Under a Raging Moon

EIGHT

Tuesday, August 23rd

Day Shift

1614 hours

Karl Winter tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. The jangling sound carried in the quiet locker room. Winter had caught a late DV call that turned into a huge mess. He’d only just finished the paperwork. As he changed, he’d been watching Sgt. David Poole, who sat on the long bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the lockers. He’d been there when Winter walked in at the end of the shift. He continued to sit and stare at his open locker, completely lost in thought, the entire time Winter changed his clothes only five lockers away.

“Sarge?” Winter finally said. “You okay?”

Poole turned slowly to face him but didn’t answer.

Winter’s eyes narrowed with concern.

“Dave?”

“I’m fine, Karl.” Poole answered in a dry, croaking voice. “Just tired. Lots of reports to read at the end of shift.”

Winter knew that was a lie but decided not to push too hard. “Sorry. Mine was one of them. Listen, the guys went over to Duke’s for choir practice right after shift. Throw back a few beers, you know?”

“Good,” Poole said in an empty tone.

Winter cleared his throat. “Uh, they’re probably still there. I’m headed over as soon as I get changed. You want to come along?”

Poole shook his head wordlessly and returned to staring at his locker.

Winter stood uncomfortably for a long moment. He debated asking Poole a second time but knew the next response he got would be less than kind.

He left wordlessly, with Poole still staring darkly into his locker.

2108 hours

Katie MacLeod walked along the row of cars parked in the basement and tossed her black equipment bag onto the front seat of the police patrol car assigned to her. She withdrew her flashlight and placed it in the charger/holder right below the radio. Her side-handle baton went into the small holder in the driver’s door. She then seat-belted the equipment bag into the passenger’s seat, leaving the pockets with her logbook, ticket books and report notebook accessible without having to un-belt the bag.

She took a quick walk around the exterior to check for any damage, finding nothing but dirt. Using the button located in the driver’s door, she popped open the trunk and checked the contents, which she knew by rote. Fire extinguisher, blanket, first aid kit, teddy bear, flex cuffs, rubber gloves and a box of double-ott buck shotgun shells. She removed the shells and closed the trunk. She preferred to have the extra ammo up front where she could get to it quicker.

Once in the driver’s seat, she opened the glove compartment and put the shotgun shells inside. She saw a small city map inside, some hand disinfectant gel and someone’s candy wrapper. She grabbed the wrapper and tossed it in the small litter bag next to the transmission hump.

Katie turned the key to the on position. The radio booted up, signaled ready and displayed the word ‘North’ for channel one. She hit the shotgun release button and pulled the 12-gauge from the upright holder between the two seats. Stepping out of the car, she unloaded the four shells inside, cleared the weapon by checking the chamber visually, then racking it four times in quick succession. The small bandoleer on the stock held five shells. Pointing the shotgun at the empty concrete wall of the basement sally port, Katie did a tactical reload. If she were to use the gun, she would chamber one round, then immediately replace with one from the bandoleer. This gave the “street howitzer” five rounds loaded and four on the bandoleer.

As Katie stepped lightly back to the car to replace the shotgun, she saw Matt Westboard removing his from the patrol car in front of her.

“Three-ninety-seven,” he said to her with a grin, pointing to his car with his free hand. He was referring to the patrol car’s fleet number, Katie knew.

“So?” She replied, trying to appear disinterested, but she knew exactly what he was driving at.

“So? So, I’ve got the queen of the fleet here. Only eighteen hundred miles.” He motioned toward Katie’s car. “That one’s got about a hundred and eighteen thousand on it.”

Katie shrugged, trying not to smile. “Four wheels and a siren are all I need.”

“How about a horse and buggy, then? Probably faster than that toilet.”

“You just cost yourself a free cup of coffee.” Katie leaned into her car and snapped the shotgun into place, closing the large metal clip that held it securely. Westboard was saying something that she couldn’t make out, but she ignored him, testing her overhead rotator blue-and-reds, her alley lights and her overhead takedown lights. Then she turned on her spotlight and shined it right in Westboard’s face. He smiled, closing his eyes and turning away. Even in the room-level light of the basement, the power of the spotlight was impressive.

Katie snapped the spotlight off after a few torturous moments, then exited her vehicle.

“Anything else you want to say about my car, Westboard?”

Westboard laid the shotgun across his front seat and pretended to be grabbing at floating balls in the air. “I’m blinded by the light,” he sang.

“Doofus,” Katie muttered with a grin. She opened her back door and searched her back seat thoroughly to ensure that nothing had been left in there from the previous shift. She did this, as did everyone, before and after anyone was in the seat. If someone had dumped something in the car, it could be attributed to the proper owner. Especially if the item were contraband, which was usually the case.

