by Alicia Scott
Mike didn’t have an answer back then, and he didn’t have one now. How was someone supposed to choose between their right hand and their left? Four years ago, he’d simply waited patiently—futilely, it turned out—for one of them to stop pushing the issue. Now, he realized, it was even more complicated. Sandra was no longer his right hand, but had become, like Rusty, his left.
“She’s the chief,” he repeated softly. “We have an obligation—”
Koontz didn’t want to hear it. He turned away in disgust. “Do what you got to do, Rawlins. I’ll see you downtown, where the real cops are waiting.”
He stalked toward the garage. Mike watched Weasel go running up behind him, looking scared as he always did, but made anxious enough by the shooting to bum a ride. Mike would have to pay for that later, too: Rusty hated Weasel.
Rusty, however, could take care of himself, and Mike wasn’t so sure about Sandra. Knowing her, she’d want to personally attend the scene. An Aikens never backed down from a fight.
Mike headed toward her office, where he discovered Sandra trying to put on her coat and hang up the phone at the same time. Her features were ashen, her lips pressed thin. She glanced at him once, then seemed to draw in on herself even more tightly. She suddenly hurtled the un-cooperative phone to the floor.
“Incompetent…damn…incompetent…”
Mike retrieved the receiver. He replaced it gently on the base. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “Whatever just happened over there, it’s not your fault.”
“I am the chief of police! I sent men into the east side.”
“Which you had to do. Believe it or not, we’d all rather be shot at than labeled scared. Besides, you assigned your two best men to the case. We just…” Mike shrugged miserably. “Sorry, ma chère. We couldn’t find Vee in the system, so we’re having to do it the old-fashioned way. That takes time.”
“I should’ve come up with a game plan until then,” Sandra said relentlessly. “Dammit, I’d read the letter—”
“So did the rest of us.”
“Yes, but you took it seriously, and Koontz was right, I didn’t. I didn’t really believe he’d open fire. I didn’t honestly think a thirteen-year-old…dammit.” Then more vehemently. “Dammit!”
Mike took her coat from her and helped her put it on. Her hands were shaking. She gathered up her clipboard briskly, however, and with a last composing nod—almost to herself—she headed for the door.
“Well, are you just going to stand there all day,” she said, “or are you coming with me to the scene?”
“I’m driving you to the scene.”
“I don’t need a driver—”
“Sandy. Shut up.”
Mike turned off the light behind them. He noticed that the nameplate had once again been replaced, this time by a picture. It was even more graphic than the names. Sandy didn’t look at it. She had her chin up, her shoulders square, and she was heading like hell on wheels for her car.
You never could keep her down, Mike thought. And just like always, he felt admiration tighten his chest. But then he felt something else. Something softer, sadder, lurking beneath respect and making him shift uncomfortably.
For a moment, he found himself wishing she wouldn’t always be so strong. He wished that his fierce, independent ex-wife would allow him to hold her instead. But Sandra had never needed much. And he had discovered the hard way that the worse things got, the better she became at pushing him away.
Mike followed her to the car.
“Helluva first day,” he remarked finally, and wasn’t surprised when Sandy said nothing at all.
It took fifteen minutes to get from the central station to the shooting scene, and Sandy needed every second to pull herself together. The sick feeling in her stomach had started with the first news of shots being fired. It had grown with the information that officers were down. It had turned positively leaden when she considered that investigating Vee’s case had most certainly brought Mike and Koontz into the east side.
The world had tilted on her. She’d had a crazy image of Mike and Koontz pinned down behind an unmarked police car. She’d seen her ex-husband’s big, strong body covered in blood, Koontz screaming that it was all her fault, she didn’t have enough experience for the job. Now look at what she’d done.
Then the sudden, jarring news that it was not Mike and Rusty, but two patrol officers answering a routine burglary call. The relief that had hit her had been out of proportion for what one should feel for her ex-husband, and that had left her secretly ashamed. She was Alexandria’s chief of police. All officers were her responsibility, not just Detective Mike Rawlins.
