by Neal Griffin
Four hours on a street corner in Milwaukee had been productive, but her feet were killing her and she couldn’t wait to get out of the damn heels. A black-and-white slowed alongside her, and she recognized the officer behind the wheel. He tapped the air horn and called out the window, “Right on, Tia. How much for a taste of that?”
Tia flipped the cop off good-naturedly and called back, “You couldn’t afford it on your paycheck, but you can take a picture.”
She struck a seductive pose as the car rolled by, then continued across the open parking lot, drawing curious stares from cops and citizens. I could probably do a little more business right here, she thought, but I’ve had enough for the day.
When she walked into the lobby of the police department, crowded with people attending to the mundane business of bike registrations and parking tickets, every head turned to stare. Tia made eye contact with the clerk behind the desk; they exchanged smiles and Tia heard the nearby door marked POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY click open. She pulled on the chain around her neck, dragging her police badge into view as she passed through the door. The heavy gold shield was out of place with her outfit, but she was glad to be returning to her real world.
“Screw these things,” Tia said to herself, stepping out of her ridiculous shoes. The act was over. Going barefoot through the PD might be frowned on by the brass, but they’d just have to understand. Tia pictured the new chief, that fat ass Jorgensen, trying to look sexy on a street corner in a miniskirt and high-heel, open-toed shoes. When her bare feet touched flat against the cool tile, every inch of her body tingled in relief.
“Oh, God … now that feels good,” Tia practically moaned.
“No getting off in the hallway, Suarez.” Another smart-ass comment from a passing cop, but Tia laughed.
Tia needed to check in with the boss and let him know the undercover vice detail had wrapped up. The four hours in Milwaukee had resulted in the arrest of eight johns. Three holding dope, and one a prior for sexual assault. That guy was bent, she thought. Tia figured she had probably saved a real hooker an ass beating by making the arrest. The thought of that guy being off the street and in a jail cell energized her. She took the stairs, barefoot, two at a time. Between the stairs and the detective sergeant’s office, she fielded no fewer than half a dozen offers involving broom closets and the backseats of patrol cars. Tia took it all in stride, then struck a pose in her supervisor’s doorway.
“Hey, baby, got any lunch plans?”
Ben Sawyer looked up from his desk with no sign of recognition. Tia laughed at the look on his face. Then the penny dropped and he smiled.
“Hey, Tia, welcome back. How was vice detail?”
“Are you kidding?” Tia said. “I rocked it. Caught my limit. Milwaukee PD says anytime you want to loan out the little Mexican girl to play hooker, they’re down for it.”
“I’m sure they loved having you,” Ben said. “And it’s a nice break from patrol, right?”
“Absolutely. One of these days you might even come to your senses and make me a full-time detective.” Tia was only half kidding. She’d led the Patrol Bureau in arrests and convictions for the past six months straight. Tia made it clear to all the department bosses that she believed she had long since earned a detective’s shield.
“Patience there, Suarez. Patience.”
Tia had met Ben soon after his father-in-law had hired him on as a sergeant. Both Tia and Ben were often treated like outsiders by Newbergers, civilians and cops alike. Ben because he had deserted his hometown and returned dishonored to take an undeserved handout. Tia because there was no such thing as a Mexican-Newberger even if she had lived in the town for more than twenty years and served a four-year hitch in the Marines.
Tia had been born in Brownsville, Texas, in the daughter of migrant workers. She was just five years old when her family arrived in Newberg, where they were the sole nonwhite residents other than a few scattered Native Americans. Most Newbergers grudgingly conceded the Native Americans had a right to call Wisconsin home, but by Newberg standards, any third-world brown types would always be foreigners. It hadn’t helped that Tia’s dad had performed general labor at the dairy farms while her mom cleaned houses.
Her parents had long since returned to their native Jalisco, but not Tia. After two tours in Afghanistan, she’d been hired on with Newberg PD. To her, Newberg was home. Anybody who disagreed could kiss her brown ass.
