, Killer.”

“I don’t want you on my team, and stop calling me that.”

“It’s what everybody calls you.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. You never answered my question.”

“Why am I here? Well, it’s real simple. First call on my watch, we get involved in a hot pursuit in Vernon. Suspect crosses Central.” Central Avenue divided the Newton Area division from Vernon, which was patrolled by the Sheriff’s Department. “One of your squads joins up with us, and we corral the jerk a few blocks from here. I came in to expedite the booking, fill in a few details on the report. See, Sheriff’s does all the work, and LAPD gets all the glory.”

“And all the paperwork. What’d you book him on?”

“Grand theft auto.”

“Nice car?”

Tanner shrugged disdainfully. “Minivan. Why the hell would somebody steal a set of wheels like that?”

“Maybe he’s a family man.” She started to move off. He stopped her with a question.

“How about you, C.J.? What’ve you been up to?”

“Nothing special,” she said, not meeting the gaze behind the dark glasses.

“You look a little frazzled.”

“Long day.”

“Nights are longer in this part of town. Me, I’m working the late shift these days-and loving every minute of it.”

“You were made for the nightlife, Tanner.”

“You got that right. So you’re really okay?”

He asked the question in a tone of genuine concern that startled her. “I’m fine,” she answered.

“I don’t think you’re leveling with me.”

“How would you know?”

“I can read minds. Well, a woman’s mind anyway.”

“Oh, jeez.” Just when she began to think he was not a total creep, he proved her wrong.

“Seriously,” Tanner persisted with a smile. “The female of the species holds no mysteries for me.”

“What species would that be, exactly? Goats?”

“Now you’re hitting below the belt.”

“Not me. I need a bigger target.”

“Ouch. You think I’m messing with you, but I’m not. I know all about you. I know things about you that you don’t know yourself.”

“Okay, impress me. Tell me something you know and I don’t.”

“Well, for one thing, your ex-hubby is waiting for you in the lobby.” He seemed to enjoy her expression of surprise. “Oh, yeah. He’s out there.”

“You’re playing me.”

“Scout’s honor. I’ll even describe him for you. He’s about my height, I’d guess five-ten, five-eleven. But scrawnier than me. Early thirties. Blond hair, blue eyes. Currently wearing a lawyer suit. Smiles a lot. Has a certain rakish charm.”

“Since when do you use words like rakish?”

“I read books.”

“Larry Flynt’s publications do not qualify as books.”

“You underestimate me. You really do. So is it your ex or not?”

“It’s him,” she conceded. “How’d you know?”

“Heard somebody mention he was here. I sneaked a peek.”

“What for?”

“Curiosity. I wanted to see what he’s got that I don’t.”

“That’s easy. A working brain.”

Tanner took no offense. “My brain is functional. I just don’t show it off. You have to get to know me. Which would be easy enough. Just let me take you out to dinner some night.”

“Seventeen,” C.J. said.

“What?”

“That’s the number of times you’ve asked me out since I transferred here.”

“At least you’re keeping count. I take that as a positive sign. Besides, you know what they say. Seventeenth time’s the charm.”

“It’s not going to happen, Tanner.”

“Just tell me why not.”

“We’re not compatible. We’re oil and water. We don’t mix.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re Scotch and soda. We mix great. Give me a shot. You’ll see what I mean.”

She was almost tempted to say yes, if only to get him off her back. And well, maybe for other reasons too. He really wasn’t a bad guy.

But she knew she couldn’t date him. It was too soon-or too late-or something. “I’ve got to get going,” she said. “Better see what Adam wants.”

“I can guess.” Tanner took off the shades, and she saw his gray eyes narrowed in thought. “He wants you, Killer-I mean C.J. You dumped him, and he hasn’t gotten over it.”

“How do you know he didn’t dump me?”

“No way.” The glasses went back on, masking his eyes. “He wouldn’t be that dumb. No one would.”

She thought she might blush, which would be a disaster, so she rallied her reserves of cynicism. “Thanks for the compliment. But you’re still not getting to first base.”

“What’ve you really got against me, C.J.? I’m not as much of an asshole as I appear.”

“I know that,” she said softly.

“Do you?”

“Sure.” She found a smile and beamed it into the black lenses of his sunglasses. “Nobody could be that much of an asshole. See you, Tanner.”

She turned away, certain that the conversation was over, but Tanner surprised her.

“I have a first name,” he said. “Better use it, unless you want me to go back to calling you Killer.”

She looked at him. “See you… Rick. That better?”

“Sounded just fine.