Her pre-flight checks complete, Katie returned to the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat position and mirrors. Westboard resumed checking his own car into service. In her rear-view mirror, she could see the newest rookie, Jack Willow, checking and double-checking everything. Well, she had done the same thing while she was in training, hadn’t she? You couldn’t afford to make a lot of mistakes during that phase. Truth be told, you couldn’t ever afford to make a lot of mistakes on this job. Sometimes not even one.

When she looked forward again, Westboard was pulling out of the sally port and up the ramp. She shook her head in amazement. She’d ridden with him a few times and he could check a car into service faster than anyone she knew.

Katie started the car and drove carefully out the sally port and up the ramp. When she turned onto the street, she hit her yelp siren, then the wail siren and air horn; three short bursts to verify each worked. The poor troops on Days and Swings weren’t allowed to blast their siren and air horn because court was in session, but on Graveyard they were able to blast away.

Last, she checked the intercom, which she tested just by turning it on and clicking the mike. It was functional. She turned it off.

Her eyes swept the gauges on the dashboard. Everything was fine except her fuel gauge, which showed at three-eighths of a tank. She frowned. You can’t tell me the swing-shift officers are too busy to turn in the cars gassed up and ready to go.

She keyed the mike. “Adam-116, in service.”

“Adam-116, go ahead.”

“Officer 407, driving vehicle 341, also.”

“Copy. Go ahead your also.”

“If I’m clear, I need to go signal-five for fuel.” Signal-five meant the city garage where the gas pumps were.

“Copy. You are clear, but I have a neighborhood dispute holding.”

Katie sighed. “Neighborhood disputes” were the bane of swing shift. There weren’t as many on graveyard, but they sometimes popped up early in the shift. A Neighborhood Dispute usually meant some old woman saying “So-and-so pulled my flowers” or two sets of feuding parents called because little Johnny hit little Billy and now they want the little criminal arrested. Seldom was there any law enforcement action that could be taken, and it resulted in an incredible drain on an officer’s time, but it had to be endured. Most of these people were the ones who actually paid taxes and they wanted police service. Since it might be the only time they saw their police department in action unless they were on the receiving end of a traffic citation, all officers were explicitly commanded to go and investigate thoroughly and to make everyone as happy as possible. Often, the same call wouldn’t even be dispatched later on in the graveyard shift, or might be dealt with in five minutes if it were. This call was probably a swing shift holdover.

“Go ahead your dispute,” Katie told radio.

“1119 W. Prudence. Caller states neighbor children are harassing her son. Also states the parent of the harassing children encourages it. 1119 W. Prudence.”

“Copy. I’ll be en route when I clear signal-five.”

2125 hours

Just a few minutes into his shift, Thomas Chisolm was already bored. He heard MacLeod get dispatched to a neighborhood dispute, which told him it was going to be a slow night. Worse yet, a slow night allowed his mind to wander. And it never wandered down bright, sunny paths littered with rose petals and butterflies, either.

The Scarface situation had him frustrated. He’d been on his night off or tied up on other calls during the last few robberies. As many times as the guy was getting away, Chisolm was beginning to think that the robber would never be caught. He remembered that Hart’s task force started tomorrow. Despite his dislike for the man and his suspicions of his ulterior motives, Chisolm was glad to see that something was going to be done which was a little more proactive rather than reactive.

Despite his dark thoughts, his mood had remained steady as the shift progressed. He never stayed depressed too deeply for too long, not even in ‘Nam. He had a serious, dark nature from his father but he also believed that his mother’s indomitable good cheer kept him on an even keel when it came to brooding.

Except for those ghosts, a voice inside his mind reminded him.

Shut up, whispered another.

Before an argument could begin, Chisolm swung into an alley. Two transients were seated with their backs to the wall, both holding brown paper bags. One made a clumsy attempt to hide his bottle beneath his coat. A third transient stood a few feet away, his back partially turned to Chisolm. In the flood of light now bathing the alley, Chisolm could see a stream of urine splattering against the wall.

He hit his overhead lights and grabbed the microphone, glad for the diversion. “Adam-112, I’ll be in the alley behind the Army Surplus store on Indiana with three transients. Code four.”

“Copy, Adam-112.”

Chisolm got out of the car and walked slowly up to the group. The urinating transient had finished and was struggling to zip up his pants.

“Evening, gentlemen.” Chisolm drawled, keeping all of their hands in sight.

“Evening, sir,” slurred the standing transient, who Chisolm now thought of as Pissing Man.

“Evening,” the other two muttered, both nodding.

“Seems we have a crime wave here,” Chisolm observed.

“What, sir?” Pissing Man asked.

Chisolm pointed at him. “That’s Lewd Conduct. Specifically, urinating in public.” He pointed at the seated two. “And that is Open and Consume Alcohol in Public.”