And yet…
Mike was Mike. Warm, grinning, barrel-chested, exasperating, sexy, arrogant, maddening Mike. She’d been married to the man, she’d spent a year worrying about him night after night like a good cop’s wife. She’d been nervous every time she kissed him goodbye and secretly triumphant every time he returned home.
Old habits died hard. Or was there more to it than that?
She risked a glance at him. His dark eyes were intent on the road, his square features set but calm. He had the siren going on the dashboard, and was weaving in and out of traffic at eighty miles per hour. But his broad hands were fluid on the steering wheel, his hard-muscled shoulders relaxed. Driving fast and hard to assist fellow officers, Big Mike Rawlins was in his element. He was in control.
And abruptly the tension dissolved in the pit of Sandra’s stomach. Her fists slowly unclenched, her breathing came more easily. She watched Mike, strong and adept at the wheel, and she was comforted.
He would get them to the east side. He would guide her through her first crime scene in his smooth, easygoing way. He would take care of her, while taking great pains not to appear as if he was taking care of her, because that was his style. He let people be themselves, a trait she personally had never been able to master.
Funny how long it had been since she’d thought of that and how much she’d admired that about him. After a lifetime in a driven corporate culture, Mike had been the first man she’d ever met who didn’t go around trying to force the world to fit his vision. He didn’t demand, overpower or overwhelm. He simply enjoyed the ride, and in doing so, made you feel good about yourself. You could always depend on Mike.
She’d waited for him tonight. The minute she’d heard the news, some part of her had known he would come to check on her, so she’d waited. In all honesty, Sandra was afraid. She’d never been to a shooting before. She wasn’t sure how she’d handle it and didn’t really want to face it alone. She’d definitely been grateful when Mike appeared. Very, very grateful.
Sandra turned away from him. She didn’t want to think these things about her ex-husband. The day had already been long; this night would be longer, and all of the eyes of the city were upon her. She needed to be strong now. She needed to be tough.
She needed to remember that she was not the woman who loved Mike Rawlins.
She was the woman who had realized they were killing each other with that love, and had left him instead.
Mike turned the corner and suddenly a thick black column of smoke came into view. They were there.
Yellow crime-scene tape had been hurriedly strewn across Main Street. Two ambulances and a fire engine had managed to get through, but now the street was choked off by a gathering mob attracted by roiling smoke pouring out of the charred police cruiser. Mike came to a careening stop at the edge of the crowd. Two youngsters threw the car a disinterested stare, then went back to watching the wrecked patrol car burn.
Mike popped open his door quickly, and Sandra was right behind him.
She was immediately assaulted by the smell. Gasoline, harsh and astringent. Gunpowder, dark and oily. Then she noticed the sounds. Sirens wailing in the distance, sharp male voices adding a staccato beat as officers yelled for assistance and crime-scene technicians, while four other patrol officers kept shouting at the crowd to move back, move b
ack, move back. Finally a slow-building bass of rumbles and grumbles as the crowd murmured their discontent. The east-side civilians were not amused by the show, Sandra realized. They were resentful, suffering the presence of so many uniforms the way other people might suffer an invasion of a foreign army.
This situation would need to be handled with extreme care.
Sandra looked at Mike, nodded wordlessly, and let him tuck her into the protective curve of his body. Moments later, he delivered them both to the heart of the yellow tape, where one officer was already loaded into the ambulance and his partner sat pale and shaken on the bumper.
Immediately, Sandra went to the seated officer. Officer Johnson’s face was streaked with soot. Moisture beaded his upper lip and tracked down his cheeks. Sandra didn’t know if he’d been crying and knew better than to ask. Instead, she took his hand. After a moment, he returned the grip tightly.
