Uncertain Calm (Uncertain Suspense Series Book 1)

by Jamie Lee Scott

  And once, he told me he’d never see children the same way again.

  I understood why he didn’t want kids. The jobs we had weren’t conducive to growing a family, but lots of cops had kids. I had wanted kids. Not yet, maybe in a few years. But being with Wyatt, I knew that would never be an option for us, and it was the beginning of the end. At first, I told myself, “Never say never.” As the years rolled on, I could see his feelings hadn’t changed.

  “Go home and get some sleep, Ortega. We’re finished for the night. I’m going to have an officer take you home, since I don’t want you driving, and I don’t want the media camped outside your house.”

  I felt for Wyatt, and all the manpower he was losing on this shift. He was already down two officers for most of the day, and now Ortega would be out indefinitely. We always seem to be in need of another officer on every watch.

  “I can’t go home!” Ortega’s face turned ashen. “Have you seen the news? I watched a few minutes before coming in here. They’re planning protests, and asking for my badge. My family isn’t safe.”

  I wasn’t sure if the shock and stress had Ortega exaggerating, but I knew Wyatt would want him to stay in a hotel, or safe house for a few days, at least until the mob mentality died down.

  “Maybe your family should go away for a few days,” Wyatt said. “Is that an option?”

  “My wife packed up the kids and took them to her mom’s house as soon as she saw the first special report. I haven’t been able to answer my phone, so she sent me a text.”

  “Are you going to go there too?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not going to make their lives hell. I’m going to stay in a motel, but I can’t stay under my own name.”

  “Yes, you can. You haven’t been identified. For some reason, none of the cellphone cameramen got a good look at your face. Thank goodness for the mandatory hats. Check in, get settled, and I’ll stop by Walmart and get you some clean clothes.” Wyatt walked out of the room, but stood just outside the door.

  “I can’t wear this to work tomorrow.” He looked down at his stained uniform.

  “Don’t worry, Ortega, you won’t be working tomorrow, or the next day. Or even after that.” I assured him.

  “What?” Ortega freaked. “I’m fired?”

  “Didn’t they talk to you? You’re on administrative leave. You will be until a thorough investigation is completed.” I walked to Ortega and patted him on the back. “Order room service, and try to relax. You don’t want to be right back out on the streets after an ordeal like this.”

  We walked down the hall, I had my hand on Ortega’s shoulder. “You hear the statistics about cops pulling their weapons in the line of duty, and you have to wonder if it’s all a crock. I couldn’t believe it when it happened to me, so I know what you’re going through.”

  “Only I wasn’t nearly killed, too, and under the influence of painkillers to help me ease the mental anguish,” Ortega snapped back.

  Wyatt grabbed Ortega by the throat and slammed him up against the wall. “Watch what you’re saying, you poor pathetic bastard. Harper was almost raped and killed that night, you little pussy, so don’t even think you can compare your situation to hers.” He let Ortega go. “Got it?”

  I had to step back, but now I had my hand on Wyatt’s arm, as if to warn him. Temper, temper. He hated when I did that.

  “If you think painkillers help ease the pain of knowing you killed another human being, I have some left. You’re welcome to give them a try, but I’d be committing a felony by giving them to you. Besides, it would be a waste.”

  “Sorry for assuming.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.

  My shift was over, and I knew Wyatt really needed his shift to be over, too. I could imagine he wanted to go home, pour himself a drink, and hang out with Wally. Good old Wally, who didn’t judge, didn’t point fingers, and didn’t ask questions. The best thing to come out of my marriage to Wyatt was Wally.

  Wyatt should’ve apologized for pinning Ortega against the wall, and he’d likely be reprimanded for the incident, but I didn’t give a shit that he did it. I was hoping Wyatt didn’t give a shit, either. Unless that crying pussy had been in the same situation as I had, he had no right to compare or question it.

  Officer Jimenez walked up to our trio.

