Under a Raging Moon

FIVE

Saturday, August 20th

Graveyard Shift

2205 hours

Chisolm cruised slowly along residential streets with his windows open, letting the breeze flow through the police car. The smell of maple trees, freshly cut grass and occasionally the remains of an earlier barbecue wafted through the window.

A week had passed since his dismissal from the FTO program. The event still bothered him and he couldn’t let it go. He was a good trainer. Hart, on the other hand, was a climber and a weasel. The man had no clue what made a good police officer. As a result, Payne, who should be looking for a job at the mall, worked with Bates, who Chisolm didn’t think too highly of, either. A solid officer, but way too easy on recruits. The chances of Payne getting fired while assigned to Bates were almost non-existent, a fact that Hart would have been aware of when he made the assignment.

Chisolm shook his head ruefully. Police officers in this town were asked to do a hard job. It required a compassionate soldier, something Chisolm tried to teach. However, the brass gave guidelines that required something of a cross between a counselor and a customer service representative at a department store. Citizens appreciated being treated that way, but criminals laughed at it.

Suck it up and drive on, you old soldier.No good pissing and moaning.

Chisolm turned onto Division Street and headed north. Aptly named Division, this north-south street divided the city in half, separating Adam Sector from Baker Sector. Chisolm continued north, turning west on Cleveland and dropping down to Corbin Park. A moment later, he realized that he was heading toward Sylvia’s old house.

Purposefully, he turned left and headed back to Buckeye.

“Baker-123, a traffic stop.” Stefan Kopriva called over the radio.

“Go ahead, — 123.”

“Eight eight one, Frank George Adam is the plate. We’ll be at Perry and Fairview.”

Chisolm liked Kopriva, one of the few younger officers who seemed to naturally buy into the old school philosophy of police work. He rode with Chisolm for about a week during his training phase when his regular FTO had been sick. Kopriva learned his lessons well. Work hard, work safe, don’t talk to the brass, and get the job done.

“Baker-123, start me backup!” Kopriva’s sounded calm but Chisolm heard tension in the timbre his voice and the speed of his speech.

Chisolm whipped his car around and shot back to Division without bothering to call radio. He heard Janice dispatching Baker units. They copied but didn’t broadcast their locations, leaving the air as open as possible for Kopriva.

Chisolm tore onto Division and buried his foot in the accelerator. Some officers requested backup even when they stopped Grandma, and they kept backup there until Grandma’s name was cleared for warrants on the data channel. Other officers almost always went code four, such as Kopriva. Especially Kopriva, who Chisolm knew had become somewhat of a code-four cowboy. If he asked for some quick backup, he wasn’t kidding around.

Chisolm activated his overhead lights, clearing intersections with his siren. He sped up Foothills, a winding road that intersected with Perry about a block south of Fairview. He approached Perry and swung left, his tires squealing. No other units had checked out on scene yet.

“Adam-112, on scene at Perry,” he told radio, rolling up next to Kopriva’s patrol car. The driver’s door stood wide open. Mid-way between the patrol car and a brown Chevy, Kopriva knelt on top of a black male sprawled on the ground. Kopriva held the suspect’s hands clasped behind his neck. Two other black males sat in the car, one in the front seat, the other in the back. Kopriva leveled his gaze over the top of his gun at the suspect car. Each occupant held his hands high in the air.

“-112, advise on additional units.”

Chisolm keyed his portable as he approached Kopriva, pointing his gun at the vehicle. “Keep them coming,” he said simply. Then, to Kopriva, “Any outstanding suspects?”

Kopriva shook his head. “No. Cover those two while I stuff this one.”

Chisolm drew a bead on the one in the back seat, then searched the back of the car with his eyes. The trunk appeared secure. He wondered if any other subjects were lying down in the back seat.

Kopriva holstered his gun and frisked the suspect on the ground for weapons. “Hello, Isaiah. Remember me? Your little drive-by, looky-look the other night up in Hillyard? You had me real scared.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “By the way, you’re under arrest.” He lifted Morris to a seated position, then jerked him upright and led him back to the car.

Chisolm listened carefully, his eyes never leaving the Chevy. He knew Morris and it surprised him to see the gangster so quiet. Usually he had a lot to say. His nickname was “Cat,” taken from the personality in the cat food commercials. Chisolm mused that aside from colorful spelling such as ‘Lil Dawg or K-Illin’, gangbangers tended to lack originality.

The rear-seat passenger turned to look back and Chisolm yelled, “Turn around!” The head snapped forward again.

The patrol car door slammed shut and Chisolm heard Kopriva return to his position. “Let’s wait for one more car, Tom. Then we’ll bring them out one at a time and cuff them. I’ve got nothing on those two yet, but I want them secure when I search the car.”

