Under a Raging Moon

THREE

Monday, August 15th

1124 hours

James Mace rose sluggishly from the couch. His entire body felt itchy. The inside of his mouth felt like foul, dried leather. He scratched the side of his face. The stubble there had turned into a short beard. Sleep crust cascaded from his eyes as he rubbed them.

He glanced at the easy chair. Leslie lay curled into a ball with a blanket tossed over her. Where was Andrea? He lumbered to his feet and poked his head in the bedroom, only a few short paces from the living room in their small apartment. He saw her dirty blonde hair splayed across the pillow. She wore no clothing and used no blankets. He admired the curve of her back and buttocks, but averted his eyes before his gaze reached the needle marks on the back of her knees.

He plodded to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The wash of cold air from the fridge felt good against his bare chest. He stared at the wet, brownish leaves on a head of rotting lettuce. He wasn’t hungry, anyway, but you’d think with two women in the house, the place would be cleaner and there might be a few groceries in the cupboard.

Mace chuckled, a rasping cough that sounded decades older than his twenty-seven years. If his Army buddies could see him now. They used to tease him about being a virgin until after he turned twenty-one. Well, he took care of that on their first trip overseas.

They’d shut their faces now, wouldn’t they? He lived with two women and was balling both of them. And they both knew it. That had to top anything those guys ever did. Besides, they were squares for the most part, just drinking and women for them. They’d been afraid of the opium dens in Thailand. Mace hadn’t been.

The goddamn Army, anyway. Since when did you give elite troops like the Rangers a piss test? They accepted his claim of having eaten poppy-seed cake at the first failure. After the second one, his CO ordered him not to eat poppy-seed cake ever again. His third failure resulted in a dishonorable discharge. They had offered him that or a court-martial. It wasn’t much of an offer, but Mace recognized a parachute when he saw one.

So now what did he have for five years of service? No pension, his meager savings wiped out six months ago. His only trophy: a nice machete wound in the face, courtesy of a rebel in Panama.

Mace slammed the fridge door. Leslie stirred in her sleep. He stared at her. She was attractive, or had been, but still no match for Andrea. At least, that was the case before Andrea went to hell.

He needed a drink of water. Filling a plastic cup from Taco Bell with water, he allowed himself to gloat in his status as stud. How many men had two women? He did.

The tap water had a coppery taste to it and after only a couple of swallows he felt nauseous. He dumped the rest.

The couch beckoned to him. He flopped onto it and stared at the textured ceiling. He’d met Andrea before his hair even grew out after his discharge. She‘d proved to be the perfect medicine, accepting where others had rejected him. She soothed his pain over the Army, his family, everything. Definitely the best lay he’d ever had, and she knew where to find the good stuff.

He remembered how firm and luscious her body had been the first time he’d had her. So supple and willing. Over the months, though, it had deteriorated rapidly. Her breasts sagged, her athletic frame shriveled, and sores broke out. And, of course, the track marks.

They’d met Leslie at a party. No one would sell them anything until he started dancing with Leslie and kissing her. Andrea hadn’t minded once he told her Leslie knew somebody who was holding.

Leslie got the ‘H’ and they left. He remembered feeling excited about sex for the first time in months as they drove to the apartment. When they arrived and all three fell into the bed before shooting up, he could hardly believe his luck. What a wild night!

So Leslie stayed. And for a while, it was great, but now, both of them were junkies. They couldn’t control their habit. Instead, it controlled them. Not him, though. He could thank the Army for one thing: discipline.

Mace decided to take advantage of the fact that both women were sleeping. He went to the cabinet where he stored his works-and found the baggie empty beside the leather holder. He stared at it for a long moment, disbelieving, as if his gaze would cause the missing heroin to somehow materialize.

Fucking bitches! They raided his shit.

He flew across the room at Leslie, slapping her as hard as he could. The force of the blow knocked her from the chair to the floor where she lay, staring at him, blinking stupidly.

“You stealing, worthless bitch!” he shouted, slapping and punching without mercy. She covered her head with her hands, absorbing the blows without a sound.

Mace turned and headed for the bedroom. His rage subsided but his body had started to itch and shake. Nausea swept over him, even though he knew it was too soon for that. He had to get some more.

He shouldered his way through the bedroom door. Andrea sat on the bed, staring at him, her breasts exposed, the small tuft of hair below her belly clearly visible. The vision held no interest for him.

“Do you have any money left from your welfare check?” He asked her.

She shook her head.

