by Diane Kelly
After bidding the group good-bye, Seth and I led the dogs back to the car.
“So,” I said, once we were seated inside, “what happened to the girl?”
“You heard me. That’s private information.”
I snorted. “Right.” He might not be permitted to share private medical information with the general public, but I was a fellow first responder, not to mention his girlfriend.
He cut a look my way and spoke in a whisper, as if that somehow negated his breach of confidentiality. “She’s still in the hospital. Bad reaction to Molly.”
“Molly?” Dammit! She—or someone who’d sold her the drug—had sneaked it past the K-9 units. I knew we couldn’t be everywhere, and that people possessing drugs would take pains to avoid the K-9 teams, but it still rankled. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Who knows,” he said on a sigh. “Last I heard it wasn’t looking good.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. No doubt the girl’s parents were going through hell right now. The kids who took these drugs didn’t seem to realize the risk they were taking, the danger they were putting themselves in, that they were essentially practicing medicine on themselves without the benefit of a medical school education and a regulated pharmaceutical company producing the drug. They might as well be playing Russian roulette.
We returned to my house and spent a lazy day on the couch watching movies, sometimes using our dogs for pillows, other times being used as pillows by our dogs. Though my eyes were glued to the screen, my mind was in that hospital room with the young girl I’d seen being loaded into the ambulance. Would she survive? If she did, would she have permanent brain or organ damage?
* * *
The same questions still ran through my mind when I arrived at work shortly before eight Thursday morning. I stepped up to the front desk to consult with Melinda, a fortyish blue-eyed, bushy-haired blonde who served as the W1 Division’s office manager/administrative guru/receptionist. Melinda was the cog around which the entire division circled, the scheduler, the keeper of information, the guardian of the key to the supply closet. In other words, the rest of us might carry guns and night sticks, but she wielded the real power.
“Good morning, Melinda,” I greeted her. “Can you print me out a copy of the arrest report on Graham Hahn?”
“I could,” she replied. “But what’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was here when Officer Mackey brought the kid in. We had to let him go. Somewhere between Panther Pavilion and the station Derek lost the evidence.”
My mind took a second to process that piece of information before my mouth cried, “He what?!?”
“You heard me,” the no-nonsense Melinda replied. “The drugs were gone. Hahn was released. End of story.”
“But Hahn had thousands of dollars’ worth of pills!” I cried, as if that could somehow make the evidence materialize. “He wasn’t just using the drugs. He was selling them!”
“Yet they’re still gone,” Melinda said. “Now can I get back to my other work or is there something else I can help you with?”
“No,” I told her, fuming so hard it was a wonder flames weren’t shooting out of my nostrils. “That’s all I need. Thanks for the information.”
She angled her head to indicate the hallway to my left and spoke under her breath. “Derek’s in the men’s room if you want to give him some hell.”
“Oh, you know I do!”
I stormed down the hall and positioned myself across from the men’s room door with my back to the wall, Brigit sitting at my feet. When the door swung open a moment later and Derek stepped out, I was on him in a heartbeat, my face only inches from his. “You lost evidence and botched my arrest? How could you!”
He frowned, but was otherwise nonchalant. “The drugs either fell out of my pocket or I accidentally threw them away with some other trash. As they say, shit happens.”
Shit happens? That’s his response? While Derek worked as a training officer on occasion, he’d been flying solo for the past few weeks. Too bad. If he’d had a partner or trainee with him, maybe he or she would’ve kept a closer eye on the drugs and prevented them from being misplaced.
“So that’s a ‘yes,’ then?” I demanded. “You admit you screwed up?”
The Big Dick stiffened and glared down at me. “You best step back, Megan.”
“Don’t tell me to step back!” I snapped. “There’s a girl in the hospital clinging to life, Derek! She was at Panther Pavilion and had a bad reaction to Molly. There’s a chance she bought it from Hahn. And now he’s gotten off scot-free!”
