by Frank Zafiro
My breathing and our footfalls on the asphalt alley were the only sounds in my ears. He was fifteen yards ahead of me and I tried to keep the dancing beam of my flashlight centered on him. I prepared myself mentally for anything. He could turn and charge me. He could pull a gun. He could trip and fall. He could—
With the speed of a tailback, he cut to his left as he passed a garage and left my sight. I swung wide around the garage to avoid possible ambush.
He’d disappeared.
I slowed to a walk, shining my light around in disbelief. My own ragged breath rushed in my ears. I struggled to bring it under control and listen for the suspect.
The alley opened into an unlit back yard. No fence separated the alley from the yard. A mud-splattered Toyota 4x4 with oversized tires sat on gravel. Beyond that, a small wooden tool shed butted against the eight-foot fence between this yard and the next.
I shone my light around the back yard. About fifteen feet from the alley, the gravel gave way to a ragged lawn. Beyond that was the rear of the house. Large wooden steps led up to the enclosed porch that ran the breadth of the house.
Halfway up the side of the house, I spotted a chain-link gate in the fence. The suspect could have easily vaulted the four-foot gate. But he didn’t have time.
He’d gone to ground. I knew it.
Hold your position. Call for a K-9. Let Gomez bring Čert the devil dog in here to chew that runner’s ass.
No. No time. If I was wrong and he kept running, he’d be long gone before the K-9 could make it on scene. I had to clear the area.
I slid my gun from my holster. My heartbeat pulsed in my fingertips. I swallowed. If he had a weapon, he could see my flashlight and—
Stop it!
I lowered myself to a crouch and directed my flashlight beam underneath the 4x4. The light swept across the empty gravel. Nothing.
I tried to put myself into his skin. I’m running from the police. I’m scared. I don’t know the area. I want to hide. But where?
The bed of the 4x4 yawned in the darkness. A thick rounded form huddled near the front. Adrenaline made prickles on the skin across my shoulders. I held my light high up and to the left of my head, tipping it forward to wash over the space.
“Freeze—” I started to say.
A pair of mud-caked tires butted up against the cab. No feet. No head. No white clothing.
The truck was too high for me to see the part of the bed nearest to me. I circled slowly to my left, exposing the rest of the empty truck bed to the light. Nada.
I scanned the rest of the back yard with my Maglite. Where else? The porch? The shed? The sliding door stood open a foot. I kept my gun and the light trained on the opening as I shuffled over toward the shed. I imagined him on the other side with a pistol or a knife. At any second, he could burst out and attack.
The Glock felt heavy in my hand. I gripped it tightly, my fingers slippery with sweat. Nothing to worry about, I told myself. I had the opening covered.
I should wait right here. Wait for the dog. Gomez would love to send Čert barreling through that sliding door into that confined place. Hell, the dog would love it, too.
No time.
I cleared my throat. “You in the shed! River City police! Come out with your hands where I can see them!”
The flashlight beam wobbled and shook. I held it on the opening and listened. Nothing. A dog barked a few houses over. Sirens in the distance. Still too far away.
“Come out now!”
I waited. Still nothing.
I swallowed. My pulse banged in my temples now. Sweat trickled down my sides underneath my vest.
Wait for backup?
Or check the shed?
I swore under my breath.
Keeping the flashlight steady, I moved toward the opening from a sharp angle. My light beam cut through the open door and illuminated part of the shed. When I was within five feet, I stopped. My academy training and years on the street took over.
You can see that part of the shed. It’s safe. You own it. Now cut the pie.
I shuffled slowly to my right, angling the light deeper into the shed. Nothing.
Another shuffle and I was straight on, flooding the majority of the shed with thirty thousand candlepower. Just the near corner to the left and inside the door remained.
I licked my lips and shuffled.
The light filled the corner nearest the door. Nothing.
Dread filled my gut. Was he that fast? He’d been ten or fifteen yards ahead of me, maybe less. I would have heard the familiar ping and wobble of the chain link fence being vaulted if he’d made it that far.
I swept my light across the back yard again. Nowhere else to hide.
My light froze.
Except maybe the porch.
The top half of the porch was screen, but the bottom half was solid. I envisioned him crouching down against the thin porch wall, struggling to control his breathing. Listening to me make a fool out of myself by the shed. Hoping I’d leave.
I made my way toward the steps, shining my light through the screened area, hoping to smoke him out. The wooden stairs creaked as I climbed up to the screen door.
He had to know I was there. Would he attack as soon as I opened the screen door? Freeze and hope I didn’t spot him? And where the hell were the people that lived here?
I envisioned myself defeating his move. Then I took two short breaths and reached out for the handle.
I pulled.
It didn’t move.
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered in frustration.
Did he lock it behind him?
No way. Not enough time.
I stepped to the far right of the stairs and shined the light around the inside of the porch. A wicker chair and loveseat were arranged in the confined space, along with a small wicker table. No sign of a body. No room to hide.
I cursed again and lowered my flashlight.
He’d got away. Somehow I missed him.
I holstered, turned, and trudged back down the steps. This was going to be a fun one to hear about. Kahn would let me have it with both barrels. He’d say how I should have stayed with the car and he should have ran down the bad guy. He never lost anyone, to hear him tell it.