Sandra turned to the EMT standing nearby. She learned that Officer Fletcher had been wounded in the lower leg. Nothing serious, but they had him on oxygen to help with the shock, so he was not available for questioning. Once the crowds thinned, they would transport him to the hospital, where he would most likely be treated and released. All in all, the EMT assured her, the only thing terminal at the scene was the patrol car.
They had responded to a call of an attempted robbery at the liquor store, Officer Johnson reported after a bit, finally releasing Sandra’s hand. They’d pulled up to the curb, lights out, stepped from their car, and boom! Shots fired from above. They’d flattened behind their cruiser and fumbled with their side arms. The moment they peeked out again, boom! More freakin’ shots. Then suddenly, Fletcher had yelled that he smelled something, and Johnson realized he smelled it, too. Gasoline.
Their damn car had been hit. Next shot…
They had no choice. They set their sight on Smithy Jones’s convenience store and started running.
Boom, boom, boom, boom. The longest fifteen feet of Johnson’s life. Hell, when he got home tonight, he was parking half a mile away from his house because that would still seem like a stroll through a field of daisies after the last fifteen feet.
Then suddenly, whoosh!
Shot must’ve finally got the gas tank and it seemed to them the whole world went up in smoke. The next he knew Smithy Jones was screaming down at him, “Are you all right, are you all right?” It took about four times before Johnson could hear through the ringing in his ears.
“And Officer Fletcher?” Sandra inquired quietly.
Johnson flushed, glanced at Mike, then turned away.
“Ricochet,” he muttered. “Maybe shrapnel or something.”
Confused, Sandra looked at Mike, too, then the EMTs.
“Ricochet? From what?”
“I don’t know. A building, a car. It doesn’t matter. It was ricochet.”
Dumbly Sandra nodded, though she didn’t understand the vehemence behind Officer Johnson’s words. Mike, however, was looking at her with an expression she’d seen before—drop it, his face read. Having learned her lesson this morning, she took her ex-husband’s advice.
“Did you see who was firing at you?” she asked Officer Johnson.
“Hell, no.”
“Did you see the direction the shots were coming from?”
“Across the street, high. I don’t know. One moment we’re getting out of our car, the next it’s just boom! Huntin’ time at the range and we’re the endangered species.” Johnson shuddered again.
“Ma’am?”
Sandra turned around and a large, bearded black man stepped in front of her. He was wearing a thin T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to reveal thick-muscled arms covered in dark-blue tattoos. On his T-shirt, he sported a picture of a round yellow happy face—with a bullet hole between its eyes. Sandra was taken aback, but once again it was Mike’s reaction that caught her attention. He was beaming at the aging biker as if they were long-lost pals.
“I’m Smithy Jones,” the man said, and held out a heavily callused palm. “Pleasure to meet the new chief of police. Read your comments on community policing. Can’t wait to be of help. Hell, I pretty much run this block already—well, tonight’s little brouhaha excluded.”
“Pleasure to meet you, too, then, Mr. Jones. Thank you for assisting our officers.” Sandra returned the handshake with both surprise and gratitude.
“And you saw the shooting?” she asked, after introducing herself.
“Yes, ma’am. Shots were coming from the third window of that warehouse right there. Not a rifle, though. Sounded more like a 9 mm.”
“Could you see who was firing?”
“No ma’am.”
“Did you see anyone entering the building earlier, or fleeing afterward?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, it’s a pretty busy street.”
Sandra nodded absently. She was not an expert marks-man herself, but she’d been shooting enough times to be comfortable and competent with handguns. And from what she could tell, that window had a clean line of sight onto the smoking patrol car. What had the officer said? It was like being hunted….
Except…
Rusty Koontz came walking up. He was tossing a handful of brass in his gloved hand and wearing a smirk. “Shells,” he announced. “Nine millimeter. Found them at the third-story window, just where you said, Smithy.”
Smithy shrugged modestly.
“Footprints in the dust, too,” Rusty said, his gaze zeroing in on Sandra. “Small footprints. Like the kind a thirteen-year-old might have.”
