“Great. Well, I’m going to have to check and see what zone I’m assigned to.” I resisted the urge to reach out and rub Ortega’s bald head.
What was it about bald heads? Like pregnant women’s bellies, they just scream to be touched. And I loved touching Wyatt’s head back in the day, but now I tried not to remember those times.
“No more zones,” Ortega said.
“Huh?” How were we supposed to work with no zones?
“The new chief has changed things up a bit. No more zones. We’re everywhere, all the time.” Ortega seemed to love being the bearer of new information. The go-to guy.
“Whatever, I guess that’s why he’s the chief and I’m just an officer.” I wondered why Wyatt hadn’t told me about this.
At that thought, Wyatt walked out of the men’s room, and headed in our direction.
“Keep an eye on her today, Ortega. She’s fresh, and likely to want to catch up on all of the arrests she’s missed.” He winked at me.
I stuck my tongue out at him.
“Would you like me to write you up on your first day back?” He was only half serious, or so I thought.
“No more zones?” I asked.
“It’s a new way of patrolling the streets. And so far, it’s a great plan. Better visibility, and changes things up for the scumbags. Besides, it’s a little more fair, too. At least the way the chief explained it.” Wyatt fell in step as we walked to the conference room.
“It’s still the same set up when we have a call, though. No one goes alone. Two minimum.” Ortega helped Wyatt catch me up.
“Good to know some things remain the same.” I really hated that I felt like a rookie on my first day.
I’d been with the UPD for four years before the incident with Double Ott, AKA Oscar Ochoa. And I’d be here long after the prick who got me shot had rotted in prison. Oh, wait, that’s right, Menendez would never have the chance to rot. He was a rat, and rats didn’t fair well amongst prison gang members.
“Oliverez wanted to see you before you hit the streets today.”
I looked at Wyatt. “What for?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Thanks for having my back, asshole.” I hated to be blindsided. I knew it wasn’t Wyatt’s job to protect me or to tell me everything that was going on, but he was an easy target, and I was frustrated.
“I’m telling you, Harper, I’ll write you up.” He wasn’t even remotely kidding this time.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to call you an asshole.” I meant it.
As we reach the doorway of the office of the assistant police chief, Esmeralda Oliverez, I stopped. “I’ll catch up with you.”
Oliverez’s door was ajar, but not open, so I knocked lightly.
“Enter,” Oliverez said in lightly accented English.
Oliverez was an average looking woman, who knew how to present herself as stunning. She wore her black hair in a French twist, without a single hair out of place. Her makeup was simple, with black “cat eye” eyeliner, false eyelashes, and a burgundy lipstick that never seemed to fade or rub off, and perfectly showcased her full lips.
I always had the urge to rub the back of my hand on the assistant chief’s cheek, to see exactly how such flawless skin felt. At fifty, Oliverez didn’t even have crow’s feet. I hated her for that.
“Welcome back.” The woman hadn’t even looked up from the file she’d been reading as I’d entered the office.
I sat in the chair across from her desk. “Good to be back.”
She finally looked up. “Is it?”
“I’m sorry?”
I had never had a close relationship with Oliverez, even though we had been the only two women on the force when she had started at the department. I’d have thought that we’d have a camaraderie, but Esmeralda was having none of it. Still, I tried to be civil, as we were coworkers, even if Oliverez outranked me.
“There’s a lot of history, and Iwas part of it, so I want to clear the air.” She slapped the file she’d been reading shut.
I said nothing.
She waited.
Finally, she said, “I know you’re probably wondering how I could’ve worked so closely with Donovan and not known what he was up to.”
I had to admit, I’d considered it.
“We weren’t drinking buddies. As a matter of fact, I’m not really sure he even liked me, or the fact that I was the assistant chief. It was a political move for him. Kill two birds and such.”
“Kill two birds?”
“Hispanic and a woman. It was a win-win for him. I made them look good. But I can assure you, I’m good at my job, and I will always put my officers first.” Now her hands were flat on the desk, as if she was ready to stand, and the desk would assist her.