None of the men made any denials. The two-seated men remained still, eyeing Chisolm carefully. Pissing Man stood in place, swaying noticeably.

“Sorry, sir,” he finally said.

“Anyone have ID?” Chisolm asked.

The three looked around at one another, then each shook his head.

“No worries,” Chisolm said. He took out his note pad and asked each man for his name and birth date. They gave the information without hesitation or grumbling. As Chisolm checked the names on the data channel, he realized one of the seated men looked familiar. He stared at him for a few moments before he realized why. The transient looked almost exactly like, his old Army buddy, Bobby Ramirez.

The man shifted uncomfortably under Chisolm’s gaze. “What’re you looking at, man?”

Chisom grinned. “Sorry. You remind of an old friend.”

“I ain’t never met you before, sir,” the man replied softly.

Just like Bobby, Chisolm thought. Or at least how Bobby would look today. “So where are you guys from?” he asked while waiting for the names to come back.

“Houston,” the other seated men said.

“I,” pronounced Pissing Man, “am from… Sheer… Seeer… fucking Syracuse.”

“New York?”

Pissing Man nodded. “Fucking New York. Syracuse. Yes, sir.” He paused. “You got a problem with that?”

“None at all.” Chisolm motioned to Bobby Ramirez’s twin. “You?”

“Pittsburgh,” the man answered.

“Pennsylvania?” Chisolm asked.

“No. Pittsburgh, California.”

“Where’s that?”

“Where’s California?” Pissing Man interrupted, incredulous. He pointed. “It’s that way.”

Chisolm allowed himself a slight chuckle.

Encouraged, Pissing Man pointed the other direction, crossing his hands in front of him. “And Syracuse is that way, brother!”

“Well, thanks for the geography lesson,” Chisolm said. He returned his gaze to Bobby’s twin. “Where in California?”

He cleared his throat. “East Bay area. Sorta near San Francisco.”

Chisolm nodded. “I see.”

“Adam-112?”

He reached for his radio. “Go ahead.”

“All subjects in locally, no wants.”

“Copy.” Chisolm turned to the three disheveled men. “Well, gentlemen, the good news is that none of you have any warrants.”

“Yay.” Pissing Man clapped with exaggerated slowness.

“The bad news,” Chisolm continued, “is that I have each of you in violation of a misdemeanor. So I am facing what we call in police circles as a decision point. I could arrest you all. Or I could issue you a citation. Or I could just let it go.”

Houston and Bobby’s twin remained quiet, waiting. Pissing Man looked at each of them, then said, “Well, I vote for the letting it go part.”

“Tell you what,” Chisolm continued, pulling a quarter from his pocket. “I’ll flip you for it. Heads, I cite you. Tails, I walk away. What do you say?”

The men paused, unsure. Pissing Man let out a loud laugh. “You’re on!” He turned to the others. “Nothing to lose,” he told them.

Houston and Bobby’s twin nodded in agreement.

“Okay,” Chisolm grinned. “Gambling men. I like that.”

He flipped the coin in the air and caught it deftly. With great flourish, he slapped it onto his forearm. After giving the three of them a quick glance, Chisolm lifted his hand away.

Heads.

“Bad news, fellas,” Chisolm reported. “Let me have those bottles.”

Three bottles were extended towards him. He took the first two and dumped out their contents on the dirt alley. All three men watched the golden liquid splatter out onto the ground with mournful expressions.

“Don’t feel bad,” Chisolm said. “You were just renting it, anyway. Another half an hour and you’d have been pissing it out, right?”

The men shrugged and watched on.

“That should be the goddamn crime,” Pissing Man slurred.

The third bottle was still unopened. He handed it back to Houston. “Just don’t drink it in public,” he told the man, knowing full well that they’d simply find a better hiding place and pass the lone remaining bottle between them.

Houston nodded his thanks.

“Are you gentlemen true gamblers?” Chisolm smiled broadly. “Want to go double-or-nothing?”

“Howzat work?” Pissing Man asked.

“Simple. I win, I get to book you on these charges. You win, you get to walk. Just toss those empty bottles in the trash.” Chisolm looked from face to face. “What do you say?”

The men nodded enthusiastically.

“Okay. Here goes.” Chisolm flipped the coin again, slapping it to his forearm. After a dramatic pause, he revealed the result. It came up tails this time.

Chisolm gave a half-bow, his eyes not leaving the three. “Gentlemen, you are true sporting men and you have won your freedom. Please don’t drink or whiz in public. Good night.”

The men returned his farewell as Chisolm walked back toward his car.

“Hey, officer!”

Chisolm looked up to see Bobby’s twin looking his way. “Yeah?”

“I really look just like your friend?” he asked.

Chisolm nodded. “Yeah. Within a stone’s throw, anyway.”

“Tell him I said hi, then.”