“Any cash at all?”

Another shake.

No use asking Leslie, he thought. She wouldn’t have raided his shit if she had money.

He studied Andrea and knew immediately she’d be no good, too strung out to help him. That was the way of it, lately. She wouldn’t help, couldn’t help, but she’d be there for her share when the goodies arrived.

“Leslie?”

No answer.

“Leslie? Don’t make me come out there.”

“What?” she replied sullenly.

“Are you cool? Can you drive?”

“I can drive.”

Mace opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and withdrew a long black wig and a.38 revolver. Wordlessly, Andrea watched him, a dull stare in her eyes. Mace suddenly felt a stab of pity for her. He sat down beside her on the bed, the gun and wig in his lip.

“Be back soon, baby.” He caressed her shoulder and tried to smile. “Be back with some medicine for what ails ya.”

Andrea smiled back, small and child-like.

God, she’d been such a beautiful woman. His baby. And now…just a shell. A junkie shell.

Mace called for Leslie and they left.

Tuesday, August 16th

2118 hours

Television. Thomas Chisolm sighed. The world’s most worthless invention.

Fifty-seven cable channels, including movie channels, and yet he sat staring at the guide channel because he liked the music they were playing. Always a classic rock fan, before it was considered classic, Chisolm had slowly drifted towards country music over the past several years.

He drank a cold bottle of Coors. On his workdays, he rarely touched a drop of alcohol, but his night off, he sometimes had a few. Tonight, he’d made a considerable dent in the beer left over from the last shift party three weeks ago. He managed to achieve a steady buzz over the last couple of hours and now he’d hit his stride. The proper rate of consumption would keep him at this level of intoxication without advancing or retreating for several more hours.

Goddamn Hart, Chisolm grated inwardly. He raised his bottle in mock tribute. “Here’s to you, Lieutenant Alan Hart. Screw you, you pencil-necked prick.” He took a hearty swig of the cold-filtered brew. Good stuff.

Hell, Hart wouldn’t have lasted a week in Vietnam. Never would’ve made it through Special Forces training, the pansy. Probably’d gone crying home to his mommy inside of three days. Even if by some miracle, he’d made it through the training, once in the bush, a prick like that would have gotten fragged by his own men inside of a week.

Vietnam. Chisolm sipped his Coors and shook his head. How alive he’d been then. And how dead.

“The police department has some unrealistic expectations on how to deal with crime,” he lectured the television. “We are too nice. Criminals don’t respect that. They view it as weakness.”

Chisolm twirled the bottle, watching it turn and wobble on the coffee table. “As police officers, we’re expected to clean up crime. But our hands are tied.” He shook his head. “In ‘Nam, our company had free rein to do whatever it took to flush the Viet Cong out of their sector. My commanding officer took the hard line. If we even suspected someone of so much as lighting a cigarette for the VC, it was lights out for that poor sonofabitch.”

He grinned.

Captain Mack Greene. Now that had been a commanding officer. Hart looked like a little boy sucking his thumb next to Captain Greene. About the only River City officer that came close to Greene on the department was Lieutenant Robert Saylor, Chisolm’s lieutenant on graveyard.

He wondered briefly if he should talk to Saylor about Hart, then dismissed the idea. Hart oversaw the FTO program. No use going to Saylor. Besides, Chisolm wasn’t about to whine to his superiors about something as inconsequential as Alan Hart.

“Fuck,” Chisolm whispered for no specific reason, repeating his father’s favorite curse phrase. “Fuck a duck and make it cluck.”

He glanced at the letter on his kitchen counter, where it had sat for a month. The ragged edges where he’d torn open the envelope stared back at him.

The letter came from his sister in Portland. She’d written to tell him that Sylvia had gotten married. She wondered if he had known.

He hadn’t.

Chisolm sighed heavily. He often wished he hadn’t blown things with Sylvia, but it wasn’t until that letter arrived that he realized how deeply those wishes went.

Well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. He smiled bitterly. And if worms had.45’s, birds wouldn’t fuck with them.

After receiving the letter, he’d promptly gone to Duke’s, picked up a twenty-five-year-old cop groupie, brought her home and nailed her. Afterward, he found himself wondering if his pulse had even quickened during the entire affair.

Sylvia had dignity, and with his reaction to her recent marriage, he’d proven he had none.

Chisolm finished the bottle and strode to the fridge to get another. The bottle hissed slightly as he twisted the top off. She got married. So what? She left River City two years ago. What did he want her to do? Brood forever, like him?