He waved a dismissive hand. “That boy isn’t the only one dealing Molly in Fort Worth. Hell, he probably wasn’t the only one selling Molly at the pavilion. Besides, if anyone’s to blame, it’s you and little miss sniffy.” He gestured to Brigit. “You two were supposed to catch anyone trying to bring drugs into the event and that little pecker-head snuck right past you at the gate. Now get off my ass and get out of my way.”
I got off his ass, but I didn’t get out of his way. Nonetheless, he circled around me and stalked down the hall and out of the building to begin his shift.
“Bastard,” I muttered after him.
The guy was infuriating, mostly because he kind of had a point. It was the job of the K-9 teams to find drugs. Even if the Big Dick hadn’t lost the evidence and Graham Hahn was sitting in jail right now, the girl would still be in the hospital, hooked up to God knows what machines.
Just after Derek went out the door, Detective Audrey Jackson entered through them. Detective Jackson was in her early forties, with dark skin and hair she wore in short, perky braids. She’d taken me under her wing and allowed me to assist in an unofficial capacity in a couple of her investigations. She knew I hoped to make detective one day, and she’d become a wonderful mentor for me.
She raised a brow. “Why do you look like you want to hit something?”
Apparently my Irish temper was showing itself. “Because I found out Derek lost critical evidence in one of my arrests.”
“The Hahn case?”
“Yep,” I growled.
“About that,” she said quietly, angling her head to indicate her office down the hall. “Let’s talk.”
I followed her down the hall, Brigit’s nails click-click-clicking on the tile floor as we went. Jackson held the door open for me and my partner, closing it once we were inside. I took a seat in one of the chairs facing her desk while she dropped into the rolling chair behind it.
She eyed me intently. “You think Derek really lost those drugs?”
I wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at, but her question gave me an uneasy feeling. “As opposed to what?”
She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “As opposed to keeping the drugs himself, or maybe selling them.”
No beating around the bush. That was one of the many things I respected about the detective. She didn’t waste anyone’s time, especially her own.
I felt my eyes widen of their own accord. “You think Derek stole the drugs?”
She gave me a patient smile. “I’m asking you that question, Megan. You recently spent months as his partner. Aside from the chief, you probably know him better than anyone on this force.”
What she was really asking was whether I thought Derek could be a crooked cop. My mind tossed the thought around, tried it on for size. Derek Mackey was a jackass, no doubt about that. He was rude to both his coworkers and suspects. He didn’t use enough deodorant and was in constant need of a breath mint. He liked to bang his dick and had been rougher than necessary with some of the people he’d arrested. His reports looked like they’d been written by a second-grader. His grammar was deplorable, his vocabulary limited, and he’d never mastered the rules of punctuation. He— Wait. Where am I going with this? Oh, yeah. Derek was a very big, very pointy thorn in my side, not to mention an absolute asshole. But a crooked cop? I shook my head. “No. No, I don’t think he stole the
drugs. I think he’s a sloppy cop, not a bad one.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “All right, then. I know I can count on you to give me an honest opinion.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
She gave me another patient smile. “Just because I’m sure you’re being honest doesn’t mean I’m sure you’re right. Opinion and fact are two different things.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Way to burst my bubble.”
“I’m only being honest, too. I know that’s what you want.”
She had me there.
She leaned forward, picked up the stapler from her desk, and brandished it. “Between you, me, and the stapler here,” she said in a quiet voice, “this isn’t the first time Mackey has lost evidence.”
Uh-oh. A warning tingle began to make its way up my spine. Unfortunately, more than a few members of law enforcement had been caught pilfering drug evidence to feed their own addictions. Still, Derek and I had been partners for months. I’d gotten to know the guy well. Too well, really. Derek had been known to have a few too many beers now and then when out with the boys, but nothing he’d ever said or done had hinted at any sort of illegal drug use. On the other hand, people could hide their addictions well, especially when the consequences of others finding out would be great. “The other lost evidence,” I said, “was it drugs, too?”
