True Blue

CHAPTER 41

MACE SLOWED her ride and then stopped. She’d changed in the hotel bathroom, trading in her Café Milano outfit and strappy heels for worn jeans, leather jacket, and her favorite pair of ass-stomping boots that an FBI Hostage Rescue Team assaulter with a crush on her had had made especially for her. She’d bolted through a series of main roads, back streets, and several alleys that she knew all too well. If anyone still had been tailing her, she was pretty sure that they no longer were. She waited three minutes and then reversed her route just to make certain. Nothing. She smiled.

Hoverees, one, Hoverers, zip.

Mace lifted her visor and did a quick recon. The part of D.C. she was in right now, within smelling distance of the Anacostia River, was not listed on any official map of the area for the simple reason that robbed, assaulted, or murdered out-of-towners were never good publicity for the tourism industry. Even with the new ballpark and attempts at gentrification in nearby areas, there were sections of turf here that even some of the blue tended to avoid if they could. After all, they wanted to go home to their families at the end of the day too.

Mace hit the throttle and moved on. She knew there were eyes everywhere, and she was also listening for the sounds of “whoop-whoop” or collective cries of “Five-O.” This was the way the folks around here let it be known that blues were in town. The bandits’ network even knew which fleet the MPD used for unmarked cars. Since the fleet purchases were large, the police force had to keep them for about three years. Before Mace had gone to prison, the array of unmarked cars had all been blue Chevy Luminas. Every night she’d heard the whoop-whoops as soon as she pulled down the street in her glow-blue ride. She’d gotten so ticked off she’d started renting cars with her own cash.

In one ear she had a bud connected to a police radio she wore on her belt. She was scanning calls to see where the action was. So far it was a quiet night, at least by D.C. standards. She figured she might find some useful intel at a hoodle.

Along the way she passed a bunch of hoopties, old junked cars lining the street. Many of them, she knew from experience, were probably stolen, used for a crime, and then dumped here. Yet enclosed spaces were popular around here for multiple reasons, so from habit, Mace peered in a few as she passed by. One was empty, one had a syringe shooter getting happy juice up his arm, and the last one was a fornication feature starring two girls and one very drunk guy who she knew would wake up in about an hour with his wallet gone.

Mace pulled slowly into a church parking lot and spotted a trio of cruisers parked side by side hood to trunk. This was a hoodle, the place where cops who’d made their rounds went until the dispatcher’s squawk over the radio brought them back to fighting crime. She knew better than to zoom into this little circled wagon train. You didn’t want to get drawn down on because you interrupted the rest of a stressed-out patrol officer. She stopped her bike well in front of one of the cruisers facing her, took off her helmet, and waved. Chances were good that she knew at least one of the blues in these rides, and her hunch was proven correct when one of the cop cars blinked its lights at her.

She slipped off her Ducati and walked over. The driver of the first cruiser slid down his window and the man leaned out his head.

He said, “Damn, Mace, heard you got your ass lifted out of West Virginia. Good to see you, girl.”

Mace leaned down and rested her elbows on the ledge of the open window. “Hey, Tony, how’s hoodle time?”

Tony was in his mid-forties with a thick neck, burly shoulders, and forearms the size of Mace’s thighs, all the result of serious gym time. He’d been a good friend to Mace and had provided her with flawless backup on more than one occasion when she’d been with Major Narcotics. Next to him was a Panasonic Toughbook laptop that was about as important to a cop as a gun-although the most important piece of equipment any cop carried was his radio. That was his lifeline to call in help when needed.

Tony flashed a smile. “Quiet tonight. Not so quiet last night. Did the circuit, been here twenty minutes, listening to some tunes.” He looked over at the young female cop next to him. “Francie, this is Mace Perry.”

Francie, who had short strawberry red hair and braces and looked like she was about fifteen, smiled at Mace. Yet she had a blocky build with buffed shoulders that told you not to mess with her. Both officers wore gloves thick enough that a syringe couldn’t penetrate easily. The last thing you wanted was to stick your hand under the front seat of a car you were doing a stop-and-search on and pull it back out with a needle sticking in it. Mace had known one beat cop who’d become HIV-infected that way.

“Hey, Francie, how long you been riding with this big old bear?”

“Six weeks.”

“So he’s your training officer?”

“Yep.”

“You could do a lot worse.”

Tony said, “Throwing arrests her way left and right. Getting in her courtroom OT. Being a real gentleman and teacher.”

Mace smacked him playfully on the arm. “Hell, you just don’t want to do the paperwork.”

“Now don’t go disillusioning the girl.”

“Sometimes I still miss roll call.”

Tony cracked a grin. “You’re crazy, Mace. Same old, same old. Just doling out bodies and wheels and running around trying to find some damn car keys.”

“Beats staring at a wall for two years.”

Tony stopped smiling. “I bet it does, Mace, I bet it does.”

“Same old same old bandits around here too?”

“Except the ones who’re dead.”

Mace glanced at the other cruisers. “Anybody I know?”

“Don’t think so. They send folks all over the place now.”

“So remind me how big your kids are?”

“One in college, two in high school and eating me out of house and home. Even when I pull my full twenty-five and get pensioned out, gonna have to get another job.”

“Go into consulting. Doesn’t matter what, it pays a lot better.”

“So why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re doing out here at two a.m. on your fancy bike with no gun.”

“How do you know I’m not packing?”

“Can you say probation violation?”

Mace grinned at Francie. “You see why he’s such a good T.O. Nothing gets by this guy. He looks like a musclehead but the dude’s got brains.”

“Seriously, Mace, why here?”

“Nostalgia.”

Tony laughed. “Go look in a photo album if you want that. Streets ain’t never fair, especially around here.” He turned serious. “You know that better than anybody.”

“You’re right, I do. Only they never found out who ripped me. That’s not right.”

“I know.”

“So how many blues think I’m dirty?”

“Honestly?”

“Only way that matters to me.”

Seventy-thirty on your side.”

“I guess it could be worse.”

“Hell yes it could be, considering who you share DNA with.”

“Beth is a cop’s cop. She came up right from the pavement, just like I did.”

“But she’s also a gal and you know some still don’t like that.”

“Well, hang in there, Tony, four more years.”

“I’m counting, baby, every damn day.”

She looked over at Francie. “And if Tony does pull his gun, just remember to duck. The son of a bitch never could shoot straight.”