  “Take Ortega to whatever hotel he’s decided to stay at. Stop by Walmart and get him some street clothes first. I don’t want the desk clerk to see him in uniform and call the news stations.”

  Ortega looked at Wyatt. “I thought you were going to get me some things?”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. “I change my mind. Jimenez will get you set up. You don’t want to waltz in there with your uniform on. You’ll set off all kinds of bells and whistles. You’re trying to stay under the radar. Understand?”

  Sulking, Ortega walked away with Jimenez.

  “You were a little abrupt with him,” I said.

  Still pissed, Wyatt said, “That lily-livered piece of shit doesn’t deserve anything more.”

  I looked down the hallway as Ortega and Jimenez left the building. I could just imagine once Ortega closed the door to his hotel room, he’d flop himself on the bed and cry like a baby. I think I had been getting ready to do the same thing before Wyatt’s call earlier.

  “I feel bad for Metty, and yet it seems like she was liberated by this incident.”

  Wyatt looked at me, there was a sadness in his eyes. “She called him a coward. Who calls their kid a coward?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’d been tired for a really long time. Maybe she was at the end of her rope, too.”

  I thought about what it must be like for her to not have her own life. Everything she did, every moment of the day, worried about her son. I wondered how many years Bernie had been that way, on the verge. I wondered how long Metty had watched after him, and if she knew that he really wasn’t taking his meds. Maybe she was as much ready for it to be over as Bernie was. My heart was heavy with these thoughts.

  “Are you about ready to go home for the night?” I asked Wyatt.

  “I still have a ton of paperwork,” he said warily.

  “Well, I’m headed home. I’ve had about enough for my first day back. I’ll see you in the morning.” I almost leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then I remembered we were at work.

  When our eyes met, my heart became even heavier.

  When we were married, at the end of these long days, I’d go home and make a light dinner, and read a book while I waited for him to get home. We’d sit on the couch, with a couple of glasses of wine with our dinner, and fix all of the problems of the world. Tonight, I wanted to do just that, go home with him and discuss how we’d fix the world.

  I touched his arm, and walked away.

  It took every ounce of energy not to look back at him as I walked out of the building.

  When I got home, the reporters must’ve thought I’d left to get a hotel room or something, because they were gone. This time I had my remote control, so I clicked it, opened the gate and drove into my yard. I didn’t even make it into the house before the weight of it all hit me. I crossed my arms over the steering wheel, and cried like a baby.

  I didn’t cry for me, though. I cried for Wyatt, I cried for Bernie, but most of all, I cried for Metty. I was crying for a woman I’d only met for a few minutes, and I’d probably never see again, but who would have an impact for the rest of my life.

  Did Bernie hear voices, too? Did he see people? I wondered what his trigger was, and if maybe sometimes it all stopped, and he thought he was going to be okay.

  CHAPTER 6

  Unlike the previous morning, I wasn’t anxious about going to work. I’d been smart enough not to watch the news that night, because I knew it would only anger me. I’d made myself a huge bowl of spaghetti, and drank two glasses of Chianti before going to bed. To take my mind off of the day, I immersed myself in a smutty romance novel until the only thing on my mind was getting a new boyfriend or a new vibr
ator. And Ochoa didn’t sleep with me that night, either. A relief. Maybe it was first day jitters. He was gone.

  When I walked into the police station on Tuesday morning, I held my head high, my shoulders back, and I was ready for the day.

  The police station seemed to be a buzz, and as I walked past the dispatch station, Delaney Smith, a fellow officer, joined in step with me.

  “Grab a cup of coffee, and grab it quick, it’s going to be a long meeting from what I hear.” Her voice had a lilt of conspiracy.

  “I’m guessing this has to do with our shooting yesterday?” And so it begins.

  “Protesters,” she said. “They’re already lining the streets, completely blocking Hansen Way.”

  “Protesters?” What on earth could they possibly be protesting now, I thought.

