by Alicia Scott
“You gonna clean this up?” He waved his hand around the abandoned playground.
“I think we’d better.”
“Uh-huh. And the morning after that and the morning after that? Listen here, lady cop—go back to your political meetings and fussy white friends. Give them speeches ’bout what you wanna do. They’ll be happy for you, they’ll pat you on the back. We, we know better.”
“Like Vee?” Mike interjected. “Like Vee knows better?”
Mac-Two’s gaze narrowed shrewdly. He gave them both a fresh appraisal. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Like my good brother Vee knows better.”
Sandra inhaled sharply. She glanced at Mike and could tell he felt it, too. Mac-Two knew something.
“I would like to meet Vee,” Sandra said quietly.
“Uh-huh.”
“As the new chief of police,” she continued, “I’m very concerned about what happened to his father. It’s not right for officers to be shooting people in the back. I would want to look into that…if I had more information.”
“If you had more information.”
“I’d like to meet him, too,” Mike said. “I have two sisters and I’d hate it if anything happened to them. In fact, I spoke to a doctor this morning who thought he could help Vee’s sister, free of charge. If he had more information.”
“If you had more information.” Mac-Two rolled his eyes. Suddenly he slapped G’Day and Lil Man on the back. The two younger kids lurched forward, caught off guard. “Take a hike,” he commanded harshly, and the two kids, charged by the unexpected savagery in his voice, obediently took off running.
That left Mac-Two, his sister, and Bobby, who was happily blowing bubbles. On instinct, Sandra picked the baby up and cradled him against her chest. He smelled of baby powder and warm skin. He felt unbelievably soft against her bare throat. His stubby fingers grabbed at her jacket lapels, then twisted her shirt collar. He had drool on his hands, dirt, too. Keisha looked embarrassed as he left a long muddy streak across Sandra’s shoulder, but Sandra didn’t mind.
He was a precious child. Holding him in the middle of a gray, cracked park, Sandra could understand why Keisha held so feverishly to her dream of a house and white picket fence. Holding him in the middle of a needle-strewn park, Sandra could understand why Vee felt so angry. And sad, too, she realized for the first time. The thirteen-year-old wasn’t just mad. He was also heartbroken.
Mac-Two had turned to Mike. “How much money?” he asked.
“Twenty,” Mike negotiated.
“Hell, man, the kid’s shootin’ at cops. Don’t insult me.”
“Forty.”
“One hundred. You walkin’ in the east side with a pretty lady, you obviously got nothin’.”
“We give you a hundred dollars,” Sandra spoke up, “and you’re going to tell us who Vee is? Just like that? I thought… What about loyalty?”
“He ain’t no brother of mine.”
“Do others feel that way?”
“Sandra,” Mike growled warningly.
She shook her head, pulling away from him and still holding the baby. “No, I want to understand this. This boy is writing letters to the paper. He is saying he’s tired of kids killing kids. He’s tired of violence against people’s sisters. You have a sister. You live here, too. Doesn’t any of that mean something to you?”
Mac-Two’s nostrils flared. “Don’t you walk in here and tell me what I’m supposed to feel.”
“I’m not telling you, I’m asking you.”
“No way. You’re tellin’ me I gotta be loyal to some letter in the paper. Look, lady. I gotta be loyal to my hood. I gotta be loyal to my family, I gotta be loyal to my homeys. Now don’t tell me I gotta be loyal to some letter. I don’t got room for that. I don’t got time for that. You got a hundred bucks or what?”
Mike gave Sandra a stern look. She backed off, though there was something about the whole exchange that unsettled her, left her wearier than before.
Mike handed over five twenty-dollar bills. Mac-Two gripped them fiercely.
“Where can we find Vee?” Mike asked.
“Hand over Bobby to Keisha.”
Sandra obeyed, though she promptly felt empty without the child.
“Where can we find Vee?” Mike repeated.