Besides, she wasn’t the only ghost threatening to visit him tonight.

The television guide channel suddenly annoyed him. He grabbed the remote and flicked the off button.

“You know,” he said to the small pinpoint of light on the TV screen, “the thing that bothers me the most about losing the FTO gig is that I am good for those kids. They come out of the Academy and can barely tell the difference between a bad guy and a magpie. I teach them what they need to survive.”

He took a hard swig of the beer, his eyes fixed on the fading light on the screen. “Other FTO’s teach them other things,” he conceded, jabbing his index finger at the TV to stress each word. “But I concentrate on showing them how to stay alive. How to be a warrior in peace-time.”

Just like in ‘Nam, he realized. Try to jam in enough knowledge into in the short training time so that they learn how to stay alive. That way, their deaths aren’t on your conscience.

But Thomas Chisolm housed a vast cemetery in his conscience and all the beer in the fridge wasn’t going to wash it away.

Wednesday, August 16th

Graveyard Shift

0126 hours

The River City Police Department had a successful Reserve Officer program. Reserve Officers were subjected to the same hiring process as commissioned officers and then attended a condensed version of the Police Academy. They always rode with a commissioned officer, except for a handful that graduated to a higher rank and rode in two-man reserve cars. All of them were volunteers.

Some officers resented the reserves, claiming their presence took the place of hiring another commissioned officer. Stefan Kopriva disagreed. He saw the reserves as a supplement, not a replacement.

Besides, Kopriva knew that the same people who complained about the reserves taking away jobs would grouse even louder if they had to field some of the calls reserves often took. Reserves fielded a steady diet of cold burglary reports, bicycle thefts, and found property calls, all things most cops considered boring.

The reserve officer in Kopriva’s car was a green one, just three rides out of the Academy. Kopriva didn’t mind. The kid seemed bright and eager to learn. Kopriva had discovered in his sensei’s karate dojo that it gave him satisfaction to show someone a skill and then see that person ‘get it.’ Police work, sometimes a very play-it-by-ear profession with a lot of gray area, was tricky to actually teach someone and thus, even more gratifying when someone caught on.

Kopriva let the reserve, Ken Travis, drive for the first half of the shift until oh-one-hundred. Then they switched. Not surprisingly, none of the officers in his previous three rides had allowed him to drive.

“Were they from the sit down and shut up school of thought?” he asked.

Travis nodded. “Pretty much. But you learn a lot from watching.”

“Not as much as from doing,” Kopriva said.

Ten minutes later, Kopriva spotted a car sneaking down Regal, a side street with a lot of offsetting intersections. This allowed drivers to treat it like an arterial. The street was frequented by drivers without a valid license, a practice so common that Kopriva and his sector-mates had dubbed any car on Regal after midnight in violation of the “felony Regal law” and therefore fair game.

Kopriva whipped the cruiser around with a u-turn and swooped in behind the car, a ‘71 or ’72 Monte Carlo. “Find the stop,” he instructed Travis. He’d already noticed the driver’s side headlight was burned out, an Easter Egg of a stop. The vehicle sped along thirty miles per hour, five over the limit. And to make things even easier, the passenger-side taillight was broken and showing white light to the rear.

Travis peered closely at the car for a block. In that time, the vehicle slowed to twenty-three miles per hour.

“How fast is he going?” Travis asked him.

“Twenty-three, twenty-four now.”

He stared at the car for another long moment, then saw it. “Broken tail-light?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Kopriva asked good-naturedly.

“Telling.”

“Do we stop them?”

Travis didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Kopriva picked up the microphone. Before notifying radio, he told Travis, “There’s two of them. If one runs, stay with the car. If both run, you take the passenger. Okay?”

Travis nodded, his eyes dancing with excitement.

Kopriva recited the license plate and their location to radio and activated his overhead lights. The car immediately pulled to the side while Kopriva put his spotlight and takedown lights on the vehicle. He slammed the car into park and still managed to beat Travis out of the car.

Both occupants remained seated, neither one seat-belted. Kopriva approached cautiously, lighting up the back seat with his heavy maglight and then searching for the driver’s hands. They were on the wheel. The passenger’s hands rested on his lap.

The driver was a white male in his mid-twenties with long, greasy hair and a scraggly growth of beard. “Is there a problem, officer?” asked with careful politeness.

This is going to be a good stop.

“You have several equipment defects, sir,” Kopriva told him. “Your headlight is out and one tail-light is broken.”