  “Yesterday’s shooting,” Delaney smirked.

  “What the hell? What is there to protest?” My face was on fire with fury.

  It seemed no matter what the police did these days, we couldn’t do anything right. There was nothing for anybody to be protesting. That shooting was by the book. The man had shears, and he threw them at a police officer. We tried to contain him with a Taser, but he continued to provoke us. What kind of frenzy had the media caused this time?

  “You know the media. They don’t have to have all the information to try a person in the court of public opinion.”

  “Ain’t that the damn truth?” I quickened my pace, wanting to know what the day had in store.

  We reach the conference room, and nearly all of the chairs were taken. I didn’t even bother to stop and grab a cup of coffee, suddenly not hungry or thirsty. I looked across the room and saw Wyatt had saved a seat next to him. I made my way across the room and plopped down in the empty chair.

  Just as I got situated, the Captain stepped up to the podium.

  “Settle down, everyone,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard we have what we are calling a peaceful protest. We are hoping to keep it peaceful. The night shift is working overtime, and will stay in position until the assigned officers show up to relieve them.”

  There was dead silence in the room, as everyone knew how quickly a peaceful protest could turn to something else.

  “So far there have been no incidences, just a lot of chanting and marching in the streets. We’re expecting a few blocked intersections, and the possibility of confrontations with people trying to get to work. We’re not going to dress like a militia, but I do want every officer wearing riot gear, carrying a shield, and working in pairs. Sergeant Burke has your pairing assignments, so after I discuss a few more things with you, he’ll name them off before you leave.”

  The morning conference didn’t last as long as Delaney had expected, as the captain was anxious to get us out on the streets. Wyatt called off the pairs, and as expected, I’d been paired with him.

  You’d think, that our personal relationship, or ex-relationship, would be frowned upon in the department. But somehow, Wyatt and I were able to keep our personal lives separate from our professional lives, and it never interfered with police work. Not once, before, during, or after our marriage, had we ever been spoken to about our relationship in relation to police work. I thought that spoke a lot to our professionalism.

  “So, we’re riding together?” I asked.

  “Might as well,” Wyatt said as he picked up his paperwork and headed out the door.

  I followed along like a good puppy dog, glad to have my confidant, and my best buddy, as my partner for the day.

  As we drove toward Hansen Way, the tension mounted. It looked as though there were close to a thousand people in the streets. Uncertain only had a population of twenty thousand, but with the news blasting reports of the shooting, people and news media had come from all around.

  “I can only imagine what this is going to be like come sundown. When people are off work, and can come join in the fun.” Wyatt shook his head.

  I’d personally never been involved in a protest. I don’t think I ever really cared enough to march with a group of people about anything. I never really liked people that much, to stand among a bunch of strangers and chant for something.

  “Don’t any of these people have jobs?” Wyatt asked.

  “You think?”

  Part of me just wanted to sit on the periphery, and watch, but I knew watching from here wasn’t going to help keep the peace. But then I wondered: if these people were mad at the police, was seeing them going to make things worse?

  Wyatt and I got out of the Explorer, added the layer of riot gear protection, and walked towards the edge of the gathering. Hoards of people walked in the streets, some people sat at intersections, and others waved white flags. Everything was calm, and for such a large group of people, it was quiet and somber.

  Funny thing: there we stood, barricading the streets, keeping cars out to avoid one accidentally running over and injuring or killing one of the protesters. We stood by, in case of emergency. And yet, these ungrateful people were protesting against the very people who guarded the periphery, keeping them safe, and protecting their right to protest.

  They were the armchair quarterbacks, who judged us for doing our jobs, as they sat safely in the confines of their homes. Safe because we patrolled the streets, doing our best to keep them that way. I think they sometimes forgot we were only human, and in making split second decisions, we made mistakes. And in being human, there were good, bad and ugly in our ranks, too.

  I tried not to be angry, because I chose this job, knowing criminals would always break the law, but then expect me to come to their rescue when someone committed a crime against them. I never expected this, though.