“I understand.” It wasn’t my job to reassure this woman of her position.
“I’m not sure you really do. I was passed over for the chief’s position.” Oliverez’s lips narrowed.
And that’s my problem, how? I thought. I could care less about Oliverez’s issues and insecurities. “I didn’t know. Maybe next time.”
What the hell was I supposed to say? Sorry? Let me hug you, and make it better? I didn’t even know the woman well enough to go have drinks with her. This wasn’t the time to get all touchy-feely.
“Just FYI, I guess. I asked Burke to have you come see me, because I want you to know you can come talk to me about any issue you may have with your reinstatement. It’s been a long time, and there’ve been a lot of changes.” She leaned forward, as if she really wanted us to be close.
I stood. “That’s great, anything else?”
“I also wanted you to have this.” She handed a file to me “It’s a list of changes to policy. The new chief handed them out to everyone, along with a lengthy explanation of what he expects from his officers. You’ll need to read it, sign it, and get it back to me before the end of the day.”
The new file looked to be about a hundred pages thick. I open the cover to see if the sheets were single or double sided. Breathing a sigh of relief, when they were only single sided, I said, “I’m not sure I’ll have this read by the end of the day.”
“It wasn’t a recommendation, it’s an order. You’ll have them read, initialed, and signed by the end of the day. And if you violate any of the provisions, it will be terms for termination, so read carefully.” She reopened the file she’d been reading when I walked in.
I’d been dismissed. So much for touchy-feely.
As I walked out of the office, under my breath I said, “Bitch.”
“What was that?” I heard Oliverez say, but I kept walking as if I didn’t hear her.
“It’s all a part of the job, don’t take it personally,” I said to myself, as I jogged to the conference room.
Wyatt and Ortega were laughing about something, and I wondered for a split second if they were talking about me. Since they continued to laugh as I approached, I decided it wasn’t. Then I felt foolish for thinking it. My very next thought was maybe I’d come back too soon.
CHAPTER 2
I put my sunglasses on my eyes as I walked out to my patrol car. I was driving an Explorer, just like Wyatt. We had so much in common, and yet we were miles apart. As I unlocked the door and marveled at how spotless the interior was, I heard my name.
Wyatt jogged toward me, carrying a hat. “You were all worked up about this earlier. I thought you’d want it. In reality, you’ll need it, because the hat is now mandatory.”
I took the hat from him, smiling. I rubbed along the rim with my fingertips. It’d been a long time since I’d worn anything but a cowboy hat. I tried it on for size. Perfect. One more little thing that hadn’t changed.
“I’ll see you on the streets. Be careful, and don’t be a hero.”
I picked the file up from my driver’s seat. “I won’t have time to be a hero. I have to read this shit by the end of the day.” I shoved the manila folder at him.
“I don’t care what Oliv
erez said, working these mean streets is more important. Read that crap on your lunch break.” Wyatt didn’t have his sunglasses on, and he squinted against the bright sun.
For the first time, I saw the stress and age on him. He’d had a rough year too, only his had been different. His was all about worrying, and waiting.
I had come home to Uncertain on the day of Donovan’s arrest. It was the day Wyatt told me he thought I’d been set up. But I already knew; I just didn’t know who.
Halloween was just around the corner, and I remembered the night a year ago like it was only moments ago. Ochoa had blindsided me somehow, and gotten me out of my car. Even now, as I sat in the driver’s seat, I wonder how I’d been caught off guard. How had he gotten the better of me, but I couldn’t let that be my focus. I had to move forward and leave the past in the past.
I rubbed the spot over my belly where the bullet had gone through. Not Ochoa’s bullet, but his second-in-command, Menendez’s, handiwork. The slimy prick had shot me after I’d unloaded my magazine into Ochoa. I shivered at the memory.
“Nice car,” Ochoa said.