“They are?” The driver acted surprised.

Kopriva nodded. “You were also traveling at thirty miles per hour. The speed limit here is twenty-five.”

“I thought it was thirty.”

“It’s twenty-five. May I see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?”

“Yes, sir.” The driver began to dig through a pile of papers above the visor.

Kopriva motioned over the top of the car to Travis, who stood beside the passenger window. “Get his I.D.”

Travis nodded and spoke to the passenger.

The driver nervously handed Kopriva an insurance card that had expired four months ago, along with the registration. The registered owner was Pete Maxwell.

“Are you Pete?”

The driver shook his head. “No. Pete’s my friend. He loaned me the car.” He handed Kopriva his license.

Kopriva looked at it. Right away, he noticed it was a state identification card, not a driver’s license. While a perfectly legal form of identification, even issued by Department of Licensing, it was not a license. And it usually meant that the driver’s status was suspended.

“Well, Mr…” Kopriva glanced down at the card. “Mr. Rousse. This isn’t a license. Do you have a license?”

Rousse shook his head. “It’s suspended,” he said ruefully.

“And Mr. Maxwell’s insurance has lapsed.”

Rousse nodded glumly.

“Okay, wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Kopriva glanced at Travis. “Got his I.D.?”

Travis shook his head. “He won’t give it to me.”

Oh really? Kopriva peered at the passenger through the driver’s window. “What’s your name?”

The thin passenger had jet-black hair, shaved on the sides and long in the back. His beard stubble was thick. He stared straight ahead and didn’t respond to Kopriva’s question.

“I said, what’s your name, passenger!” Kopriva put an edge in his voice.

The man turned. “Why do I have to tell you?”

He has a warrant.

“Are you wearing a seat-belt?” Kopriva asked.

“No. Well, I was. I took it off when we stopped.”

Kopriva shook his head. “No, you didn’t. You weren’t wearing one. That’s a traffic infraction. You are now required to identify yourself. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you for Refusal To Cooperate. Now what’s your name?”

The passenger considered briefly, then said, “I’m Dennis Maxwell.”

Travis wrote it in his pocket notebook.

“Middle initial?” Kopriva asked.

“G.”

“Date of birth?”

“Uh, ten…seventeen, sixty-three. I mean, sixty-two.” He gave a nervous grin. “Listen, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’ve just been hassled by cops in the past.”

“I’m not hassling you,” Kopriva stated coldly. “I’m doing my job.”

Dennis nodded. “Yeah, all right. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Kopriva said. As he walked back to the car, he muttered, “You lying, lying, lying bag of crap.”

Back in the car, Kopriva switched to the data channel so Travis could run both names. “Get the listed physical description on Maxwell. And have them run the registered owner, too.”

The data channel was busy and the dispatcher took forever to respond with their requested information. Kopriva wondered when they would ever get the computers in the patrol car. Los Angeles cops had been using them for the better part of a decade.

While they waited for the dispatcher, he quizzed Travis on all the infractions they could write Rousse for. The reserve did well on his answers.

“What about the passenger?” Kopriva asked him.

“Kind of a jerk,” Travis said.

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

Travis shrugged. “I suppose. He just doesn’t like the police.”

Kopriva suppressed a smile. Three years ago, he would have thought the same thing. Now he knew better.

Travis had almost finished writing the infractions before radio called out for Baker-123. Kopriva ignored it, giving Travis a chance to answer. The reserve didn’t notice. On the second call, he picked up the mike himself.

“Baker-123, go ahead.”

“Rousse is in locally, extensive record, but no current wants. DOL is suspended for refusing the breath test. Also.”

“Go ahead.”

“Bravo-123.”

Kopriva felt a tickle of frustration. The code was designed to inform the police officer that one of the subjects being checked had a warrant. Calling the unit by the military alphanumeric ensured that if the suspect were in earshot, he would not inadvertently overhear traffic.

“Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic,” he told radio, keeping his tone neutral. The dispatcher should have told him about the warrant first, not in the order he gave the names. But his anger quickly washed away with the satisfaction of having been right.

“It’s for Maxwell, Pete, your registered owner. A misdemeanor drug charge with a $2,030 bond. Pete Maxwell is five-ten, one-fifty, black hair, brown eyes. Also.”

“Have records confirm the warrant. Go ahead your also.”

“Maxwell, Dennis G. in locally, no wants. He’s six-two, two-hundred thirty, blond and blue.”