Chisolm smiled sadly. “Bobby served with me in Vietnam. He didn’t make it back.”

A curious quiet fell over the group. The sound of the patrol light bar rotators hissed and whizzed while the cruiser’s engine hummed, but all else was silent.

After a few moments, the man nodded his head toward Chisolm. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.

“So was his mother,” Chisolm replied, trying to keep a light tone. “And so was I. Good night, gentlemen.”

Without a word, he got back into the patrol car and killed the overhead lights. He backed out of the alley and onto Indiana Avenue, then headed west.

As he drove, he chuckled slightly. Despite the memories that man’s face brought him, or perhaps because of them, he had enjoyed the stop. It amused him to watch the surprise and enthusiasm of all three men when he didn’t act like every other cop they’d ever met. He had a couple more flips he could have given them for double or nothing until they won. Who wanted to arrest and book on those piddly charges?

Especially not when one of them could’ve been Bobby Ramirez’s brother.

Chisolm whistled along with tune on the radio. Strangely, his world felt slightly more at ease.

2150 hours

Katie MacLeod felt her patience slipping away.

“Just what is it you want me to do, ma’am?” she asked for the third time.

The complainant, a fortyish housewife, gave Katie a look of exasperation. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I want those three Bailey kids arrested for harassment. Can you do that or are you just too stupid?”

A flash of anger washed over Katie and she forced herself to wait five seconds before replying. She decided to buy some time. “Ma’am, what is your name?”

“I told you before,” the woman snapped. “Did you forget already?”

Katie removed her pocket notebook from her shirt pocket. “I meet a lot of people. I’ll write it down this time.”

“It’s Evelyn Masters. My husband works for the County.”

Good for you and your husband. Katie wrote down the woman’s name.

“Now, Mrs. Masters, tell me exactly why you think the Bailey children should be arrested.”

“Oh, it’s not just the little brats that should go. That no-good father encourages it. He should be arrested for contributing to the juvenility of a child.” Evelyn Masters gave Katie the resolute nod that is reserved for the all-knowing and the never-wrong.

Katie took a deep breath and let it out, trying not to sigh. “You’re saying that the Bailey children assaulted your oldest son, and that the father somehow encourages this behavior?”

“Yes!” She lowered her voice conspiratorially and gave Katie another nod. “He doesn’t work, you know. Goes out all night drinking, then comes home and sleeps all day. Must be on welfare, the lot of them.”

“I see. And what’s your oldest child’s name?”

“Brian.”

“And where is Brian now?”

She gave Katie a strange look. “At a friend’s house, where he’s been since school let out. You think I don’t watch my kids or something?”

Katie didn’t answer right away. She pretended to write in her notebook while she thought about the situation. She really wanted to strangle this obnoxious woman, but she doubted that Sergeant Shen would consider that a satisfactory resolution to this oh-so-important problem.

Finally, she surrendered to the inevitable. “Mrs. Masters,” she said, “let me go and have a talk with the Baileys, then I’ll come back and talk with you again.”

“All right. But don’t be surprised if you find drugs in that house. That’s if they even let you in.” She gave Katie another knowing nod.

Katie left the house and walked up the block to a small tan house. The yard appeared well-tended. A tricycle lay on its side by the front porch. Katie advised radio of her new location as she knocked on the door.

The door opened and a man in his mid-thirties wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a tattered robe stood rubbing his eyes. When he noticed Katie’s uniform, his eyes widened slightly and he closed his robe self-consciously.

“Can I help you, officer?”

“Mr. Bailey?”

The man nodded.

“May I come in and talk with you for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” He opened the screen door and let her into the living room. On the couch sat three kids, two boys and a girl who were now more interested in her presence than the cartoons they’d been watching. Katie smiled warmly at them as she looked around the room. It contained the normal clutter one would expect in a household where children lived.

“What’s this is all about?” Mr. Bailey asked.

Katie asked, “Which child is Tommy?”

Mr. Bailey pointed to the largest child on the end of the couch. “Why?”

“Well, according to Mrs. Masters, Tommy has been beating up on her son Brian.” She nodded toward the father. “With your encouragement, Mr. Bailey.”

“Oh, jeez.” Mr. Bailey rubbed his eyes and sat in an easy chair. “That old witch is telling tales again.”

“So she’s lying outright?” Katie asked.

Mr. Bailey sighed. “No, not entirely. Look, Officer, Brian is a little terror in this neighborhood. He is the bully of the block. My kids are under strict orders to avoid him. Yesterday, he started picking on Clay, my youngest there. Tommy stood up to him and punched him in the nose when Brian wouldn’t leave them alone. I saw the whole thing from the front window.”

“Did you encourage it?” Katie asked.