“How about we step out and grab some coffee,” Tia said. “See how long it takes for our local rag to report that Sergeant Benjamin Sawyer was seen in the company of a scantily dressed, dark-skinned female companion?”
Ben gestured to the case files covering the top of his desk. “Sounds fun, but I need to get through these cases. Come on in. I got half a thermos. We’ll split it.”
Tia slid easily into the only chair available in the cramped office. She pushed a bare foot against the edge of her boss’s desk and eased the chair back, leaving her hard brown legs much more visible than usual. When Ben’s eyes widened, Tia remembered what she was wearing and let the chair fall back flat against the floor. Tia picked up on Ben’s look of embarrassment and laughed at his predicament.
“I guess I should probably go change out of my work clothes.”
Ben winked. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You look good. Really.”
Tia changed the subject from the implication that she’d make a great hooker. She gestured at the case files. “What gives? You closing in on some of Newberg’s notorious criminal element?”
Ben filled two Styrofoam cups, and Tia picked up on his irritation. “I wish I had the time. It seems like I stay busy just trying to keep track of wayward detectives. You wouldn’t happen to know McKenzie’s favorite hiding spots, would you? He disappears first thing in the morning when he bothers showing up at all. I never see the guy.”
Tia sipped the coffee and grimaced at the flavor as much as at the mention of Detective Doyle McKenzie. She swallowed hard before answering.
“Wherever he’s at, I don’t want to know. Careful of him, Sarge. Backbiting son of a bitch that one is. And he doesn’t take little nibbles. More like chunks. Usually leaves a mark.”
“Thanks, but you aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know. McKenzie was a few years ahead of me in school. He was already a cop here when my wife and I moved out west. From what I knew he was an unscrupulous bastard even then. But I tell you what, he keeps this shit up, he’ll be assigned to crossing guard detail come this fall.”
“Not likely. He’s pretty insulated. Seems he’s got friends in high places.”
Tia thought about what she had just said and spoke up to correct any misunderstanding. “I mean, now he does. Not before. Chief Norgaard ran a tight ship. Aw, hell, you know what I mean. Anyway, ignore McKenzie. Spend your energy on something more worthwhile.”
“That’s pretty disappointing coming from a hard-nosed cop like you. I thought we agreed to root out evil and fight for justice, apple pie, and all that good stuff?”
Tia laughed. “Damn right, Superman. But you need to watch out for the guys with kryptonite.”
Tia looked over her shoulder, then back at Ben. “Seriously. McKenzie is bad news. That asshole doesn’t even deserve to be called a cop. But he’s Jorgensen’s boy now. Just wait it out. Let McKenzie hang himself. Guys like him eventually screw up. Otherwise, it might be you that gets run out of here.”
“So what are you saying? I go through the rest of my career with my eyes closed? Let McKenzie run all over me?”
“No, Sarge. Just be careful of the guy. That’s all I meant.”
Tia wanted Ben to know her concern was real, but she could see his stubborn streak coming out and she heard the resistance in his voice.
“This is one screwed-up coffee break.”
“Sorry. You’re right.” Her voice turned lighthearted. “Course this coffee is from yesterday and even then it probably tasted like tar.” She took another sip and changed the subject.
<
br /> “How’s the family? You got the one kid, Jake, right?”
Tia noticed the change in demeanor and remembered Ben always shied away from the personal talk. He recovered quickly and seemed to try and come off as the average dad. “Yeah. That’s right. He’s doing great. He misses California sometimes, and he’s coming up on the teenage years. You know how that goes. But he’s playing Little League this year. Kid’s got promise.”
Tia decided to push a little.
“And your wife? Alexandra?”
“She’s great.” An uncomfortable silence lasted until Ben changed the subject. “I hear you made top cop this quarter. It’s about time.”
Tia rolled her eyes, embarrassed. “Yeah. It’s cool. I was surprised, though. Usually it takes perfect attendance at the chaplain’s Bible study to pull that off. I haven’t made a meeting yet.”