“Copy, thanks.” Kopriva replaced the mike and turned to Travis, who sat open-mouthed throughout the exchange. “Now, what do we have?”

Travis thought for a moment. “Well, the driver’s suspended, so we write him for that.”

Kopriva nodded. “What else?”

“The registered owner has a warrant.”

Kopriva waited for a long minute, giving Travis a chance to think some more. Travis furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

“Did the passenger have hard I.D.?” Kopriva finally asked.

“No.”

“Is he six-two?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Travis started to squirm.

Kopriva shrugged. “Maybe,” he said easily. “Hard to tell when someone is sitting down. Did he look like he weighed two-thirty? Did he have blonde hair?”

“No.” Realization flooded Ken Travis’ face. “He’s not Dennis. He’s Pete.”

Kopriva nodded. “Exactly. He’s probably Pete, the registered owner. He has a warrant, so he decided to play the name game. Only he’s not very good at it. He picked Dennis, probably a brother or a cousin, whose physicals don’t even come close.”

“Not too smart,” Travis observed.

“Hey, these people aren’t rocket scientists. Thank God.”

Travis chuckled.

Kopriva continued, “So now what do we do?”

“Arrest him.”

Kopriva gave a slow half-nod. “Well, yes. But first we get confirmation from records through radio. A records clerk will pull the actual warrant and confirm that it exists and is currently valid. While we’re waiting for that, let’s cut a ticket for Rousse on his suspended driving. Do we know for sure that this passenger is Pete?”

“Not for sure, no.”

“So we play the name game back and we get confirmation. Leave that to me. Then we arrest him. After the arrest, then what?”

“We give Rousse his tickets?”

Kopriva smiled. “We’ll do that first. Travis, don’t be afraid to be wrong. Tell me, don’t ask. It’s okay to make a mistake.”

Travis nodded several times. “Okay. After the arrest, we take him to jail.”

“True, but first we get to do something. What?”

Travis paused, thinking. Then he smiled. “We get to search the car.”

“Why?”

“Search incident to an arrest.” His smile broadened. “If the arrest is made out of a vehicle, officers may search the vehicle.”

“Excellent. Now finish those tickets. I’ll keep an eye on our little misdemeanant.”

Travis wrote quickly, obviously enthused. Kopriva felt the same way. His job was like a puzzle sometimes. Fit in who was who, figure out the truth, the partial truth and the lies. Then make the call.

“Baker-123, warrant is confirmed.”

“Copy. Have records hold it.”

Travis finished the tickets and they stepped out of the patrol car. Kopriva called Rousse back to the car, directing him to stand at the push-bar in the center of the front bumper. He kept the front corner of the vehicle between himself and Rousse.

“Mr. Rousse,” he said, placing the tickets on the hood of the car, “I am citing you tonight.” He explained each of the tickets and directed him where to sign. Rousse cooperated and didn’t appear angry. Once he’d signed the ticket, Kopriva tore off his copies and handed them to him.

“Mr. Rousse, what is your passenger’s name?”

Rousse’s eyes flitted nervously from the car to Kopriva and back again. “Dennis. Dennis Maxwell.”

“And where’s Pete tonight?”

“Home, I guess.”

“What is Pete to Dennis?”

“His brother.”

Kopriva stared at Rousse. “Why are you lying for him, Mr. Rousse?”

“I’m not. His name is Dennis. Honest, you can ask him.”

“Okay, if that’s how you want it.” Kopriva pointed. “Go back to your car, put your hands on the steering wheel and stay there.”

Rousse obeyed. As the driver reached the car, Kopriva called to the passenger. “Dennis, come back here for a minute.”

‘Dennis’ obeyed. Kopriva half-expected him to run, but evidently he had faith in his name ruse. Kopriva almost laughed in disgust as he watched a black-haired male about five-ten and one-hundred-fifty pounds exit the car and approach the front of the cruiser.

“Stand right there by my push-bar, please.”

He complied, crossing his arms.

Kopriva eyed him for a full minute until the man finally raised his hands questioningly, “What?”

“Why are you lying to me, sir?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Kopriva said with a nod. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“No,” Dennis answered quietly.

“Did I forget to erase the STUPID stamp off my forehead before shift tonight?”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, you’re not Dennis. You’re not even close. What’s more, you look a lot like Pete Maxwell. Now can you explain that to me?”

“I am Dennis Maxwell.”

“What do you weigh?”