I understood, of course. I never gave up the chase either. It irked the hell out of me that this one had gotten away. It made me look bad.
They only get away temporarily. I heard Tom Chisolm’s voice in the back of my head. He’d been my training officer years ago. If they get away today, don’t sweat it. We’ll get them another day. Just don’t give up the chase.
I wouldn’t.
My boot landed on the grassy cushion of the lawn. I snapped off my light and sighed. I knew Chisolm’s adage was right, but this would still take weeks for me to live down.
I heard a scrape and rustle behind me.
I whirled around. My gun found my hand and the flashlight searched out the sound before I had any conscious thought. The circle of light caught a figure rolling from under the steps and springing to his feet. Then the flash of white windbreaker bolted around the corner toward the front of the house.
“Stop!” I yelled and took off after him.
The other side of the house had a matching chain-link fence blocking the suspect’s path. He reached it while I was twenty feet away. I braced myself to vault the fence right behind him, but his handhold slipped and his feet flew out from under him. He hit the grass, landing on his back with a thud. He looked like a turtle on his shell, his hands straight up in the air.
Empty hands.
I skidded to a stop. “It’s over,” I gasped at him. “Keep those hands where I can see them?”
“Or vaht?” he asked, his accent thick. Russian, I guessed.
“Stay on the ground,” I ordered. I pulled the flashlight back slightly to illuminate the Glock pointed at him.
He laughed. “Or you shoot me? I don’t think so.”
“Do not move!” I boomed at him.
; “Yob tvoyu mat,” he answered, scrambling to his feet and charging me.
I took a step back in surprise. My mind struggled for a solution. I couldn’t shoot an unarmed man, even if he was attacking me. It wasn’t a life-threatening situation. I needed to use defensive tactics. A kick. A baton.
Before I could react, the hard knife edge of his hand blasted into my wrist. A shocked cry escaped my mouth. My hand went numb. The Glock tumbled from my grasp.
I recovered and swung my flashlight at him. He sidestepped the move like a shadow, pivoted, and torqued a kick at me. Pain exploded in my left thigh. Like a jolt of electricity, it coursed up and down my leg and into my back.
“Son of a—”
The next blow struck me in the chest, a hard two-handed shove. I hurtled backward into the wooden fence separating the two yards. My vest absorbed most of the force, but my breath whooshed out in a rush. With a grunt, I slid down the fence to a seated position.
The Russian bounded away, a white patch of windbreaker that faded and disappeared into the back yard.
“Stop!” I wheezed on half a lung.
I struggled to a knee. With my flashlight, I found my Glock on the grass. The weight in my hand gave me a sense of relief. I was lucky the suspect didn’t take it. A cop that loses his gun might as well pack it in, at least on patrol. The friendly ribbing I’d get for losing a foot pursuit was one thing. Losing my gun would garner nothing but contempt and suspicion from that point forward.
With a groan, I rose to my feet. My left thigh throbbed and threatened to cramp. The son of a bitch kicks like Chuck Norris. I holstered my weapon, giving no thought to further pursuit. The chase was over. The rabbit won tonight.
I limped back into the back yard, past the empty shed and the 4x4. Once in the alley, I started to backtrack, heading toward the traffic stop.
“Baker-127, Officer Hiero,” my radio crackled. “An update?”
I reached for my portable radio. “Code four. Suspect got away.”
I imagined the sound of snickering from every cop listening on the north-side channel.
“Copy. Last direction of travel?”
“North,” I guessed, and limped south.
“Any further description?”
“Negative.”
My lungs felt like they’d been slashed to ribbons. The light taste of blood coated the inside of my mouth. Every step I took, my left quadriceps tightened and nearly cramped. I limped across the street and into the north-south alley I’d chased the Russian down. I could’ve taken the sidewalk around the corner and back to the stop, but I didn’t feel like being seen as I trudged back, empty-handed. If Kahn asked why I took the alley, I’d say I was looking to see if he dumped anything while I was chasing him.
I stopped for a moment. Standing in the alley, I took a deep, ragged breath and let it out. Things sure went to shit in a hurry. One minute I’m sitting in a car and the next I’m running down an alley and getting my ass kicked.
That thought stung. No question, the Russian kicked my ass. Now I had to decide whether I wanted everyone to know that. If I told, he’d be a suspect for assaulting an officer. That charge was a felony and depending on the prosecutor, the bad guy could get hammered for it.
But if we never caught the guy, everyone would know.
I sighed.
I should have just let Kahn go straight back up to Sliders. Fucking Regal Street, anyway.
With a grunt, I started walking again. I’d have to tell. No way I could hide this limp. And the bruise that would be visible in the locker room—
A sharp crack cut through the night air. My first thought was a firecracker, but there was too much power behind it.
Gun!
Next came the squeal of tires.
I bolted down the alley, gritting my teeth against the pain in my leg. When I reached the yard the Russian had cut through early in the chase, I took it. Lumbering through the yard, I stopped at the sidewalk.
The light from the red and blue rotators danced up and down the street. The police car sat in the middle of the street where we’d stopped, both doors standing open like a pair of wings.