Mac-Two grinned. It was the only warning they got.
“Right behind you,” he said, and then like a shot, he and Keisha were gone.
Chapter 8
“Down!” Mike yelled.
Immediately Sandra flattened, feeling gravel and glass dig into her palms as Mike whipped out his firearm and dropped into a crouch beside her.
“Where?” she cried. “I don’t see…”
And then she caught it. A flicker of movement across the street. Someone was in the flat brick building across from the park.
“Dammit, we’re sitting ducks out here,” Mike growled.
“On the count of three, run behind the car. One. Two. Three.”
Sandra sprang to her feet and ran. Mike was right beside her, curling his arm around her waist and covering her with his body as they raced for the protection of the car. They jumped behind the passenger-side door, ducking low and breathing hard. Still no sound from across the street. Somehow, that frightened Sandra more.
Mike had his 9 mm gripped with both hands in front of his face. Sweat beaded his brow, but he still sounded remarkably composed as he said, “Do you have a gun?”
“In my purse on the floor of the car.”
“Get it out.”
He moved to the end of the car, peering earnestly across the street while she cracked open the door and dragged out her purse. Seconds later she had a small .22-caliber pistol in her grip, though her hands weren’t nearly as steady as Mike’s.
“I think he’s gone,” Mike said. “Damn.”
“Damn?”
“Face it, ma chère, this may be as close as we come to catching him. Okay, you sit here. Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be back in a sec.”
“What are you—”
Mike didn’t wait for her question. He bolted across the street with his head tucked between his shoulders. Sandra was left peering out from behind the bumper, nervously waiting to see what happened next. The building across the street appeared to be an old garage of some kind. The front facade was brick with evenly spaced square windows. Unfortunately, the glass was so caked with dirt and grime it was impossible to see in.
Was Vee still inside? Had he already run off or was he serious now? Two cops had come into the east side and were asking about him. Maybe that had made him mad. Maybe it was enough to jolt him into action.
Dr. Mayes had said Vee was mostly angry with himself. Suddenly Sandra wasn’t so sure.
A loud popping sound emitted from across the street, followed by a startling crash and a fierce curse. Next thing Sandra knew, a small body came tearing out of the building and made a beeline for the fence down the street.
Vee, she realized. That was Vee.
Acting on instinct, she took off in pursuit.
Vee had a good head start on her, so they were hardly neck and neck. From this distance, she couldn’t even tell if he was carrying a gun, but assumed he must be. Mostly she was struck by his size. Small, wiry. More boy than man. And fast. He tore down the sidewalk like hell on wheels, his arms pumping furiously at his sides.
“Stop, police,” Sandra yelled belatedly.
He kept on running, not even glancing over his shoulder.
Dammit, she was never going to be able to catch him. The kid moved too fast and she’d been an idiot to wear heels. She honestly needed Mike and had no idea how far behind her he might be. She’d heard more cursing from the building as she’d run by it; he was probably tangled up in there.
Then she was seized by another realization. Vee was a small boy, obviously intent on getting away. Sooner or later he must plan on ducking through something, cutting through somewhere.
She spotted it. An opening in the fence up ahea
d. The boy could dive on through and come out on another block or cut through a backyard. If he made it, she was sunk.
Sandra came to a halt in the middle of the street. She identified a car capable of offering protective cover if she needed it, and she made her stand. She raised her gun above her head, and knowing what she did of Vee’s father, she fired.
The boy immediately halted. He was three feet from the hole in the fence. She could see him lean toward it longingly, weighing his chances.
“Don’t make me shoot,” she called out.
Very slowly, Vee turned around. Now she could see the 9 mm dangling from his fingertips. It looked frighteningly large in his hand.
“Drop the gun, hands over your head.”
He didn’t move.
“Drop your gun,” she said more forcibly. “Hands over your head!”
He didn’t move.
“Drop your weapon!”