“I see. Make sure we get some good photos of the tread pattern for the file.”
“No kidding.”
“Now let me see if I understand this,” she continued smoothly, moving authoritatively to the middle of the street and ignoring Mike’s warning glance. “Two officers pulled up here.” She pointed to the charred car. “One unidentified gunman stood there.” She pointed to the empty third-story window.
“Child,” Koontz interrupted coldly. “Poor, misunderstood child.”
“Child, then. Let’s assume it was Vee—”
“Who the hell else has been sending fan mail to the press?”
“Who we agree is an experienced shooter?”
“He says he’s experienced. We haven’t even been able to prove the kid exists, let alone that he knows an automatic from a Tinkertoy.”
“Then we’ll assume he’s inexperienced. Now then, do you really believe, Detective Koontz, that someone can stand forty feet away from two standing targets, and miss them completely? Let alone the fact that he had a perfect downward angle, the two targets were totally unaware, and the storefront throws great light. And he fired six, seven shots?”
“Eleven,” Koontz filled in tightly. “Eleven shells.”
Sandra raised a brow. “Eleven shots at two good-sized targets with perfect positioning. You still think he missed purely by accident?”
Koontz glared at her sullenly. More officers had gathered and they were looking at her resentfully, too. It suddenly made Sandra impatient. They all knew what had happened here. Why was it so hard to admit?
Then she got it, she actually got it. They didn’t want to hear that Vee had held back from killing two officers. They wanted the thirteen-year-old to be evil. These men in front of her, Alexandria’s finest, wanted the excuse to war. They were frustrated with their jobs, angry with their community and tired of being disrespected. They wanted to break down every door and bust every kid who’d ever looked at them sideways. And they were perfectly willing to use a thirteen-year-old as an excuse to do so.
She suddenly felt nothing but contempt for all of them.
Mike spoke up. He said simply, “Warning shots.”
Rusty skewered his partner with a look. “Yeah. Warning shots.”
“It seems to me,” Sandra said slowly, so there’d be no mistake, “that Vee made a conscious decision not to shoot two officers.”
“Yeah, he made the decision,” Koontz burst out he
at edly. “But what about next time, or the time after that or the time after that? Better yet, take a look behind the yellow line, Chief. See any sympathy there? See any concern? Hell, they’re disappointed the kid missed. They’re thinking if only we’d stop paying attention, maybe they could finish the job. That’s community relations these days. If we don’t come down on this kid with everything we got, if we don’t set a grade-A example of what happens to people who screw with us, our lives aren’t gonna be worth the cheap tin used to mold our badges. Get it yet?”
Rusty stalked off to join the other officers, who stood clustered a few feet away. They opened up as a group to receive him, then closed in around him, anchoring him within their midst.
Sandra and Mike remained outside the group. Then she noticed a few officers inching away from Mike and refusing to meet his eye. A gap was opening up, she realized. They were consciously ostracizing her for being herself. But now they were also ostracizing Mike, because he had brought her here. He had spoken up on her behalf.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured to Mike honestly.
“Not your problem, ma chère.”
“Well,” she said briskly, “at least you didn’t say ‘Fine.”’
Sandra retreated to the smoking police cruiser. She watched the upholstery burn down to embers until one lane was finally cleared and the ambulance sped away.
One hour later, Mike drove Sandy back to her house. He’d been waiting for some token argument, but she’d said nothing. Instead she seemed to have shrunk in her seat since the shooting. Her skin was pale, her blue eyes bruised, and her red-brown hair wild around her shoulders. If Sandra could see her reflection right now, she’d scream bloody murder. Funny then, how Mike thought she looked pretty good.
Pulling up the driveway was awkward. What to do now? Say goodbye in the car? Shake her hand? Pretend he hadn’t lived in this damn house a year himself, or that he’d once spent a Sunday afternoon kissing every inch of her creamy white skin? Hell, Mike hated awkward.