Chisolm nodded. A prudent plan. There was a difference between being brash and weighing the risks.

Two more cars arrived. Kopriva advised radio code four with those units on scene. He relayed the plan to the other officers while Chisolm maintained his watch over the passengers.

In an authoritative voice, Kopriva barked orders at the passengers, while all officers moved to the position of cover offered by their cars. He brought the front seat passenger out first and directed him to walk backwards to a spot between the patrol vehicles. There, backup officers quickly cuffed him. They conducted a painstaking pat down for weapons but found none. After that, they secured him in a patrol car. The officers used the same procedure for the backseat passenger, again without incident.

Kopriva thanked the officers and asked them to stand by while he searched the car. Chisolm went forward with him. “What the hell happened?”

Kopriva opened the driver’s door and laughed. “I recognized Morris in a car going the other way on Foothills. I knew he had a warrant, so I flipped around on him. As soon as I made the stop, Morris jumped out of the car and came running back at me.”

Chisolm raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?”

“Nope.” Kopriva leaned on the open door and spoke easily. “I could see his hands were empty, so I moved forward a few steps and waited for him. He was chattering about a mile a minute, threatening me and so forth. When I told him to get back in the car, he tried to push me.”

“Tried?”

Kopriva grinned. “Morris is a sissy without a gun in his hand. I just parried his push, grabbed his wrist, and foot-swept him. He went down hard. I think it knocked the wind out of him. After that, I just got control of him, drew down on his crew in the car and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Thanks for getting here so fast, Tom.”

“Always,” Chisolm said. “You want some help with the search?”

“Sure…” Kopriva said, distracted. He leaned into the car and removed something from beneath the driver’s seat. It was a magazine, fully loaded.

Probably a.380, Chisolm figured.

“See if you can find the gun that goes with this,” Kopriva said.

Chisolm and Kopriva tore the car apart, but found no gun. At Kopriva’s direction, the other two officers pulled the suspects out of the patrol cars and searched them again. Still no gun.

Kopriva removed Morris from the back seat and searched him completely. In the process, he removed every item from the gangster’s pockets and set them on the trunk of the patrol car.

“Man, you better get up off me,” Morris told him.

“Shut up. Where’s the gun?”

Morris smiled. “What gun, cracker?”

Kopriva ignored him and completed his search. Not finding any weapons on him, he sat Morris in the back of his patrol car again.

Connor O’Sullivan approached. He tore out a page from his notebook and handed it to Kopriva. “Both these guys are clear, but neither one has a driver’s license. Here’s their info in case you need it for your report.”

“Thanks,” Kopriva said. He turned to Chisolm. “Damn,” he whispered. “No gun, no crime.”

“Is Morris a convicted felon?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, then it’s illegal for him to even have the ammo.”

Kopriva frowned. “Not sure I can pin it on him. The mag was behind the seat. He was the driver.”

“It’s weak,” Chisolm agreed. “Could they have thrown the gun out the window?”

Kopriva shook his head. “I never lost sight of them.”

Chisolm shrugged. “Then all you have is the warrant and assault on an officer.”

“Assault on an officer. That’s still a traffic infraction, right?”

Chisolm chuckled. “It will be once the prosecutor is through with it.”

“Oh, well.” Kopriva sighed. “The Kitty Kat here is still going to jail. Let’s cut his bonehead buddies loose.”

Kopriva told the two black males they were not under arrest but were not driving away in that car, as neither had a valid driver’s license. Chisolm watched as they transformed from meek to smug, rubbing their wrists were they’d been cuffed.

“What about him?” one asked.

“He’s under arrest,” Kopriva answered evenly.

“What for?”

“None of your business.”

The gangbanger snorted. “Shit, gee. He’s under arrest for being black. That’s all. That’s all it ever is.”

“I hear that,” the second banger answered.

“Thank you,” Kopriva said.

Both men eyed him strangely.

“What’s that?” one asked.

“Thank you,” Kopriva repeated. “I haven’t been accused of racism yet tonight. Normally, it happens four or five times a night. I get edgy if I don’t get in my quota. So thanks.”

The bangers exchanged a glance.

“Can I count this as two, since you both seem to be accusing me?” Kopriva deadpanned. “Come on, man, I need the stats.”

“Cracker is crazy, man. Let’s get outta here.” Both men walked north on Perry, muttering to each other about racist cops.

“Nice work,” Chisolm noted, as the two gangsters walked away.

“Thanks.”

“See ya on the next one,” Chisolm said and returned to his car. He noticed O’Sullivan locking the doors to the Chevy as he pulled away and headed back into Adam Sector.