  The closer we got, I could see news vans parked on the side streets. All of the local stations, and some from as far away as Sacramento and San Francisco.

  “They sure got things worked into a frenzy in a hurry. All of this will be good for news.” I slowed as we approached the block of Section 8 housing.

  Wyatt and I walked up next to one of the news vans as we strolled up 6th Street toward Hansen Way. I wondered if the protesters were good or bad for business. I’d assume bad.

  We walked along the front yards of several homes in the neighborhood, and stood by as we watched an old red Ford F150 pickup try to back out of a driveway without hitting anyone. When no one would move, the driver laid on his horn. I wanted to go over and give him a high five.

  The driver was finally able to maneuver his pickup out of the driveway and down the side of the road. He was one of the few brave enough to cut through the crowds. Many of the neighbors just stood on their front porches and watched.

  I fully prepared myself for a confrontation with these people marching in the street, expecting snide remarks about getting shot. So far, we’d pretty much been ignored. And then it happened.

  I was pretty sure the sound I heard was that Ford F150 pickup backfiring, but it wasn't right. I was standing in the front yard of one of the homes of the neighborhood that had been blocked off by the barricade, and in my peripheral vision, I saw someone beside me. I turned to look. Ochoa? No.

  The crowd went into a panic: screaming, yelling, people running in all directions. I heard the backfire again, only this time I knew for sure what it was. Not a backfire, but a gunshot. This time, I was looking as the boy standing next to me dropped to the ground.

  It all happened in a split second, and Wyatt grabbed me by the arm. He pulled me to the ground. I looked and I saw Ochoa running through the protesters, carrying a submachine gun. But that wasn’t the sound I heard. Then I saw Menendez, standing in the crowd, grinning. It wasn’t possible. Menendez, the gang member who’d shot me, was dead.

  A woman of about fifty came running from the house and dropped down next to the body of the wounded boy. She appeared to be short and squat, still wearing her nightgown, or maybe a housedress, in a faded floral print, her hair in a bun at the top of her head. One of her slippers had come off and lay abandoned on the grass. The boy
had military short black hair and wore red sneakers, dark blue jeans, and a red short-sleeve T-shirt. It was stained darker red on his abdomen and chest, where the blood drained from his wounds.

  “Danny, oh mijo, talk to me, mi sobrino. Open your eyes.”

  I looked around from my place on the grass, trying to take in as many faces as I could, remember the surroundings, shake the false images. I looked for the gun. Anyone with a gun. Was anyone standing there to see if Danny was going to die? So many people were moving in so many different directions, it was hard to see anything.

  Wyatt radioed in for an ambulance as he ran back to his Explorer. I crawled to Danny, and asked the woman, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. He came outside to see what was going on. There are so many people in the street. He just woke up, and was wondering what was going on. He saw cops, and walked outside. Then I heard the gunshots and saw him fall onto the grass.”

  I took off my jacket, and pressed it over the wounds at Danny’s abdomen and chest. “Ma’am, I need you to put your hands over my coat and put pressure where my hands are. Can you do that?”

  She didn’t answer me, but moved quickly to replace her hands where mine had been. I checked Danny’s pulse, and thought I felt something faint. Then I pulled my sunglasses from the pocket of my jacket and put them in front of Danny’s nose and mouth, hoping his breath would fog the lenses. Nothing.

  As I debated giving Danny mouth-to-mouth, I turned to see Wyatt running back toward me with his emergency kit.

  “Are you his mother?” I asked.

  “I’m his tia, his aunt.” Tears streamed down her face. “But he’s my baby.”

  “His name is Danny? What’s his full name?”

  “Daniel Munoz Gonzalez Cabrera.”

  I tried to figure out how I was going to give him chest compressions while his aunt applied pressure to his wounds. As I move myself into position opposite his aunt, and began compressions, I heard chants from the crowd.