The boy shook his head. Sandra had one last impression. Huge brown eyes framed by thick lashes. An expression nearly as frightened as her own. Then his face settled, became too stoic. Vee jerked his arms around, gun coming up.
“No!” Mike yelled from behind her, still running to the scene.
“No,” Sandra gasped.
The boy threw his gun at her with all his might. Then he dove through the hole in the fence as Sandra’s knees gave way in shock and she collapsed in Mike’s arms.
“Are you okay, are you okay?”
They were back in Mike’s unmarked police car. Minutes had passed since the confrontation, but it seemed like hours. Sandra was cradled on Mike’s lap. She knew it was unprofessional and yet she had no intention of going anywhere.
“I’m okay,” she said in a shaky voice, still clinging to his shoulders and searching his face earnestly for signs of damage. “You?”
“Banged my stupid head on a collapsing beam. What the hell were you doing running after him like that?”
“I had to do something. You said so yourself—this might have been our only chance to find him.”
“He could’ve shot you!”
“He didn’t.”
Mike gripped her harder. “Don’t you ever stop in the open like that again, Sandy. For heaven’s sake, when you confront an armed suspect, you find cover. You hear me? You find cover.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Then she couldn’t speak. He was crushing her too tightly against his chest. He was tipping her head up. He was devouring her lips with his, feverish and punishing. And she welcomed the onslaught. She sympathized with his need to claim her as she was consumed by the need to claim him.
Nothing had happened to Mike. Dear God, why had she never realized before what it would do to her if something had happened to Mike?
He finally dragged his head up. They both gasped for air. Then she was the one who found his lips in another bruising kiss. He was warm and hard and solid. He was strong and real and fierce. She wished they weren’t in a police car anymore. She wished they were at home in her bed, where she could strip his clothes off and he could drive into her body before the adrenaline wore off and they both had time to think. Time to come to their senses. Time to realize they were no longer lovers, no longer spouses, and nothing ever got resolved in bed.
Mike finally drew back. In a gesture that made Sandra’s eyes burn more, he tucked her head beneath his chin and rocked her against his chest.
“You scared the living daylights outta me,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I think we scared Vee even worse.”
“What if he’d opened fire, Sandra? What if he’d shot at you? Mon Dieu!”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think of that.”
“You’re developing a soft spot for the boy,” Mike said seriously. “You’re bonding and it could get you killed.”
Sandra didn’t say anything. She thought of Vee’s eyes again, his round, frightened stare, then his overly stoic gaze. She thought of this park with its needle-ridden pavement and broken children’s toys. She thought of Mac-Two and Keisha and baby Bobby, who would now grow up in these bullet-torn streets.
“Hold me,” she murmured to Mike. And he did.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in the station house, buffeted by questions as news of the encounter spread. Vee’s gun was bagged and tagged, then sent down to forensics for testing. They would dust the weapon for prints, then try to match the gun with shells retrieved from Monday night’s shooting. Mike had already told Sandra that the 9 mm would most likely prove untraceable; the serial number had been erased from the barrel with acid. Forensics had a number of tricks up their sleeves, however, and might be able to come up with something.
In the meantime, Sandra worked with a sketch artist to create a composite of Vee’s face, while Mike blew up a map of the east side and pinpointed the various sites where the boy had been spotted. This was a common technique for trying to locate the home or hideout of a suspect. Hopefully, as more information became available, they could narrow in on Vee’s location.
Police officers came and went in droves. Had they really seen the thirteen-year-old? What kind of firepower had he been carrying? What had he said? What had he done? Had Sandra really given pursuit? What? She let him get away…
Mike’s head wound received a great deal of attention, as well. He received a bandage, a cold compress, and then a good deal of ribbing. Two enterprising detectives drew up a manila case file for a Mr. Dead Wood, suspected in the April 20 assault of a homicide detective. Known associates: Mr. and Mrs. Brick. Known hideouts: Deserted buildings. Fingerprints: Ten carefully inked-up wood slivers. Considered heavy and abrasive. Do not approach with eyes closed or head held high.