Mr. Bailey shifted nervously in his seat. “Well, sorta. After the fact.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that I told him after it was over that it was a good thing that he stuck up for his brother. I mean, I know fighting is wrong and all, but you can’t let the bullies rule the world, either. We had a talk about it.”

Katie glanced at the three children. They sat calmly, watching her. No one asked her for stickers, which surprised her. That was the thing most kids asked for right away.

“Okay, Mr. Bailey. I figured it might be something like that.”

Katie turned her attention to Tommy, who had been watching enraptured. “Tommy? Your daddy explained to you about fighting?”

Tommy nodded.

“You make sure you always listen to your Mom and Dad.”

All three children nodded.

When Katie turned her attention to Mr. Bailey, he smiled. “They’re good kids, really, officer. I work nights and my wife works days, so they don’t get as much time with us as I’d like, but they’re doing okay, you know?”

“Everything looks fine here,” Katie said, turning for the door. “Continuing to avoid Brian is the best policy. I’ll take care of Mrs. Masters.”

“Thank you.”

Katie walked back to the Master’s house. Evelyn Masters waited on the front porch, her arms crossed. “Did you arrest those little hellions?”

“No, Mrs. Masters, I didn’t. They tell a completely different story.”

“Well, they’re just lying.”

Katie shrugged off the assertion. “Either way, I can’t take any action without physical evidence or witnesses. And besides that, a child under the age of twelve is deemed incapable of committing a crime in the state of Washington.”

“You’re kidding.”

Katie shook her head. She’d left out the fact that a child between eight and twelve could be found capable of committing a crime if it could be shown that the child knew the difference between right and wrong. That little factoid would remain her secret. She didn’t want to give this woman anywhere to go.

“So you’re just going to do nothing?” Mrs. Masters asked, exasperated.

“No, ma’am. I’ve given those children explicit orders not to have any contact with Brian. Of course, this order has to be reciprocal to maintain objectivity.”

Mrs. Masters’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“It means that Brian can’t talk with them, either.”

“Why would he want to?”

“My point exactly. If that’s all, then I-”

“Is there going to be a report on this?”

Katie almost sighed but caught herself. There’s no reason to report this, she thought angrily. I shouldn’t even be here. And I certainly shouldn’t be tied up an additional thirty minutes later in my shift working on this go-nowhere report.

She forced herself to keep an even voice. “There is a report in the computer that I came here, ma’am. If there are any future problems, you can ask them to send the same officer. They’ll have my number.” And hopefully I won’t be working.

When Mrs. Masters didn’t answer right away, Katie allowed herself a small smile. “I’m sure things will be better now that we have this verbal no-contact order in place. Good luck.” She turned and walked back to her car.

It wasn’t until she got into the car, drove out of the neighborhood and cleared the call that she finally allowed herself a long sigh.

What a total busybody. I need something cold to drink.

2209 hours

Karl Winter sat at the table with Ridgeway and Will Reiser. They’d arrived late and found their usual table in the corner occupied by some newcomers. Johnny apologized, but the three men didn’t mind. As Ridgeway pointed out, “The beer tastes the same at any table.”

Winter looked at the date on his digital watch, which Mary had bought for him two Christmases ago. He’d protested, preferring a watch with a face and two hands but Mary told him it was time to enter the latter half of the twentieth century.

The date now read August 23rd, which put him at just over eight months to go. It also told him that Gio was an hour late and probably wasn’t coming. All three of them knew he’d been seeing the blonde he met in here, even though he kept uncharacteristically close-mouthed about the affair. Even more telling, Winter had never known Gio to miss a choir practice with the guys over a woman.

“Major Crimes put out a bulletin for patrol today,” Reiser reported. “Scarface has nineteen hits now. There’s another three or four more that are uncertain, but probably him. And he got money on almost all of them.”

Ridgeway didn’t seem impressed. “Major Crimes can pound sand for all I care.”

Winter didn’t join the conversation. Ridgeway had become increasingly irritable over the past few weeks. More and more people knew about his wife’s affair, thanks to her openness and the couple’s common friends. Ridgeway might have been unhappy about losing her, but he was even unhappier about everyone knowing his business.

“You know what Kahn said to me?” Ridgeway asked.

“What?”

“That IA poster boy said that if I would have shot that copycat instead of smacking him, then Major Crimes would’ve never got an admission from him that he wasn’t the real Scarface.” Ridgeway shook his head ruefully. “Without the admission, Hart could then claim to the press that all these new robberies were copycats. He’d be so happy that he’d let me take Poole’s place as day shift lap dog.”

“That’s cold,” Winter observed. He felt sorry for Ridgeway and Gio. Nabbing the copycat at Silver Lanes was still a good pinch. The guy committed a first-degree robbery and they arrested him. But just like no one calls the loser of the Super Bowl the second best team in the NFL, almost getting Scarface didn’t quite cut it among the other officers. Everything on the police department was high-speed, low drag. This was particularly true in the patrol division.