2223 hours

Stefan Kopriva searched for a country station, knowing full well that Morris reviled cowboy tunes. He turned it up and faded it to the rear.

“Baker-123, I’ll be en route to jail with a male for warrants,” he said into the radio mike and punched the reset button on the odometer. “Mileage reset.”

“Baker-123, copy.”

Morris seemed about to have a stroke in the back seat, jerking around and screaming. Kopriva let him be for a few more seconds. He loved these trips to jail. No one in the patrol car but him and the bad guy. He could say whatever he wanted. It made up for all the times he had to hold his tongue.

He turned the radio down. “What’s the problem, Kitty-kat?”

“Hey, man, fuck you. Fuck you!”

“Awww, what’s the matter, Isaiah? Did that hurt? You did hit the pavement awful hard. Doesn’t feel too good to get your ass kicked by a little white boy, does it?” Kopriva allowed himself to gloat.

Morris cursed at him some more. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Kopriva saw a small raspberry on Morris’s cheek where he’d been held down against the pavement. Oh, well. Department policy stated that when an officer used the prone cuffing technique, a minor abrasion like that might occur. The policy, and the Chief himself, said that was just too bad for the arrestee.

“You got the wind knocked out of you, huh, Morris? And an ow-ie on your cheek. That kinda sucks.”

“Kiss my ass, you white-boy, mother-”

Kopriva turned up the radio and sang along with Travis Tritt. He wished the song had been Here’s a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares, but all it took was country music of any kind to fuzz Morris up some more.

About a block from jail, he turned the radio down again.

“What, sir?” he asked in mock politeness.

“I said I want a picture of this.”

“What?”

“This. On my face.”

“Your boo-boo?”

“Fuck you, motherfucker. That’s police brutality and I want a picture of it.”

Kopriva paused as if considering the request. Then, “How about a picture of my foot up your ass?”

“Fuck you, faggot! I wanna talk to a supervisor.” Spittle flew from Morris’ lips and struck the plastic shield. “I wanna see one of them gold-badge motherfuckers!”

“Call him from jail, kitty-kat.”

“YOU CALL HIM!” Morris yelled, enraged.

Kopriva snorted. “I’m not a rookie, Cat-man. Save your act and call him your little old self.” Ignoring Morris’s tirade, he turned the radio back up and caught the tail end of the song as he pulled into jail.

2230 hours

Isaiah Morris struggled to get himself under control.

That fucking punk cop! Little wise-ass cracker! He thought he was so tough with a badge and a gun. Pulling his little tricky kung fu stunt on me back there at the car.

As the car slid into the jail sally-port, he forced himself to calm down. The jailers knew him and they didn’t like him. If he gave them any reason, the racist motherfuckers would beat the black right out of him. He sat as still as he could manage, waiting while the cop exited the car and locked his gun in the gun safe.

I’d like to try you now, motherfucker, he raged silently. Take these cuffs off and see, bitch.

The cop walked into the booking area and several moments later, three jailers came out and headed for the car. He remained calm. Cops were always telling the jailers how crazy he was, but unless they saw it for themselves, they treated him mellow enough.

The first jailer, a fat one with a receding hairline, opened the door. “Are you going to cooperate tonight, Morris? Or do you want to go with the holding cell for a few hours?”

“I’m chillin’.” Morris tried to keep his voice calm. “Just don’t beat me like that last cop did. That man is a racist.”

The door opened and pudgy hands helped him from the car. He walked into the officers booking area and straight through to the prisoner’s receiving area. The fat jailer began booking him into jail, a process familiar enough to Morris. He cooperated completely, anticipating the jailer’s questions and orders. He knew hard time and he knew easy time. There was a lot less leeway in here than out in the street. And fewer witnesses.

The hotshot cop who arrested him came in and read him his warrant. He knew it was required by law and made no effort to interrupt.

“This is your warrant,” the punk bitch intoned. “It’s in Superior Court for failure to appear on an original charge of possession of crack cocaine. Bail is set at $25,000. Signed on August 24th of this year by Judge Antonio Calabrese.” The cop looked up. “Any questions?”

“Fuck you,” whispered Morris.

“Same to you,” the cop replied in a low, even voice and turned to walk away.

“I’ll get you,” Morris gritted, anger seething inside him. “One-eight-seven, motherfucker.”

The California penal code for homicide, ‘one-eighty seven’ was a common way among gang members to threaten to kill someone. The cop must have known what it meant because he snarled something under his breath and took a step toward Morris. Two jailers intervened, holding the young hothead back. Morris wished the jailers hadn’t been there so the cop could have hit him. How sweet would it be to press charges against him with all these witnesses who were too stupid to lie?