“No,” she said, “it was cash. Two grand, to be exact. It was years ago, when he was new on the job. He and his training partner busted a guy for selling stolen merchandise out of his apartment. Derek claims he left the cash behind on the kitchen counter, but it wasn’t there when they went back.”
“Was it possible someone else had a key to the apartment? Maybe the fence’s friend or girlfriend or family member went in and took the money.”
“It’s possible,” she said, “which is why Derek was given only a stern lecture and was allowed to keep his job. Every cop makes mistakes on occasion, and there was enough stolen property seized to convict the guy three times over.”
Unlike the current case, where the loss of evidence ended any chance of prosecution, the misplaced cash hadn’t prevented the lawbreakers from being prosecuted. Good thing.
“His stats are down, too,” Jackson said. “Over the last month, he’s issued fewer citations and made the least number of arrests of any officer in W1.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s crooked,” I said. “It probably just means he’s lazy.”
Derek didn’t like the day-to-day grunt work that came with being a cop. I knew that for a fact because, when we’d been partners, he’d made me handle all of the boring, routine stuff. Rather, he lived for the large news-making busts, the ones that posed the potential for both violence and heroism. He liked to go toe-to-toe with criminals, to bust heads. Issuing a speeding ticket to a soccer mom who was running late picking her kids up from practice was something he considered beneath him. I told Jackson as much. Not that any of this excused his behavior. But it did explain it.
“What you say may be true,” she agreed, “but he’s got to do his job, whether he thinks these things are beneath him or not. He might be Chief Garelik’s golden boy, but numbers don’t lie. If Mackey’s stats don’t improve, he’s going to have to answer for them. Captain Leone’s ready to go head-to-head with the chief if necessary.”
“Is Derek aware of this?” I asked.
“Oh, hell, yeah,” she said. “The captain called him in and they had a come-to-Jesus meeting.”
With any luck, Derek would see the light and change his ways, stop leaving the routine police work to the rest of us.
“Getting back to the matter at hand,” Jackson continued, “once I check my voice and e-mails, I’m off to the hospital. Gonna see what I can get out of Miranda Hernandez. She’s the girl who collapsed at Panther Pavilion. Hopefully she’ll tell me who she bought the Molly from so we can get a bust out of this.”
“I was there when the ambulance t-took her away,” I said. “I saw the EMTs speak with a tall, skinny guy with dark hair and a girl with wavy red hair. They looked pretty freaked out. The girl was crying. I’d planned to check in with them, but they left before I had a chance.”
She offered a harrumph that said when people don’t stick around a crime scene, there’s usually a reason. “You think you could identify them?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I only got a quick look and the lighting wasn’t good.”
“I’ll see if the EMTs got their names,” she said. “You best get out on the road now. This city needs you and your partner on the job.”
I stood and led Brigit to the door. “Have a good day, Detective!” I called back over my shoulder.
Officer Hinojosa drifted past in the hall, good-naturedly muttering, “Suck-up.”
I blew him a raspberry. Pffft.
NINE
GETTING OUR LICKS IN
Brigit
Brigit wasn’t sure why her partner stuck out her tongue and made that odd sound. What did pffft mean, anyway? Humans could be so odd. If a dog stuck out its tongue, it meant business. Something was getting licked.
TEN
LET’S MAKE A DEAL
The Dealer
“A half million up front,” the guy said. “Another five hundred large when you deliver.”
The Dealer couldn’t believe he was even considering the offer. He’d never taken this kind of money before, and there was no guarantee he could deliver everything the guy was asking for. Taking the money would go against everything he—and the piece of metal on his chest—stood for. Maybe he should just stand up and walk away, leave all of this behind him.
He took a long sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn on his tongue as he bought himself another moment to mull things over, to consider all the pros and cons …
“Hello?” the guy snapped impatiently. “We got a deal or not?”