“You know that arrest went to Internal Affairs?” Ridgeway asked.

Winter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why?”

“Use of force. Per Hart the El-tee Prick himself.” Ridgeway took a hard slug of his beer and signaled to Johnny that he wanted a shot. Then he turned to face Winter and Reiser. “You know what their main beef is?”

Both men shook their heads. Discussing Internal Affairs investigations, ongoing or otherwise, was strictly forbidden. Rarely did anyone observe that rule.

Ridgeway ticked off the facts on his fingers. “That radio didn’t broadcast anything specific about a gun. That I saw no weapon before I cracked him. That the fake gun was under the seat. And that using my gun as a striking instrument is forbidden in department policy and procedures.” He smiled bitterly.

Winter shook his head in disgust.

“I can’t believe that,” Reiser said. “He just committed an armed robbery and he was reaching inside his jacket!”

Johnny set Ridgeway’s shot in front of him. Ridgeway threw it back and grimaced. “Imagine that. They said I could have justified shooting him but not pistol-whipping him. How ass-backward is that?”

No one spoke as Ridgeway continued.

“So let’s recap. My wife throws me over for a pansy fireman. Which everyone is now aware of because she is out there running her mouth. Then, instead of killing some dumb sonofabitch, I give him a headache. IA comes to talk to me and of course they have to send the Brass Bitch to do the interview. Four goddamn investigators in IA, one of them is a woman, and I get her. I just know she is going to recommend a finding of improper conduct.” Ridgeway’s voice rose as he spoke. “This shithead copycat robber will probably sue, in which case the department can step aside and lay all the responsibility on me. ‘Look, we gave him proper training. We never said he could hit somebody with his gun. He was operating outside the scope of his employment.’ So now Shithead Copycat gets to fight over my stuff with Alice and her little fireman. Now isn’t that all just absolutely, fucking wonderful!”

At the last word, Ridgeway slammed his palm against the table, rattling the glasses. Conversation in the bar stopped abruptly and all eyes turned to their table, including a disapproving look from Johnny. Winter held up his hand slightly and waved him off. Ridgeway stared at the table, oblivious to it all.

Winter and Reiser sat silently. In a few seconds, conversation again picked up throughout the bar. It took another few minutes for the dark cloud over the table to dissipate. Ridgeway brooded, feeding it.

Winter broke the silence, telling them about his encounter with Poole in the locker room.

“No kidding?” Reiser asked.

“No kidding. It was strange.”

“What do you expect?” Ridgeway asked. “His wife pulled the same thing on him that Alice did on me. If you throw in being Hart’s lackey, he’s got to feel like shit about life right now. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten his gun yet.”

“Don’t say things like that, Mark,” Winter said, more sharply than he intended.

Ridgeway didn’t react to Winter’s rebuke. “I’m telling you,” he said darkly, “sometimes a guy thinks about things like that.”

Winter eyed Ridgeway closely. “But not you, right?”

Ridgeway grunted and took a slug from his glass.

“Mark?”

“What?”

“Not you, right?”

Ridgeway stared at him, expressionless. “No, Mother Winter. Not me.”

“Good.”

A short silence followed, then Winter waved for another round. “I volunteered for Hart’s task force,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“No lie?” Reiser asked, joining in the conspiracy.

“Yeah. I drew the rover position, tomorrow night. I think I’ll put my theory to the test.”

“Theory?” asked Reiser.

Before Winter could answer, Ridgeway broke in. “Just make sure you shoot him, Karl. Don’t be merciful. Mercy is for the weak.”

Reiser half-nodded. “Mark’s right, in a way. Not for the IA reason, but this guy is either really smart or really crazy. Either way, don’t fool around.”

“It’s drugs,” Ridgeway said. “He’s doing this to support a habit. Has to be.”

Winter had already come to that conclusion. He relayed his theory about the woman accomplice in a car to the two men. Both nodded.

“Sounds reasonable. Either that or he is an Olympic-class runner,” Reiser joked.

“Those druggies have no strength. They can’t run,” Ridgeway said. “You do have one thing on your side, though, Karl.”

“What’s that?”

Ridgeway grinned but there was no humor in it. “If his getaway driver is a woman, she will eventually screw him over.”

Winter and Reiser chuckled, but it did little to relieve Ridgeway’s black mood.

Winter rose, dropping a ten on the table. “Have a couple on me, gents. I’m going home before I start to believe all these evil lies about the fairer sex.”

Ridgeway and Reiser raised their bottles in salute as he left Duke’s.

Outside, the air remained comfortably warm but he could feel the cool promise of night. He was glad that Reiser would stay with Ridgeway a little longer. A man needed his friends at a time like this.