The jailers walked the cop out of the receiving area. Morris smiled and blew him a kiss. “One-eighty-seven,” he repeated as the cop reached the door.

“Shut up, Isaiah,” the fat jailer told him, “or we will do this the hard way.”

Morris remained quiet. He answered all questions and signed that his property had been removed. Then he signed his booking notification on the warrant with $25,000 bail and for assaulting an officer with $5000 bail. He cooperated patiently as the jailer meticulously snapped his picture and fingerprinted him. Finally, they allowed him to use the phone.

It took one phone call to his cuz, $4500 out of his stash and a second call, this to a bail bondsman, before he was booked back out. The process going out seemed even quicker than going in, an irony that was not lost on Morris. He hit the street and got into T-Dog’s car exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes after being brought to jail.

Sunday, August 21st

0021 hours

Stefan Kopriva left the property room where he’d just written his report and placed the magazine and ammunition on the property book. He heard a screech of tires from the corner. A Cadillac approached, the silhouette of a head sticking out the rear window.

Kopriva drew his pistol and held it at his side. He moved quickly to the patrol car for cover.

The car rolled closer and he saw Morris in the window.

“One-eighty-seven, motherfucker-r-r-r-r-r!” the gangster yelled.

Kopriva raised his gun in case Morris fired, but the tires squealed and the Cadillac pulled away. At the intersection, they took a right and disappeared.

What is he doing out of jail already? Kopriva shook his head. What a screwed up system.

When he holstered his gun, he suddenly realized he was breathing rapidly. Damned adrenaline. Kopriva took several deep breaths, taking his time and forcing himself calm before he got into the patrol car and started the engine. By the time he notified dispatch that he was clear, he felt steady again.

Sunday, August 21st

Day Shift

1132 hours

There are some things that a man should be left alone while doing. As far as Sgt. David Poole was concerned, working on his car was one of them.

He adjusted the valves on his 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle Super Sport. It had a huge engine, a 396 large block that sucked gas like a greedy bitch. He’d put a stock, stiff four-speed in it and it had never given him any trouble. Then again, he never missed a power-shift, either.

He’d sipped a Michelob throughout the valve adjustment and now that they were fine-tuned, he allowed himself a deep draught. It felt good to have completed something worthwhile for a change. Something that made him happy. The beautiful rumble of the 396 did just that. He reached down near the carburetor and revved the engine slightly. The rumble rose to a slight roar.

Beautiful.

Then his sister Angela arrived and broke into the sanctity of his garage.

“Davey?”

Damn, he hated being called that.

“Over here, Ang.”

Angela Poole-Nyerson appeared at the edge of the garage. “Working on the racecar?” she teased.

“Yup.” Poole took another slug of his Michelob. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Have you been home?”

“Been home.” Poole started to wipe off his tools and put them away. Damn. And today had been a fairly decent day, too. Not like I get many of those these days. “I turned off the phone.”

“Hiding from work again?” she needled playfully.

He looked up. “Would you want the Bon Marche calling you on your days off?”

Angela smiled and winked. “What days off?”

Poole softened the tone in his voice. He knew Angela meant well. Hell, she was the only one in the family who even talked to him since the divorce. He probably shouldn’t alienate her as well, but he had no patience any more. He’d heard somewhere that you shouldn’t burn bridges that you don’t have to or something like that. That thought ran through his mind like a logic problem, and he found that he really didn’t care either way.

“What did you want, Angela?” He wiped off a wrench, and hung it on his pegboard.

“Okay, grump. Mom’s birthday is next Monday. Donald and I are putting together a surprise party for her. It’s a picnic at Franklin Park. Can you come?”

Why was she asking? Poole wondered.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on, Davey. It’s her birthday.”

“No one will miss me if I’m not there,” he told her.

“Mom will.”

Poole shrugged. His mother had been the first person to tell him that he blew it with Sherrie. Not that she was sad that it hadn’t worked out or even that she’d always liked Sherrie. That he blew it. “I doubt it. If so, she’ll be in the minority.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Angela flared.

“Nothing.” He refused to look at her but his jaw clenched. “I expect nothing.”

Angela swore and turned away. Then she stopped. “No. You need to be told.” She stepped around the car to face Poole. “I really do want to know what you expect, Davey. I mean, you cut yourself off from everyone in the family. Your kids never see you. Mom doesn’t, either. You don’t hardly ever call me or Donny. What are we supposed to do?”

Poole didn’t answer, so she went on.

“I’m sorry your life is the pits, Davey. I’m sorry you got divorced, that you’ve been alone this past year. I know it’s hard.”

You have no idea.