“One-seventy or so. But I lost a lot of weight in the last few months. I used to weigh almost two-forty. I was fat.” Sweat collected on his upper lip and he fidgeted from foot to foot.

“And I suppose you dyed your hair black, too, huh?” Kopriva’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

He nodded.

“And what? Shaved off three inches from the soles of your feet?” Kopriva shook his head in disgust. “Uh-uh. Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re Pete Maxwell.”

“I am Dennis. Swear to God.”

Kopriva looked at Travis. The reserve stood enthralled by the entire exchange. Kopriva winked, then stepped around the car and leaned toward the fidgeting, sweating suspect. “Okay, Dennis, I’ll tell you what I am going to do. First, I’ll call for another unit to go to the station and get a printout photo of you and your brother. He’ll bring those pictures up here while I detain you. See, Pete has a warrant for his arrest. So when my friends get here and show me the pictures and you mysteriously look like Pete and not anything like Dennis, that’s when I place you under arrest for the warrant.”

Dennis squirmed, then opened his mouth to speak.

Kopriva raised his finger to cut off his denial, “Not only that, I will charge you for lying to me about your name in order to avoid arrest. Plus, I will arrest your friend for the same charge, since he is backing up your lie.”

He gave Dennis a long stare. The suspect looked away and back again, shifting his stance from side to side.

“Now, if you save me from all that messing around and just admit who you really are and take care of your warrant like a man, I will only arrest you for the warrant. Nothing else.” Kopriva shrugged. “Otherwise, you get it all, the whole enchilada. I’ll even write you for no seatbelt.”

A long minute of silence followed. The only sounds Kopriva could hear was the engine idling and the clicking and whirring of his overhead lights. Having played out his hand, he held the man’s stare, showing him that it wasn’t a bluff.

Finally, the dark-haired suspect looked away and sighed heavily. “I’m Pete Maxwell. I’ve got I.D. in my back pocket.”

“Pete, you’re under arrest.” Kopriva quickly cuffed and searched him. He found a marijuana pipe in Maxwell’s right front pocket and placed it on the hood. He put the rest of his property into a plastic bag. Travis guided Pete into the back of the police car.

Kopriva called Rousse out of the car.

“Stand here,” he said, pointing next to Travis at the front of the patrol car. Then he searched the car. In the center console, he found a small Tupperware container roughly the size of a fifty-cent piece. He opened it carefully and saw a brown chunky substance inside.

Methamphetamine.

The rest of his search turned up nothing. Kopriva retrieved a field test kit from the trunk of his car. The small plastic vials had ampoules with chemicals in them that reacted with specific drugs by turning a particular color. He used his knife to slice off a sliver of the substance in the Tupperware container and dropped it in. When he broke the ampules, the test tube immediately flowed orange.

Positive.

Kopriva showed the tube to Travis.

“What’s going on?” Rousse asked.

“You’re under arrest for possession of methamphetamine,” Kopriva told him, applying a mild wristlock. He motioned with his head for Travis to handcuff Rousse.

“What’s that?” the man asked unconvincingly.

“Meth,” Kopriva told him. “Crank. Like you don’t know.”

“It’s not mine,” Rousse protested.

Kopriva searched him, finding nothing of importance. He requested another unit for transport. He sat Rousse down on the curb with his legs straight out in front of him. Travis stood guard behind him.

“Baker-123, is there a sergeant available?”

“L-123, go ahead.”

Sgt. Shen, Adam sector sergeant. Good.

“L-123, can you contact me at Regal and Olympic?”

“Affirm, from Division and Wabash.”

“Copy.” Kopriva allowed himself a tiny smile. So the Sarge was having coffee at Denny’s with the Lieutenant, huh? Well, that wasn’t far off, at least. He shouldn’t be too long.

A dark brown Chevy cruised past the traffic stop slowly. Too slowly. Kopriva broke the snap on his holster and rocked his pistol forward. The car looked familiar, and the passenger…

Isaiah Morris!

Morris was a gangbanger from Compton. He’d arrested the Crip about two months ago on a warrant and found crack cocaine stuffed into his sock. Not enough to prove Morris was dealing, but still a solid possession arrest.

Kopriva followed the car with his eyes. It rolled slowly by. Morris glared at him through the passenger window. Then the tires chirped and the car sped away. Kopriva switched to the data channel and ran Morris’ name. He doubted that Morris had appeared in court on the drug charge. Maybe there was a warrant out for him.