He sent the guy a cold stare. “What if I don’t deliver?”
The guy smirked. “You mean what if you can’t?”
Fucker. This exchange had begun to feel more like a castration than a conversation.
The guy tossed back the bourbon in his glass. “If you can’t deliver, but we can tell you’ve tried?” He belched a nasty chuckle. “You can keep the down payment. Consider it the equivalent of a pity fuck.”
ELEVEN
PARTY POOPERS
Megan
Friday night, Seth was on duty at the firehouse and Frankie’s boyfriend Zach had planned to play poker with friends. So Frankie and I did the only thing two self-respecting young women would do on a weekend when they were man-free. We rounded up as many of our single friends as we could find and headed to a bar for—
“Girls’ night!” we cried in unison, clinking our glasses. Some contained wine. Some were rimmed in salt and contained a frozen margarita. Tonight, I’d opted for a blue Hawaiian. It was the closest I’d get to a beautiful beach here in north Texas.
The faces at the table ranged wildly. Across from me sat my fresh-faced coworker Summer, who had lively blond curls and a sunny disposition that matched her name perfectly. On either side of Summer sat a couple of Frankie’s roller derby teammates from the Whoop Ass. Raven had jet-black hair that fell past the half-dozen piercings in her ears to her shoulders, ending in a blunt edge. Mia was a femininely fierce Asian in a dainty pink lace dress and combat boots. The gem hanging from the silver chain around her neck looked frighteningly like a human tooth. I decided it was best not to ask. But despite the differences in our appearances, we had one thing in common. We were all women who didn’t back down from challenges.
The waiter arrived with a heaping platter of nachos, another heaping platter of curly fries, and another piled with fried pickles, the trifecta of gluttony, a gastrological challenge. “Here you go, ladies.”
We pushed our glasses and silverware aside to make room for the feast. After plunking the food down in front of us, he gave us a smile and said, “Enjoy!”
Rave
n watched him go. “Nice ass on that one.”
While part of me was tempted to chastise her for objectifying the guy, for treating him as nothing more than a piece of meat, one glance at his retreating form told me she hadn’t been wrong. I’d save the lecture for another time.
Summer dipped a fried pickle in ketchup and held it up in front of her. “I’m pushing thirty. I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to eat like this without consequences?”
She had a point. While we’d had to pass multiple physical tests in order to successfully graduate from the police academy, our jobs as beat cops required surprisingly little movement. We spent most of the day sitting on our butts in our cruisers, driving around. Given that I was paired with a K-9 who took several potty breaks a day and liked to explore a little, I got more exercise than most officers. I also watched what I ate and jogged on occasion to keep in decent shape. Still, I was no Jillian Michaels.
“Play derby,” Frankie suggested to Summer. “Roller-skating burns over three hundred calories an hour.”
“No kidding?” Summer said. “Maybe I should trade in my squad car for a pair of skates.”
“Or a hoverboard,” Mia suggested. “It wouldn’t be much exercise, but it would be fun to ride.”
“Yeah, and if the hoverboard catches fire,” Frankie replied, fishing a curly fry from the pile, “I’ll come put it out.”
Our conversation meandered from there to modes of transportation that, as kids, we’d thought would be everyday by now. Jet packs. Flying cars. Solar-powered trains.
I twirled my glass between my fingers. “Speaking of the future, has anyone decided who they’re going to vote for in the Senate race?”
Raven stopped with her wineglass halfway to her lips. “There’s an election this year?”
“Haven’t you seen the signs?” I asked. “They’re everywhere. Heck, there’s even one behind the bar.” I pointed to the back of the bar where one of Essie Espinoza’s signs leaned back against the mirror, supported on one side by a bottle of Tito’s Vodka, on the other by a Shiner Bock longneck. The sign featured a silhouette of Essie looking upward, her bushy hair softening her face, along with the slogan ESPERANZA ESPINOZA—OUR HOPE FOR THE FUTURE.