“And I’m sorry if your career isn’t going the way you want. But all I’m asking you to do is show up for one lousy afternoon on your own mother’s birthday.” Angela paused. She opened her mouth to say more, but stopped again, half-sobbing instead. “Goddamn you.”

Poole looked up and caught her eye. Tears streamed down her face, but it didn’t move him. Through clenched teeth, he told her, “Don’t preach to me, sis. Everyone in this whole happy family knew Sherrie was fooling around on me. Did anyone think to tell me? No.”

“It was none of our business!” she protested, wiping her eyes.

“Well, it certainly became everyone’s business when I filed for divorce, didn’t it? When, suddenly, I somehow became the bad guy? Tell me how the fuck that happened!”

“No one can talk to you!” Angela yelled at him and ran out of the garage.

Poole listened to her descending footfalls. He heard her Jeep start and squeal off. He tried to care but failed.

It wasn’t so bad that he got the divorce. It was being played the fool that made him angry. He never really loved Sherrie. Just a pair of kids themselves, they’d married because she’d gotten pregnant. It wasn’t like she’d been the love of his life.

Somehow, being duped and having everyone know it seemed worse when no heartbreak had been involved. Or maybe he just noticed the anger more because there wasn’t any heartbreak taking up space on his emotional hard drive.

Most of the real anger came from betrayal. Not so much from Sherrie, but from the rest of the clan. She got to each of them with her sweet public persona and they bought into it, leaving him to play the role of the bad guy in the whole affair.

Poole replaced the valve gasket and cover, trying not to hurry. Dark anger continued to build inside of him. Anger at his family, whom he considered a pack full of traitors. Some for Sherrie, for not just breaking it off with him first before she started sleeping around. And the job, of course. The fucking job. Hart making his gold bar and everyone considering him the lieutenant’s flunkie. Hart probably most of all. Some friend he turned out to be.

Life just plain sucks.I need some heavy metal.

He pushed a button and Metallica roared out of his boom box. Carefully, he tightened down the valve cover. By the time he slammed the hood, he really needed to drive.

1216 hours

The robbery alarm tone caught Karl Winter by surprise. Scarface had never hit before eighteen hundred, and Winter couldn’t recall a robbery on day shift since June or so. He slipped his sandwich back into his lunch cooler and brushed the crumbs off his shirt as he listened intently.

“Suspect fled eastbound. White male, tall and thin wearing black jeans and a blue windbreaker. Long black hair with a scar on the left side of his face.”

That had to be him. The description was too close. Winter dropped the car into gear and headed in the direction of the robbery. He decided to put his theory to the test, so he drove to Grand Boulevard and parked. He watched cars as they cruised past, looking for single females driving large cars.

Ridgeway and Giovanni both radioed their arrival at the area of the robbery near Southeast Blvd.

There!

Winter saw a slender white female with dark, stringy hair westbound on 29th approaching Grand. She appeared nervous and made the right turn without using her signal. A thrill shot through Winter. That could be it.

He radioed in his intention to stop the vehicle. The dispatcher sent Reiser to back him up. Winter swung in behind the large car and waited for her to clear the intersection and continue for another two blocks. As he watched, the driver nervously glanced in her rear-view mirror. When she changed lanes, again without signaling, he turned on his overheads and broadcasted his final location.

“I’m about a minute off,” Reiser advised.

Winter approached the vehicle carefully. He rested his hand lightly on his gun, something he rarely did anymore. The driver watched him, stock-still. Both of her hands clutched the steering wheel.

Winter scanned the back seat. Empty. And surprisingly clean. Nothing other than three unopened cans of motor oil lay on the vacuumed floor. The front passenger seat was likewise empty.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

Winter met her gaze. He saw nothing there beyond the nervousness most motorists displayed when stopped by the police. “You failed to signal for a lane change.”

The woman turned red. “Oh, my God, did I?”

Winter nodded.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Winter asked for her license and she handed it over. Winter scrutinized it, his suspicion fading.

“Charlie-253, I’ve got him by the Buck Bonanza.” Ridgeway’s voice held steady. “He’s heading across the parking lot toward a blue Datsun pickup.”

“-257, I’m with him,” Gio radioed.

“Charlie-252,” came Reiser’s voice, “I can divert if -251 is code four.”

Winter keyed his mike as he handed the woman back her license. “Charlie-251 is clear and en route.”

The woman gave him a confused look.

“Drive carefully,” he told her, and hustled back to his cruiser.

The Buck Bonanza, where everything in the store cost just one dollar, was located at about 27th and Freya, a straight shot down 29th. Winter, usually a cautious driver, activated his lights and siren and drove like a graveyard officer. Civilian cars peeled off to the right to make way for him. He cranked the volume on his police radio and listened, knowing it would all be over before he could get there.