While he waited, Kopriva decided to see if he could plant a seed of trust. He picked up the marijuana pipe and opened the back door of the patrol car. “See this?” he asked Pete.

Pete nodded.

“Since you told me the truth about your name, I’m going to dump it and not charge you. Next time I talk to you, don’t lie to me.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I found Meth in your console.”

Pete winced. “Can’t you just dump the crank, too?”

Kopriva shook his head. “A pipe is one thing. Nobody cares too much. Drugs are something else. People care about drugs. Especially meth. It’s a problem.”

“Yeah,” Pete said mournfully. “I know. My niece just went through D.A.R.E. at school.”

“Then you get what I mean. Besides, my sergeant is coming here. I think he wants to charge both of you.”

“What? Hey, that shit’s not mine, man. It’s his.”

Kopriva held up his hand. “I’m sure it is, Pete. I’ll try to talk him out of it, but this isn’t my normal sergeant. This guy is kind of a hard ass about drugs. So we’ll see.”

“All right,” Pete said, resigned. “Thanks for chucking the pipe, man. Straight up.”

“No problem.”

Kopriva closed the door and walked to the sidewalk where a dutiful citizen had put out his garbage can. With a casual look around to satisfy no one was watching, he slipped the pipe into the garbage.

Rousse sat on the sidewalk curb, looking dejected and angry. Travis stood behind him.

Kopriva got his attention and asked, “Whose crank is that, anyways? You guys share?”

Rousse sniffed. “Nice try.”

“Nice try what?”

“Whatever it is you found, it ain’t mine. Just like I said. So you can save your little cop interrogation games, all right?”

Kopriva glanced at Travis. “He gets a little testy when things don’t go his way, huh?”

Before Travis could answer, Rousse said, “Fuck you, man. I want to talk to my lawyer. His name is Joel Harrity.”

Kopriva smiled. Harrity was a local defense attorney who crusaded against the police department. Most of the maggots who claimed to be a client couldn’t afford him.

“What’re you smiling about, punk?” Rousse demanded. “I want to see your sergeant.”

Kopriva shrugged. “People in hell want ice water. That don’t mean they get it.”

Rousse glared at him, then shook his head. “Whatever.”

Baker-122 arrived. Officer Anthony Battaglia climbed out of the passenger side. His partner, Connor O’Sullivan, remained in the vehicle.

“What’s up, Stef?” Battaglia asked.

“Got a warrant, found some meth in the car. That’s the driver,” he pointed to Rousse. “Can you transport him to jail for me? I’ll be right behind you after I talk to Sgt. Shen.”

“Sure.” Battaglia waved O’Sullivan out of the car and they walked to where Travis guarded Rousse. Each officer took an arm and pulled Rousse to his feet. At their patrol car, O’Sullivan searched Rousse again. Kopriva didn’t take offense, though he knew some officers did. Which was too bad, in his opinion. If he put someone in his car, it was only after he searched them himself. He expected the same from other officers.

Once Rousse was safely stowed in the back of the patrol car, Battaglia waved to him and the pair headed south on Regal, slowing to talk momentarily with someone in another police car. Kopriva recognized it as the Sergeant’s car. After a moment, O’Sullivan accelerated away and continued south.

Sergeant Miyamoto Shen pulled his car in behind Kopriva’s and waited. Kopriva walked over and leaned into the window.

“What do you have, Stef?” the trim sergeant asked him.

“I stopped the car,” Kopriva explained, “and the passenger played the name game. Once we got that straightened out, it turns out he has a warrant. He’s the one in my car. Anyway, I found some meth in the console. Battaglia and Sully have my driver and they’re running him in for me on the meth.”

“So what do you need?”

“I want to do the weasel in the passenger seat, too. He’s the registered owner. I’d like to arrest them both for constructive possession.”

Shen considered. “So the driver is not the registered owner?”

“No.”

“And the RO was in the passenger seat?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you find the drugs? The glove box?”

Kopriva shook his head. “No, the console between the seats. Both had access.”

“What are they saying?”

Kopriva’s radio crackled. “Bravo-123.”

“Neither one has been read their rights, but both say it’s the other guy’s meth,” he told Shen, then answered the radio. “Go ahead, I’m clear for traffic.”

“Morris is in as a confirmed gang member. He has a felony want for possession of crack cocaine, bail is $25,000.”

“Copy. I don’t have him here. Also, have records ship over the warrant for Maxwell.”

“Copy.”