He’d been gone for months, and now he was back. I thought I’d gotten rid of him. The sound of his accented “cholo” voice, and the smell of his Axe deodorant. I almost vomited in my mouth at the aroma.
Ochoa had orchestrated a gang rape, and I was to be the victim. I had stood there, stripped down to my underwear, and decided I wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. The opportunity arose, and I was able to disarm the gang leader, and put him out of the public’s misery. I thought I was free and clear, because backup had arrived, but apparently Menendez had been close enough to blast me, and he did.
“Go away,” I said in my mind. But I looked, and his bloody corpse sat in my passenger seat. I said it out loud, “You can’t be here. I have work to do. Besides, you don’t want to be in a cop car anyway, dipshit.”
His image, with his slicked back black hair, blue bandana tied around his forehead, his bloody white wife-beater tee, low-slung, loose jeans, and Converse high-top sneakers, disintegrated.
I flinched, and the muscles of my abdomen tightened. I’d never be caught off guard again, I vowed to myself. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, and shook the memories from my head. I had a job to do, and I’d be damned if some gang banger was going to take my livelihood away.
I started my car and check my laptop. I was ready. As ready as I’d ever be.
Cruising the streets, I had Pandora radio playing Uncle Kracker on the radio, trying to get the feeling back again. It was working. I sang along to “Better Days” and bobbed my head.
With nothing pending from previous shifts or arrests, I was free to roam the streets and catch bad guys, even piss off a few drivers by pulling them over for what they thought was bullshit. Little did those drivers know, it was the bullshit stuff, like a broken taillight, or not using a blinker, that gave us probable cause, and driver’s licenses, to help find the bad guys. The fix-it ticket or traffic violation was just icing on the cake.
Speaking of icing, I spied a Ford Focus making an illegal U-turn. Hitting my lights, and giving a little “whoop whoop” of my siren, I flipped a U-turn of my own and followed the car until the driver finally pulled over.
I radioed my position, and ran the license plate of the vehicle before I got out of my car. A 1999 Focus registered to Leo Washington. The plates came back as up to date on registration, so that much was good.
When I approached the car, I smack my hand down on the trunk. No one banged back, so far so good. I stood at the drivers door, facing forward, and a bit behind the driver. The driver was a disheveled guy in his late twenties. He looked like he had a baseball sized wad of chew in his cheek, and was sweating like it was ninety degrees. It was hovering somewhere around sixty that morning.
“Hey, man, you know why I pulled you over?” I asked with a smile on my face.
He was chewing so fast and hard, he could barely speak. He just shook his head and handed me his license.
I looked at his license, which confirmed the car belonged to him. “You want to get out of the vehicle? Keep both hands where I can see them and exit the vehicle.”
He started to choke. I mean turned blue, and had trouble breathing. Right about then, Officer Hollingsworth arrived.
As Washington stopped breathing, Hollingsworth stepped up, wrapped his arms around the six-foot, two hundred pound black man, and squeezed in one hard, quick movement. Brownish green slime and plastic splattered all over the trunk of the Focus.
While Hollingsworth cuffed the young man, I walked back to my car and grabbed a pair of gloves.
Upon closer inspection of the slime, it was marijuana. The kid had been trying to chew up a baggie of weed.
“Dude, that was barely enough weed for a misdemeanor.”
He looked at me, sweat now running down his face like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He shrugged.
“A misdemeanor. That means a shitty little ticket at most. What the hell were you thinking?”
His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know. I panicked. I didn’t want to go to jail.”
Hollingsworth sat him on the curb. Then he took Washington’s license and went to his vehicle.
“What you did, that was a felony. Destroying evidence in a crime is a felony. That will land you in jail. The puny amount of weed, I could have overlooked. Not even worth the paperwork. I would have just written you up for the illegal U-turn.”
He wouldn’t even look up at me.
“I was stupid. I panicked.”
“Where was it?”
“In my pocket.” He looked up at me, but just barely, with his eyes. His head was still down.
“If I look in your car, which I now have probable cause to do, am I going to find anything else?”