As he approached Southeast Boulevard, Gio’s voice came over the air, out of breath. “Charlie-257, one in custody. Have units lower their code.”

Winter shut off his sirens but kept his lights on as he cruised into the parking lot. He spotted Ridgeway rummaging through a small blue pickup. Gio stood over a proned out and handcuffed white male. Winter parked his car and approached.

Gio smiled at him and held up a black wig. “Lookee here, Karl.”

Winter returned the grin.

Gio hooted. “Whew! Day tour nabs Scarface! Graveyard would’ve needed forty troops and an hour to do this.”

Winter eyed the suspect lying very still on the ground. Hands cuffed behind his back, the man’s head faced toward Winter. He remained motionless, his eyes wide open and staring. Winter would have suspected the man was dead if hadn’t noticed him breathing heavily and blinking occasionally.

Karl Winter frowned. He saw a fake scar on the left side of the suspect’s face. It hung limply from his cheek, partially peeled away. Winter also noticed a very real gash on the man’s brow. A trickle of blood flowed from it.

“Stupid,” Winter muttered.

Ridgeway joined them. A black gun dangled by his pen in the trigger-guard. Winter noticed it sway back and forth easily as Ridgeway approached. Too easily.

“Plastic,” Ridgeway told them both. “Moron robbed the store with a toy gun.”

Gio shook his head. He handed the wig to Ridgeway who put it in an evidence bag, along with the plastic gun. Then Gio and Winter stood the suspect up and put him in Gio’s car. “I’ll take him to Major Crimes if you want to stay with the scene, Mark.”

Ridgeway nodded as Sergeant Michaels pulled up. With Poole on his day off, the north side sergeant was in command of their platoon, too. Not that these veterans needed much commanding, Winter thought.

After all, he added with a smile, they’d caught the infamous Scarface robber.

And that was something Swing shift and Graves had failed to do after fourteen chances.

1225 hours

When the phone call from Dispatch came, Lieutenant Alan Hart had been interviewing a citizen who wanted to file a complaint against one of his officers. Officer Jack Stone, a ten-year-veteran, worked the north side. Based on what the citizen had told him thus far, it sounded like a founded demeanor complaint to Hart.

Now, he hung up the phone with mixed feelings. It was a feather in his cap that Scarface had been caught by his shift, and not Saylor’s. But it also precluded any need for his task force, which Captain Reott had tentatively approved. As a result, he attained some small glory where he could have achieved a lot.

I just have to make the best of it.

He turned his attention back to the citizen. “Mr. Watson, I appreciate you coming in. You have a valid complaint. I will definitely forward this information to our Internal Affairs Unit. Someone will contact you for another interview. If it’s not convenient to come in, they can conduct it by telephone.”

Mr. Watson rose and shook Hart’s hand. “Thank you. I hope the officer doesn’t get in too much trouble. I just wanted to let you know what had happened.”

Hart gave his most political smile. “It’s citizens like you who help us make this a better department.”

Mr. Watson left, obviously pleased with himself.

Hart locked his office and hustled over to Major Crimes to check on the Scarface investigation.

1845 hours

Duke’s, the bar preferred by patrol, pulsed with excitement. Still flush with their success, Gio and Ridgeway celebrated. They stood at the bar, re-telling the story over and over to cops and patrons alike. Johnny, the bartender, and Rachel, the waitress, had each heard the tale at least six times.

In high spirits, Gio tipped back his beer. He found the day tour comfortable. They handled a lot of boring calls, but you couldn’t beat the hours. During the summer, all the little hotties came out in shorts and tank tops, providing nice scenery, too. Even so, he often longed for more action. Today had satisfied that longing.

“There I was,” Ridgeway told Jack Stone, the newest arrival, “on routine patrol.”

Stone smiled at the age-old joke. “Don’t you mean, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ or something like that?”

“This is a police story,” Ridgeway told him. “And every good police story starts out like that.”

Stone raised his hands. “All right. There you were-”

“Right,” Ridgeway said, “on routine patrol.”

Gio smiled. Though not yet five o’clock, both Ridgeway and Stone had downed two beers and two shots. Gio consciously slowed down after the first triumphant beer and shot.

“Anyway,” Ridgeway continues, “so I see this guy sneaking around the parking lot-”

“Sneaking? In broad daylight?”

“Yes, like the idiot that he is.” Ridgeway paused to take a slug from his beer. “Anyway, I know it’s him. He’s got a paper bag hanging out of his jacket pocket and long black hair. It’s obviously a wig. I mean, you can see that from clear across the parking lot.”

“What’s he wearing a jacket for, anyway?” Stone added. “It’s almost eighty degrees out today.”