His Corsica started up without hesitation, and he let it idle for a minute before leaving the parking lot and driving toward home. He and Mary had planned for a late night dinner after choir practice and he was looking forward to it. Already, he could see Mary’s bright eyes dancing. He could feel her smallness as she pressed against him for a hug. He could smell her delicious cooking, a skill hard-won over the years. The woman couldn’t brew tea to save her life, but she could cook like nobody’s business. He could see her apron, perhaps splashed with flour or sauce and the small wine glass on the counter that she sipped on for hours before it was empty. And he knew he would soon taste the wine that would be on her lips.

2316 hours

T-Dog reached for the phone. When Morris said now, he meant right now, motherfucker.

He dialed the number from memory.

Jimmy answered. “Hello?”

T-Dog smiled at Jimmy’s nervous tone. That was good. It would make things easier. He waited a few moments before answering. He could almost smell Jimmy’s sweat on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Jimmy. It’s T-Dog.”

“Oh.” A tiny pause hung in the air. “What’s up?”

“I need your car tomorrow night.”

“The brown Chevy?”

“No, the Maserati,” T-dog sneered. Stupid shit. “Of course the Chevy, you idiot. Drive it over about seven.”

There was another, longer pause.

“Did you hear me, bitch?”

“Uh, yeah. I kinda had something going, though.”

“Reschedule.”

Pause. Then, “Okay, T-Dog. You think you could hook me up when I come over? I’m hurting.”

T-Dog grinned at the desperation in Jimmy’s voice. “Yeah, sure. Ten for a twenty-piece, since you’re giving up your car for the night.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Seven o’clock. Don’t forget.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

Dialing, again from memory, he switched gears. He punched the proper buttons and paged Cally. Had to be respectful this time. Cally was no addict. He had some juice.

It took only three minutes for the phone to ring. T-Dog picked it up.

“Cat?”

“No. T-Dog.”

“Unh,” Cally grunted. “’Sup?”

“I need two gatts.”

“Baby nines?”

“That’s fine, unless you got anything bigger?”

“Not here,” Cally told him. “I got the baby nines right now, but anything bigger might take a while.”

“How long?”

“Coupla days.”

“That’s no good,” T-dog said. “I need them before tomorrow night.”

“Then the babies is all I got.”

T-Dog considered. Three-eighties were small pistols, good for concealment, but they lacked a lot in the power department.

“I guess I’ll take ‘em, then. Are the numbers filed off?”

“They can be.”

“Need ’em that way.”

They haggled briefly over price and T-Dog hung up. He turned to Morris, who lounged on the sofa, drinking from a forty-ounce bottle of beer.

“Got the drive and the gatts.”

Morris nodded his approval and licked his top lip. “Thas’ right. Gonna get that lily-ass motherfucker.”

Wednesday, August 24th

0400 hours

Gio lay in the early morning darkness. The red numbers of his clock gave him another thirty minutes of sleep, but Gio wasn’t tired.

He could still feel Marilyn’s presence in his bed. She’d risen at midnight and left. She seemed regretful, but she had to work in the morning and could not wear the same clothes two days in a row. Gio watched her dress in the darkness, admiring the silhouette of her body and head standing and bending like a dance. Her lips radiated warmth when she kissed him wetly and slipped out.

Now, he watched the minutes slip by on his clock and dreamt a waking dream of her. He realized Marilyn was different for him. That difference frightened him.

He couldn’t be falling in love with her.

Could he?

Was this what it was like?

He never expected to feel this way. Never really thought it possible. Now, he felt a pang in his stomach whenever he thought of her.

And what was he afraid of?

Gio took a deep breath and let it out. He knew what he feared. He’d never really cared how the woman felt, as long as she felt like sleeping with him. Now, he found himself worrying about how Marilyn felt. Obsessing about it.

She had to feel the same way. Or at least be starting to. How could she make love to him like she did and not feel it? She must have the same emotions running through her. She had to know he did, too.

But what if she didn’t sense his feelings?

And what if she didn’t feel the same way?

What if she got tired of him? Or doubted him?

Lying in the darkness, watching the crimson bars turn minute by minute, Gio decided there was only one way to know. He had to tell her.

0456 hours

Breakfast usually began around five in the morning. Units started asking if they were clear for a seven, and it was a rare morning when every unit that asked was not cleared. Cops were notoriously poor tippers, but they were generally loyal with their dining business. They arrested too many people who worked as cooks and dishwashers to risk going someplace they didn’t know, unless they wanted to risk someone spitting in the food. Or worse.