The gold Honda was gone.
“Jimmy!” I screamed, my voice hoarse and ragged.
I burst into a sprint, favoring my injured leg, in a mad, lopsided gallop toward the police car.
The sirens sounded closer. I thought about calling on my radio and warning the officers coming into the area that the gold Honda had fled. Then I rounded the open car door and saw Kahn lying on the black pavement.
“No!”
He lay on his back, his legs in a figure four position and his arms flung out wide. His holster was empty. His gun lay on the pavement next to his knee.
“Jimmy, hold on!”
I rushed to him, fell to my knees and grabbed him at the shoulders. His head flopped heavily backward. Warmth seeped through my uniform pants.
The blue and red lights bounced off his face, clearly showing the dark hole where his eye used to be.
“Oh, Jesus! Oh, fuck! Jimmy!” I clutched him to my chest. His head lolled to the side. His limp arms hung at his sides.
“No,” I whispered, hot tears clouding my eyes. I should never have left him alone with those two punks in the car. Somehow they bested him and it was my fault. My throat constricted. “Oh, please, no.”
I held him tight. Tears coursed down my cheeks. I let out guttural grunts of denial. The slick warmth from the back of his head drenched my uniform and reddened my badge. I sat with him on the hard, dark pavement as the sirens drew closer and closer.
If Only
“How are things, Antoinette?”
I always called her Antoinette when we were alone. As if her name wasn’t just plain old Toni. As if the trailer trash that spawned her had any idea that there was even a country called France. Much less knowing that young girls there were named Antoinette and hence the shortened term of endearment—Toni. As if she were truly a lady of elegance and poise and beauty and not a whore that made her money in the front seat of a stranger’s car.
“Slow,” she said, but it was not a complaint. When it was busy, she made money. When it was slow, she and I had long conversations.
“Seen your son?” I asked. Trevor was the kid’s name, but the wounded look in her eyes when I mentioned the boy was bad enough. Saying his name made it worse.
This time, though, the hurt look on her face was softer. She was nodding as she spoke. “I got to see him last weekend. We spent two days together at my sister’s place in Richland.”
“Your sister the banker?”
“She’s a teller, but yeah.”
I knew she was a fucking teller, but making everything in Toni’s world seem better than it really was had become part of my job description.
“How’s the kid doing?”
She smiled, her eyes glistening. “He’s wonderful. Smart, handsome. His teacher thinks he should go into that program for smart kids…”
“Gifted.”
“Yeah, gifted.”
I made a show of unwrapping a piece of gum. She watched as if it were performance art.
“You want a piece?” I asked her.
“A piece?” Her voice lilted with a half-purr.
I gave her a small grin. “Of gum.”
Her exaggerated pout appeared. “Oh, but I wanted something else.”
I popped the piece of spearmint into my mouth. “And what might that be?”
Her pout turned seductive and lost its exaggerated tone. “You and your sweet ass.”
“Really?”
She nodded and moved a half step closer. “Uh-huh. And your cock inside me.”
Not for the first time, I half considered giving her exactly that.
“Charlie-143, a status check,” crackled my radio.
I pressed the button and spoke into the mike, my eyes never leaving hers. “Code four,” I told the dispatcher, who I knew to be a fifty-four-year-old with an ass the size of a pregnant w
ildebeest.
“Copy.”
Once, many months ago, when I went code four, Toni asked me what it meant.
“It means I don’t need any backup,” I told her.
“I’m sure you don’t,” she had cooed.
Once, many years ago, when I stopped a working girl on East Sprague, I would have taken a step back when they moved toward me. I would’ve been concerned for officer safety, the mantra of the patrol officer. I would’ve been concerned for appearances of propriety. What would a civilian think if he or she saw a uniformed police officer talking to a prostitute and she was flirting with him? Propositioning him?
Once upon a time, I cared about things like that.
Toni was still watching me. “How long before they check on you again?”
“Not long enough.”
She pouted again in earnest.
That was the flow of things between us. If it was slow, I’d stop her and we’d talk. Sure, I’d get some info out of her and fill out a field contact report, but the majority of the time, we talked. And she flirted. And after the second or third time I contacted her, I quit making her stop. So she’d flirt heavy and I’d flirt back just a little bit and we’d edge ever closer and closer. Innocence became innuendo became proposition. And I was getting worse at saying no. In fact, I was starting to say very small yeses.
You want to kiss me? No, I’ll just look at you.
You want to see my tits? No, I’ll just stand here.
You want to fuck me? No, I’ll just stand so close to you that I can smell your perfume. And cigarettes.
You want to know me? No, I’ll just…yes, I want to know you.
Jesus, how did I get here?
Her pout was beginning to look very real. I asked her why she was pouting like a five-year-old.
“Because you don’t love me.”
I smacked my gum. “I don’t love anyone, Toni.”
I expected her to ratchet up her pout, but the pained look that came over her face surprised me.
“That’s mean,” she told me, her voice neutral, the purr gone.
I shrugged. It was probably true.
“You could love me,” she said. It was half a question, half a statement. When I didn’t answer, she went on. “I know you could.”