Ridgeway stared at Stone in mock-anger. “You want to tell this story?”

“No, go ahead.” Stone grinned.

“All right.” Ridgeway paused and peered at his beer. “Where was I?”

“On routine patrol,” Stone quipped.

Ridgeway shot him a look of warning. “I’m in the parking lot. And I see this guy. So I go buzzing up there as he gets into the pickup. I see Gio coming the other way. We jump out and run up to the truck. I’ve got my piece out-”

“So do I,” Gio chimed in.

“-and I’m telling this maggot to show me his hands. Gio’s got a bead on him through the passenger window, and I’m about a step behind the door.” He took another drink.

Gio noticed the door open and a woman enter the bar. Immediately, he felt a stab of butterflies in his stomach. It was her, the blonde from the other night, the one with the pale blue eyes. She glided in and took a seat in the far corner. He noted with some satisfaction that she was alone.

Gio’s mouth went suddenly dry. He took a sip of his beer. His palms were suddenly sweating and rubbed them on his jeans.

Ridgeway set his glass down and continued his story. “Moron has his hands on the wheel, but now he’s getting confused. I don’t see a gun, but the paper bag has fallen out of his jacket. Money is all over the front seat. He doesn’t know what to do, and he’s not listening to me. I’ve got his door swung open. I’m telling him to get out of the truck. Then he starts reaching inside his jacket.”

Stone shook his head, disbelieving. “Stupid bastard. Why didn’t you shoot him?”

Ridgeway shrugged. “Coulda.”

“But…”

“I cracked him upside the head instead.”

Stone chuckled. “With what? Your gun?”

Ridgeway nodded.

Stone laughed out loud.

“Tore that fake scar right off his face. It was hanging from his cheek.” Ridgeway allowed himself a rare grin. “Hanging right below the new real scar I gave him.”

“That is great,” Stone chuckled. “Mr. Master Shooter turns goddamn Wyatt Earp. Priceless.” He clapped Ridgeway on the shoulder. “You saved that guy’s life, Mark. You’re a bona fide hero. He should be dead.”

“Should be,” Ridgeway repeated.

“Of course,” Stone observed, “now that you saved his life, he’ll probably file a complaint and sue the city.”

Ridgeway’s grin melted. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Probably.”

Ridgeway considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Screw him. Who cares?”

Stone shrugged. “Speaking of complaints, that goddamn Lieutenant Hart called me in today. I got another IA complaint.”

Ridgeway snorted. “Big surprise.”

Stone shot Ridgeway a dark look. “It’s completely unfounded.”

“I’m sure.” The two men paused to take a long draft of beer, then Ridgeway asked, “You smack a guy with your gun or something?”

Both men had a long chuckle.

Gio waved Johnny over. The bartender leaned forward toward Gio. “Yeah?” Gio motioned to the blonde. He didn’t even have to tell the bartender what he wanted to know. Good thing, too, because his throat and mouth were dry again.

Johnny studied her for a moment. Gio could see the computer hard drive behind the bartender’s eyes as it ground through information. Accessing, accessing. Then he turned back to Gio.

“Marilyn. That’s her name.” He kept wiping the bar in front of Gio. “She comes in once in a while, sometimes alone, sometimes she meets a few girlfriends. I think she works near here. Not a groupie, though, Gio.”

Gio nodded his thanks. Without another word, Johnny left to serve another customer.

Stone recounted his meeting with Hart. “I mean, the guy will take something, anything, and blow it up so he can spend twenty minutes lecturing you. What a prick.”

Ridgeway nodded. “What was the complaint for?”

“Some old buzzard I told to move along at that fatal accident we had at Illinois and Perry last week.”

“That one where the high school girl died?”

“Yeah. Her little Toyota Corolla was t-boned by a 4x4. Anyway, people were acting like it was an interactive version of COPS or something, and I was getting tired of being polite about moving them along. This guy musta slowed down and tried to look or something. I don’t even remember him.”

“Hart.” Ridgeway grunted the word like it was a curse and then threw back another slug of his Budweiser. “You hear he pulled Chisolm from the FTO program?”

Stone nodded. “Yeah. I heard Chisolm got so torqued he pulled a gun on him in the office.”

Ridgeway frowned. “C’mon, Jack. You really think Chisolm would pull a gun on the lieutenant?”

Stone stared back at him, blinked and said nothing.

“Okay,” Ridgeway conceded, “but do you think he would still be working here if he did?”

“No. And I think Hart would be six feet under. The prick.”

Johnny put another round of shots in front of them. Ridgeway raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that. “

“Me, too.”

“To hope,” Ridgeway said sarcastically. Both sipped.