Mary’s Cafe was located at Birch and Rowan, both arterial streets. Long established as an officer-friendly restaurant, police cars crowded the small parking lot every morning. Baker sector officers crossed division and drove almost twenty blocks into Adam Sector to take breakfast there. If Hart had been the graveyard lieutenant, this never would have happened, but Saylor allowed it. The only stipulations were unspoken: a couple of units remained in service to shag the occasional call and units cleared to respond to anything that needed a response. The north-side troops happily adhered to these requirements.

Katie MacLeod didn’t care much for breakfast food. Sometimes, though, it felt good to get out of the car and do reports on a nice table with something hot to drink. Besides, there were two schools of thought on doing reports in the car. One held that it was good because you stayed in service and could answer calls quickly. The other held that it was dangerous because you were vulnerable while writing, or that you couldn’t accomplish much writing if you maintained the proper level of alertness.

Katie belonged to the first school, countering the danger factor by backing into a location where she could only be approached from the front or parking in the center of a large, empty parking lot. That way any movement attracted her attention.

Still, the coffee at Mary’s tasted good and there was company, if you wanted it. She didn’t, and signaled that to the others by sitting alone a booth away from the group already present. The stack of reports she was working on answered any questioning glances her direction. But the truth was, she wanted the solitude for other reasons.

Or reason.

Oh, hell, it was Stef.

She’d avoided him since that morning. Confusion flooded her senses whenever she thought of the situation. She paused while writing a burglary report.

Why do I keep coming back to this?

Because she liked him, she knew. He’d been a nice guy and there were some sparks between them, ever since the Academy.

But she was on the rebound. And he…well, who knew where he was on this?

Katie bit her lip. He hadn’t tried too hard to go out of his way to talk to her since that night. Yeah, maybe she’d avoided him a little, but she got the sense that he’d been avoiding her, too.

Maybe that was best. Love on the rebound. Dipping your pen in company ink. Cops working together and sleeping together. None of it sounded too smart to her.

She wondered if dating another cop would make it easier to deal with the stress of the job. After all, you wouldn’t have to describe it to the other person. They’d understand it perfectly. Then again, what if the stress wasn’t relieved but instead doubled? And what if he suddenly became protective, coming on all her calls, worrying about her all the time? Eventually that would happen, she knew. She hesitated, not wanting to acknowledge the next obvious question: What if they broke up? Working around an ex-lover would suck.

Jesus, Katie thought. Why am I worried about this? He’s obviously not. We had our little fling and it’s over with. There’s nothing else to it.

Right?

Katie shut off debate and dug into her report.

0615 hours

Just where everyone wants to be, Kopriva thought. Standing tall in the Lieutenant’s office.

He stood rigidly in front of Lieutenant Saylor’s desk as the shift commander read the complaint to him. He didn’t recognize the complainant until after the lieutenant read her name, then he had some memory of the stop. It was soccer mom in the mini-van, he was pretty sure.

Once Saylor finished reading, he raised his head to look at Kopriva. “Now, Officer Kopriva, I have to advise you that you have the right to have a Guild representative here with you during this proceeding.”

Damn. That meant he was going to get hammered. Well, if it stayed at shift level, that was better than seeing it go to Internal Affairs.

“I waive that right, sir,” he told Saylor.

“Sign here, then.”

He handed Kopriva the pen and the officer scrawled his name.

“Now, tell me. Does Ms. Wilson have a valid complaint?”

Kopriva considered. Saylor was a straight shooter. He would give him a fair shake, he decided.

“Was this woman driving a mini-van, sir?”

Saylor glanced down at the copy of Kopriva’s ticket in front of him. “Yes,” he answered.

Kopriva sighed. “Well, I don’t know, sir. She definitely blew the stoplight. I wasn’t too concerned in listening to how she thought the light was yellow. I suppose I was a little short with her. But I never said anything unprofessional.”

“Do you know where she was headed when you stopped her?”

Kopriva shook his head.

“Her twenty-five year old son’s birthday dinner,” Saylor said quietly. “Probably his last. He has terminal cancer.”

“Oh.” Kopriva suddenly felt like a heel.

Saylor didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he wrote something at the bottom of the complaint sheet. Without looking up, he said, “This will be considered a verbal counseling, as noted on the complaint form. Your actions were not improper.” His gaze locked on Kopriva. “You couldn’t have known, Stef, but maybe next time, listen a little?”

“Yes, sir.”

Saylor slid the paper across the desk to him. “Just sign that I counseled you, okay?”

Kopriva signed and returned the pen.

“We all get a little frustrated sometimes, right?” Saylor said. “Just take it out on the right people.”

Kopriva smiled in spite of himself.

Saylor gave him a wink. “And you did not hear that last part from me.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

Saylor nodded and glanced at the wall clock. About thirty minutes of the shift remained. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

Kopriva thanked him again and left the office. He changed quickly and hurried to his car. As he pulled out of the lot, he saw Katie parking her patrol car and securing it. He kept driving and did not meet her eye.