The intercom interrupted their chat. “Officer Suarez, report to the patrol sergeant’s office immediately.”
The voice belonged to Sergeant Billy “Plate” Boyd, and he sounded irritated. Tia looked at the clock on the wall, then rolled her head back and closed her eyes.
“Shit. I’ve got to do a ten-hour patrol shift,” she said. “The overtime pay for these details is nice, but it’s going to turn into an eighteen-hour day. You think you could tell your compadre to cut me a little slack? I’m pretty sure Plate thinks I had something to do with his getting shitcanned back to patrol. I swear the guy is going to ride my ass out the front door if he can.”
Tia had been working for Boyd for the past three months, and it was obvious the old guy was not happy with his new assignment. Before Norgaard went down, Ben had inherited the Detective Squad from Sergeant Boyd. At thirty-four years of service and counting, Boyd was the current longevity champion of Newberg PD. The nature of Plate Boyd’s notoriously long absences had earned him his nickname. On any given workday you couldn’t find Boyd with a compass, but if you did stumble across him, he was usually tucked in behind a heaping plate of food. The size of the meal was a good indicator of the length of his subsequent nap. Just before going down with his stroke, Chief Norgaard had put Ben in the detective sergeant position. Tia knew it hadn’t gone over well with everyone, especially Boyd.
“Don’t worry about Plate,” Ben said. “He’s harmless. Not to mention a little intimidated by cops like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yeah. Cops who know how to push the envelope. Here you are, five years into your career, pulling undercover details and making felony arrests almost every night. Believe me, Boyd never did the job the way you do. For most cops from his generation, it was all about crossing guard duty and cats in trees. His bluster is just his way of maintaining some dignity. Go easy on him.”
“Like you go easy on McKenzie?”
Ben’s voice took on a serious tone. “Different story. There’s something devious about that prick. But Plate, he’ll be gone in a couple of years. Until then, take care of him. We owe him that much.”
“Makes sense.” Tia stood to leave, once again trying to get her skirt to cover the important parts. “Fight the good fight. Isn’t that what you told us in Patrol?”
“Exactly. Nice to know somebody was listening.”
“Hey, don’t kid yourself. We were all listening. You can come back to Patrol anytime. See you around.” Tia couldn’t help but leave with one last seductive leer, dangling her high heels over her shoulder and tossing Ben a wink. She walked down the hallway and headed for the locker room. She’d get suited up and do her ten-hour patrol shift. Tired as she was, Tia found herself looking forward to it. She walked past a group of patrol officers and the catcalls started up again. She joined in with the exchange, making sure the loudest and most vulgar comments were her own.
FIVE
Newberg Narcotics Detective Doyle McKenzie leaned back against the hood of the vintage Trans Am and enjoyed the low rumble of the five-liter engine idling beneath him. He ran his hand across the smooth black paint and thought how he’d waited his entire career for a car like this. Hell, more like my whole life. The car had come to him a month ago by way of a drug seizure. Some stupid-ass dope slinger out of Beloit who, McKenzie had learned, not only paid cash and owned the car outright, but hadn’t even had the good sense to register the vehicle in his baby mama’s name. McKenzie had seen to it that the dealer made his way to Newberg while holding major quantity in the trunk. Once the beat cops pulled the crook over and found the dope, McKenzie wasted no time in swooping in and claiming the car as a seized asset.
There’d been some talk of selling the car at public auction and using the proceeds for patrol equipment, but McKenzie had run to Chief Jorgensen and squashed that idea right quick. Before the previous owner even made it to lockup, McKenzie had turned in the keys to his pile-of-shit Crown Vic and assigned himself the new undercover ride. He wasn’t about to give it up so some flatfoots in uniform could have a whizbang flashlight. Fuck those guys. Being a senior detective had its perks.
At the moment, the new muscle car and all the joy that came with it was a sorry consolation. McKenzie could only shake his head in frustration at the fact that he’d been standing around for damn near half an hour with his thumb up his ass. The son of a bitch was late and McKenzie’s patience was wearing thin.