“Hey, guys!” came a familiar voice. Janice Koslowski, a forty-one year old radio dispatcher, walked up to the bar and put her arm around Ridgeway’s shoulder. “My hero!” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. Then, looking at Gio, she reached out and put her other arm around him. “You too, tall, dark and slutty.”

Gio grinned, but glanced toward the blonde. She hadn’t noticed him.

“What are you doing here?” Ridgeway asked her. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Night off,” Janice told him, pushing back her long brown hair and smiling. “I stopped in to pick up my paycheck and heard the news. Nice job, fellas.”

Ridgeway took a sip from his shot glass. “Yeah, did they tell you we almost got killed?”

Janice looked upset. “What?!”

Ridgeway nodded. “Yeah. Rookie dispatcher completely screwed up on the call. Almost got us killed.”

“How?” Janice demanded. “Who was it? What happened.

“It was terrible,” Ridgeway said. He took another sip from his glass. “Now, if only we’d had a veteran dispatcher. .”

“Oh, nice!” Janice slapped his shoulder hard. “You had me going for a second.”

Ridgeway chuckled. Gio raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t seen him do that in a while.

Janice shook her head, smiling. “Well, I see one thing hasn’t changed since I went to graveyard. Mark Ridgeway is still a mean S.O.B.”

Ridgeway raised his near-empty shot glass. “At your service, ma’am. Have a drink with me?”

Janice grinned. “Mark, I don’t know. With you, it is never just one.”

“Can’t have just one. It gets lonely in my stomach. Wants company. Gotta send it some of its brothers.”

Janice’s smile didn’t fade. “Okay, mister. I’ll have one.” She motioned to Johnny and pointed at Ridgeway’s glass and gave Johnny one finger.

“It’ll get loh-ohnllyyy…” Ridgeway crooned.

Jack Stone began to sing “One is the loneliest number…”

“Shut up and tell me what really happened,” Janice chuckled.

Gio slipped from the stool and walked toward Marilyn. He heard Janice and Ridgeway pause briefly-probably to watch him go-then Janice asked Ridgeway for all the ‘dirty details.’

Marilyn sat alone, sipping from a small glass. She noticed his approach about two steps away, her eyes inviting but cautious.

What do I say?

“Hello,” she said, her voice friendly.

“Hello,” Gio answered. “Can I, uh, sit with you for a few minutes?”

She paused, considering. Then, “Sure. I’m only planning to stay until I finish this drink, though.”

Gio sat across from her. God, she’s beautiful. He’d only gotten a brief look that first night and his experience taught that imagination generally fills in what you don’t see. Unfortunately, imagination tends to be optimistic and reality often disappointing. Not in her case, though. She looked even lovelier than he remembered.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Anthony. Giovanni. My friends call me Gio.”

“I’m Marilyn.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Now what I am supposed to say?

Gio wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans. He was afraid to use a line on her, afraid to bullshit with her like he did with all the bunnies that usually came in here. It hit him like a slap up the side of the head when he realized he had little to say without those lines.

There was an uncomfortable pause. They looked at each other and Gio thought he saw something in her eyes. Does she feel this, too?Already? This. . pull?

The pause went on long enough to outlive its own discomfort and became an easy silence. Both sipped their drinks. Marilyn finally broke the silence.

“This is a good song.”

Gio listened to the song drifting from the jukebox. He recognized Stevie Nicks’ sultry voice.

“Very good song.” He felt like an idiot. What was the name of the song? He’d heard it a million times, but he couldn’t think of the title. White Winged Dove or something?

She smiled at his obvious nervousness, took another sip and finished her drink. Gio panicked. She had said she was leaving after that drink-

Marilyn dug in her purse, removed her wallet, and dropped some money on the table. Then she looked up at Gio and smiled again.

“Listen,” she said. “I have to go. I’m meeting a girlfriend.”

Gio nodded glumly. He wanted to ask her out but knew he hadn’t laid the groundwork, knew he would only stumble over his own tongue. You blew it, he told himself angrily.

Marilyn took a pen from her purse. She met Gio’s gaze.

Those eyes!

“Maybe we could go out to lunch sometime?” She smiled.

He sat there, shocked. He took so long to answer that a shadow of disappointment crossed her face. She dropped her gaze and started to put her pen away.

“Yes!” Gio answered too forcefully. She looked up. Gio softened his voice. “I mean, yes. Thank you. You just took me by surprise.”

She seemed to accept that. “What’s your phone number?” she asked. “I’ll call you in a few days?”

“Okay.” He gave her the number.

“See you.” She slid out of the booth.

“Bye.”

Marilyn gave him a smile and left. He followed her to the door with his eyes, watching her leave. It was only then that he realized how fast his heart was beating.