He shrugged. “There might be another small baggie that dropped on the floor. It had a joint in it.”
“Is that it?”
“Sure.”
“Have you been smoking?” I grabbed his hair and made him look up at me.
“No, ma’am.”
I looked into his eyes, and they were clear. A little glossy from tearing up when he choked, but clear.
I waited for Hollingsworth to come back, because I wasn’t going to turn my back on this kid. When he did, Hollingsworth stood him up, and searched his pockets, turning them inside out. Just some small bills and loose change.
“Well?” I asked.
“A few parking tickets, and an overdue library book,” he winked.
I smiled. The kid was clean. And so was his car, other than the smell of weed. I did find the baggie with the joint in it, and let him keep it. He wasn’t doing anyone any harm.
Hollingsworth took the cuffs off.
“You have a clean slate, Leo, so let’s keep it that way. Keep the weed at home. And if you’re going to drive with it in the car, obey the traffic laws. Got it?”
His brows went up in a puppy dog expression. “You’re not taking me in?”
“Not this time.” I reached up and patted his shoulder. “But you are getting a ticket for the illegal U-turn.”
He grinned like I’d given him a Christmas present, “Well, shit.”
“Go sit in the car, and I’ll write this ticket up.”
I’d never seen someone so happy to sign a ticket in my life when I handed the clipboard to Mr. Washington.
I got back in my car and filed my paperwork, then I heard a call come over the radio.
“415 at 2385 Alameda Avenue, owner reporting 314.”
The call was for a disturbance with a possible indecent exposure. This should be a doozy. Of course I was responding to that one, especially since I was so close.
I tossed my paperwork in the passenger seat and responded to the call. “129 responding, en route.”
I went Code 3 (lights and siren), hauling ass to the location, which was just about a half a mile away. As I drove, I heard Ortega respond to “213 responding, en route.” He’d be my
partner on this call.
The adrenaline was pumping. This was the part of the job I lived for, to protect and to serve. I knew it was ridiculous and cliché, but I didn’t care. The mundane days were all for this. All for the call that made my blood pump.
As I turned the corner onto Alameda Avenue, I had to stop for an idiot who apparently didn’t know the protocol for moving to the side of the road when cops were behind him. I laid on the horn, hoping the asshole would have a heart attack.
“Move it, dickhead.” I had to slam on my brakes, and as I did, Ortega’s vehicle came around me and went by in a blur.
I watched him fly past, nearly hitting a pedestrian who was walking toward Deuce’s Bakery. This neighborhood was on the backside of a commercial block, where calls usually meant there was a robbery or burglary. I wasn’t sure what the motive of this perp was yet.
Ortega was already out of his vehicle and approaching the house when my car skidded to a stop behind his. I jumped out, then pressed the button on my chest. I readied my weapon by pulling the snap of my holster, and with my hand on my gun, I joined Ortega.
The woman at the front door of the residence screamed from her porch. “He’s in the backyard. My God, he’s naked.”
I was closest to the backyard fence, so I pulled my Glock and readied myself for the confrontation. As I stepped closer to the six foot wooden fence, a body came flying over the top, and a whoosh of fabric flew past my head.
“Stop!” Ortega shouted.
I saw the fabric was from a trench coat the trespasser wore. The tails flapped in the wind as the man crossed the street. And yes, under that trench coat, he was naked as a jaybird.
So what was he, a burglar, a trespasser, or a peeping Tom? For sure this bastard was getting an indecent exposure charge when I caught up to him. Although, from what I saw of his ass, he looked pretty decent.
Ortega took off at a sprint when the man didn’t heed his warning to stop, and I took off after them. I grab my radio, and called in. “We have a 108 at Alameda Avenue, requesting backup.”
No way was I letting that little Mexican out run me. I needed to prove that I was physically fit for this job, and I was ready for this kind of chase. That all became a moot point when we hit the business block.
Uncertain Calm (Uncertain Suspense Series Book 1) Page 2