Kopriva explained to Shen, “Isaiah Morris drove by us while I was waiting for Sully and Battaglia. So, what do you think about these two here?”

Shen stroked his chin for a moment. “Do them both for constructive possession. Be detailed in your report on where you found the dope and the issue of access for both parties. Their statements, too.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Good stop, Stef.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

Shen drove off. Kopriva locked the doors to the Monte Carlo and returned to his patrol car.

Maxwell leaned forward, his voice muffled by the plastic shield. “What’d he say?”

“He said I have to do you both. Sorry, man.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, man, I don’t need this shit.”

“Sorry.”

“Shit. Well, thanks for trying, man. Thanks for the pipe, too.”

Kopriva nodded. He turned on his favorite rock station and faded the music to the back. The tactic kept the prisoners from hearing the conversation between the officers.

“Advise radio we are en route to jail with one and our mileage is reset.” Kopriva punched the trip odometer reset. “And get our time of stop and a report number.”

Travis advised radio and carefully noted the time and report number. “Wow,” he said. “That was cool.”

“That is the way the game is played. That suspended ticket we wrote Rousse? He most likely won’t appear in court for it, so it’ll go to warrant. Next time he gets stopped, he gets arrested again and we get into his car and find his drugs again. Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing.”

Travis nodded his head, smiling.

“See,” Kopriva continued, “some officers act like traffic enforcement is beneath them. But traffic is one of our best tools. Just because you stop someone doesn’t mean you have to write them. I let people off all the time. Decent people. Sometimes even shitheads. But look what happened tonight. We stopped Rousse on a piddly traffic stop for defective equipment. Now we have a misdemeanor, a warrant, and two felonies. Plus about three misdemeanors we threw away, if you count the pipe and obstructing charges.”

“Great,” Travis said. “This is great.” He nodded his head to the music and grinned.

The two were quiet the rest of the way to jail. Kopriva thought about how he would like to catch Morris again. Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love came on the radio. Kopriva turned it up.

“I’ve been waiting so long…”

Maxwell leaned forward and yelled over the din. “At least you guys got good tunes.”

“To be where I’m going…”

“Rock-n-roll,” Kopriva yelled back and flashed a grin at Travis. Pete Maxwell might be a doper maggot but now he thought they were buddies. You never knew when that might come in handy.

“In the sunshine of your luuhh-uuuhhve!”

They drove into the sally port at jail and secured their weapons in the lock-box outside the door. Kopriva walked Maxwell into the officer’s booking area and O’Sullivan handed him a booking slip.

“Rousse is all done, except for the report number.”

“Thanks, Sully.”

Battaglia nudged Kopriva. “You better check his work. Sometimes he forgets and he writes shit in Gaelic.”

“Better than Italian,” O’Sullivan fired back. He shook his head at Kopriva. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve come in here to book someone named Mamma Mia.”

“Hey!” Battaglia said. “Leave alone my mother.”

O’Sullivan smiled. “Italian boys and their mothers.”

“Irish boys and their dresses.”

“They’re kilts, not dresses.”

Battaglia rolled his eyes and clapped Kopriva on the shoulder. “Good pinch, Stef.”

The two officers left, tossing insults at each other on the way out the door.

Kopriva filled out the booking slip for Maxwell and completed Rousse’s. A jailer brought out Maxwell’s warrant. Kopriva told Travis to read it to Maxwell.

Officer James Kahn stood in the corner of the small booking area. He looked up from his paperwork at Kopriva. “What’d you get, hotshot?”

“Warrant. Some meth.” Kahn was a hard-charger and Kopriva respected that. On the few calls he’d been on with him, though, Kahn had exhibited almost zero compassion. “What are you here for?”

Kahn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know what’s a bad day? It’s a bad day when a policeman shows up at your doorstep at midnight with two Child Protective Services workers. He takes your kids and places them with CPS, then arrests you and your wife for warrants right out of your living room. That’s a bad day, man.”

Kopriva waited, knowing there was more to come.

“You know what’s a good day?” Kahn asked. “It’s a good day when you’re a cop and CPS calls you to go to some meth maggot’s house to place his kids in foster care. You go there and turn his kids over to CPS and then you arrest him and his skanky wife right out of their living room on some drug warrants. That is a good day.”

Kopriva laughed. “A very good day.”

Kahn returned to writing his report. Kopriva gathered up his own paperwork. The jailers returned their handcuffs, they retrieved their weapons and left jail. Even though Kopriva had a report to do, it was still early enough to get into some more action.