To make matters worse, it had been one hell of a rough night. He hadn’t bothered shaving in two days and even in the bright sunlight his blotchy, spider-veined skin had a grayish tint that nearly matched the thick head of hair that he greased straight back. A sizable paunch rode high over his belt, and the audible growls from his stomach weren’t due to hunger but to the aftereffects of all-you-can-eat barbequed spareribs at the Ho-Chunk Indian Casino and God knows how many whiskey shots chased with PBR.
McKenzie pushed hard against his eyes with both thumbs in an attempt to quiet the pounding in his head. He knew what he needed to do—knock off the greasy slabs of pork and buck up for a fillet once in a while. And no more happy-hour boilermakers with that shit-ass Indian firewater they sold as whiskey. From now on it’s Grey Goose with a twist of lemon. Or are you supposed to drink it with lime? He laughed as he pictured himself in a joint where they kept that sort of booze on hand.
Hell, it ain’t like I can’t afford it.
McKenzie blew out a long breath and thought back to his glory days. Back when even after raising hell all night he’d need nothing more than a twenty-minute nap and quick line of crystal meth to get right back on the beam. McKenzie still liked his booze, but the drugs had become too risky. Even he could see the dangers of getting hooked on crank. Nowadays he sucked it up until noon or so, when he could sneak off for a little hair of the dog.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Blocked number. He figured his new assbag of a sergeant was on the prowl again. Jesus, that guy. Damn supercop or some shit, him and his invalid father-in-law. But now, with Norgaard stroked out and Jorgensen at the helm, business was good. McKenzie had no plans to slow down. He punched Ignore even as he instinctively scanned the vicinity. As planned, the county park was deserted and he had a wide-open view of a half mile in all directions. Even though he knew he was covered from the top, McKenzie didn’t take chances. As long as Sawyer was around, McKenzie needed to be extra cautious when conducting his special assignments.
He lit his tenth cigarette of the morning and looked on with disbelief as the vehicle he was waiting for finally pulled into the secluded parking lot.
“What the fuck, convict?” he said to himself.
The pounding bass of rap music could be heard through the closed windows of the tricked-out lowrider. McKenzie could make out two silhouettes through the smoked tint, with the driver in a serious gangster lean behind the wheel.
The long wait had left McKenzie irritable, but the arrival of two players when he expected one took him all the way to righteously pissed off. He fisted the gun in his pocket as his heart double-tapped in his chest. He mumbled a string of epithets that would have left a Klansman red
with embarrassment.
Two men, dressed in warmups and heavy on ghetto bling, stepped from the car and jive-shucked it up pretty good as they approached.
“What up, McKenzie? What’s happenin’ in the big-time land of Newberg Five-O?” The driver attempted levity and the second man over did it on the laughter. McKenzie was glad to see them both look uneasy when they picked up on the bulge in the pocket of his ill-fitting overcoat.
The first man said, “This here is my partner…”
McKenzie kept one hand in his pocket and raised the other. “Shut your piehole, boy.”
With near twenty years of police work, most of it working dope and working dirty, McKenzie knew that when dealing with big-city trash-talkers like these fools, it was best to keep all communications plain, simple, and in a language they understood. McKenzie maintained his posture against the hood of his prized possession and spoke directly to his contact’s unknown companion. He made sure to lay the sarcasm on thick.
“Yo, Snoop Dogg. Go on and get your black ass back in that car and stay there. You ain’t gonna be participating in this conversation.”
The two men exchanged looks and waited for McKenzie to say more. When nothing followed, the driver smiled, flashing gold teeth. His brown eyes danced under his sideways Milwaukee Bucks ball cap. He tried to sound smooth, but McKenzie picked up on the noticeable tremor.
“Damn, McKenzie, what up with you? You ain’t got no call to be goin’ all badass cop or some shit. This here…”
Doyle stood up, one hand still concealed, and looked at his man.