They hung the case file on the police bulletin board for Mike’s immediate attention, offering a two-beer award for the first person to capture Mr. Wood. Mike got to say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He laughed, he claimed good-naturedly they ought to see the other guy, and he hoped no one noticed that his hands were still shaking.
He simply couldn’t shake the image of Sandy staring down a thirteen-year-old hood. He shouldn’t have brought her into the east side. He shouldn’t have left her alone. When Vee’s arms had come back around like that…
Mike had aged ten years. And while Sandra still seemed convinced that Vee didn’t mean any harm, Mike wasn’t so certain. He thought he’d read something else on the boy’s face. Growing desperation. The need to take a stand.
A little after four, Sandra finished with the sketch artist. The composite wasn’t much. Both she and Mike had spent too much time staring at the back of the boy’s head to notice any distinguishing characteristics. In the end, they had described a fairly typical thirteen-year-old. Rounded cheeks, flat nose, thickly lashed eyes, broad forehead and short black hair beneath a backward baseball cap.
“Congratulations,” Lieutenant Hopkins observed.
“You just narrowed our search to one thousand juvenile delinquents.”
Sandra sent the drawing over to the Citizen’s Post anyway, where it would run on the front page of the morning paper. They still had not received any replies to her letter. Then again, Vee had had a busy afternoon.
“Why do you think he was at the park?” she asked Mike when things finally quieted down. The night patrols headed out, officers still wearing vests and traveling in pairs.
“I don’t know. Maybe he lives by there.” Mike was standing in front of the blown-up map. He pointed to a series of blocks running by the park. “Any of these neighborhoods would fit the demographics.”
“We just stumbled onto his home turf.”
“Possibly. We were looking for him.”
“So why didn’t he take more aggressive action? It would seem that he spotted us long before we were aware of him. He could’ve opened fire at any time.”
Mike shrugged. “We were also standing in the middle of four kids and, for a while, you were holding a baby. That doesn’t make for a clean shot.”
Sandra hesitated. “So if
I hadn’t picked up Bobby…”
“I don’t know, Sandra. I honestly don’t know.”
She nodded, and Mike could tell that her mood was still subdued. Unconsciously, he moved closer to her, his arm sliding around to offer comfort. At the last minute, however, he remembered where they were. His arm dropped to his side. He moved pointedly back. He saw that she followed his withdrawal and seemed to nod slightly.
In a police department, the walls had ears, and she knew it, too.
“Well,” she said briskly. “I need to catch up on some paperwork.”
“I need to find Koontz.”
“Hopefully, he learned something going through the case file.”
“Maybe.” Mike kept his tone neutral. “Gonna work late?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm, maybe we should debrief later? I may have some developments that need your attention.”
“I don’t know. It’s been a very busy day for the case. Maybe we should take a break.” She hesitated, looking slightly vulnerable. “Maybe we should make sure we haven’t lost our objectivity.”
“Instinct is a powerful investigative tool, Chief Aikens.”
“It doesn’t hold up in court.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Sometimes, it’s thinking too much that gets you into trouble.”
“True,” she acknowledged softly, “thinking too much can be a problem.”
“I think this afternoon we were on to something. I think we should follow that lead.”
“It was a…nice lead.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“All…all right.”
His voice dropped. “Your place?”
Her breath picked up slightly. “Yes.”
He made the mistake of looking at her then. Her blue eyes were wide and luminescent, her lips pearly pink and half-parted. Damn, he wished they weren’t surrounded by homicide detectives and patrol officers. He wanted to kiss her. Kiss her hard. Feel her body shivering against his the way it had just a few hours before. Except this time he would deepen the kiss, bury his hands in her wild, curly hair. This time he would take the moment all the way through until her body was hot and writhing beneath his and finally… Finally…