Romero pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to Monica. “You’re free to go. Call me if you think of anything else.”
Monica took the card. Nodded. Suddenly, her attention was captured by the sound of the basement door when it crashed against the wall, the thuds of shoes shuffling on the steps, and the banter between the crew as they struggled through the doorway. Monica’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widened as she saw the EMS personnel and a few officers lay a woman encased in an orange Reeves Sleeve on the waiting stretcher.
Devin adjusted the oxygen mask over the woman’s nose and mouth. Gary placed the oxygen tank inside the holder on the back of the stretcher. Strapped it in as snug as buckling in a baby.
Monica’s lips trembled. “She’s alive.”
“She sure is,” Romero confirmed, “because of you.”
Monica craned her neck trying to see the woman. When that didn’t work, she stood up to get a closer look.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t go over there,” Romero told her.
“But…but she looks like Mr. Roy’s wife.”
“Are you sure?” Billy asked.
“Yes, every week he was on the news with her picture asking for information.” Her eyes brightened. “She’s alive.”
Romero said, “We have to confirm her identity and get her story. We also need time to notify her family. Please, keep this to yourself. Just fold this little piece of information up, put in your purse, and leave it there until we get this woman to her family. Okay?”
Monica nodded.
The EMS crew’s gaze went to Romero.
“We’re headed for Marston General?” Gary said.
“It’s the closest,” Devin added.
They began rolling the stretcher towards the door. As they went through, Romero’s phone rang out from his pocket.
“Romero here.”
“The chief wants you to take a call.”
“Becky? Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
“Becky’s vacation starts tomorrow. Is that scrawny rascal with you?”
Romero looked over at Billy who was talking to Officer Nelson. “Are you talking about Billy?”
“Now, who else would Becky be talking about?”
“When are you going to stop referring to yourself in third person? It’s really weird.”
“Never you mind. The chief wants the two of you in his office pronto.”
“Do you know why?”
“Becky is not privy to that information. But, what Becky can tell you is, Becky saw the mayor leaving the chief’s office.”
“It’s Sunday! What are they doing at the precinct?”
“No clue. As Becky said—”
“Forget it. We’re on our way.”
As soon as Romero switched the phone off he heard a familiar voice.
“Romeo,” the female voice drawled.
Romero broke out into a wide grin. “Cope. I am so happy you’re back that I’m going to let that slide.”
Romeo was a nickname bestowed upon Romero by the male officers. He usually gave Copeland grief if she used it. Her response was to call him a sexist beast.
“Why pick a Sunday to come back?” Romero asked Copeland.
“The chief called and asked me to collect you and Billy.”
Romero threw up his hands. “Wait. He sent you for us after he had Becky call and order us to his office? What the hell is going on?”
“Beats me. I just take orders,” Copeland responded.
Romero called to Billy, “Hey, Kid, we have to go.”
Chapter 3
Copeland was driving. Romero sat shotgun, and Billy rode in the back seat of the black SUV.
“Nice wheels,” said Romero peering at Copeland as she drove.
“It’s a loaner. It was the only departmental car available when I arrived.”
Romero let out a deep sigh as he hunted around in his pockets for a toothpick. “I’m out. I cannot believe this, I’m out of toothpicks.”
Billy laughed from the back seat. “Weren’t you supposed to give those things up?”
“I will. Just not now. I can’t deal with the chief and the mayor without them.”
He peered out the window. They were heading south toward downtown. Boarded up houses were interlaced with occupied homes on both sides of the street like black eyes, their paint buckling and peeling. Lawns were unkempt. The home were just rentals. No one cared.
Copeland kept driving. Police chatter filtered over the radio. The rentals blended seamlessly into the commercial area with shops and carryout eateries—the pavements jam-packed with groups of guys and girls. Smoke from cigarettes and marijuana bloomed above their heads like clouds. Loud music wafted from stores as the doors opened and closed. Loud banter. Cat calls aimed at the young ladies.
Copeland slowed the SUV taking in the neighborhood. It was one of the poorest in the hood.
Romero leaned forward with his hand braced on the dash. “Pull over. I need some toothpicks.”
“Here?” Copeland asked with trepidation in her voice.
“Double park. I’ll be back in five.”
“In that case, I can use a water right about now.” She turned in the driver seat to face Billy in the back. “Guard the car.”
He nodded.
“Want anything?” she asked Billy.
“Nothing for me. Thanks.”
Romero and Copeland unfolded from the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk. A breeze puffed Romero’s jacket like a balloon filling with helium. The gun on his hip glinted in the sunlight. They stopped in front of the Neighborhood Market and took a look around. Guys on the curb gave the two detective a wide berth. Voices lowered, but the men kept their eyes on the plain-clothed detectives. Their jeans and polos fooled no-one. The detectives stood out like boiled eggs in a green salad.
One man took a step forward as he pinched a joint between his fingers, placed the white stub between his lips and took a long drag. His black dreadlocks fell behind him and trailed down his back as he tilted his head toward the sky and blew out the smoke. He squinted at Romero and Copeland.
“Ain’t nobody call no Five-Oh. What you want here?”
A young woman put her hand on the man’s arm. Long, red nails rested on his wrist. Her shade of lipstick matched her nails. Her hair was blonde, long, and straight. Skin the color of caramel. “Let it go. You don’t want to end up in jail, or worse—dead.”
“Fuck them, baby. It’s just two—”
The metal door of the market clanged against the brick wall as a man ran through yelling, “Gun! Gun!” Shots rang out. Screams ricocheted from the interior of the store to the street. The sound of tennis shoes and heels slapping and pounding the pavement as the men and women ran for cover. Romero moved quickly toward the store, planted his back against the brick wall and snapped his gun out of its holster. The two detectives were exposed, out in the open. More gunfire. Copeland reversed direction toward the SUV just as a figure in a navy hoodie emerged, running through the door, a gun in his hand leading the way, exploding with muzzle flash. Copeland went down hard, grabbing her chest with her right hand.
Chapter 4
From the back seat of the SUV, Billy heard the gunfire and the screams. His attention went immediately to his fellow officers. His first thought was—they were vulnerable; no place to take up a defensive position; no way to conceal themselves from the shooter. He laid low, dragged himself between the bucket seats, snatched up the radio mic, pressed the talk button, and signaled a code thirteen—officer down.
The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio loud and clear, “Location of shot, Officer? Is it lethal?”
This was Billy’s first gunfire encounter, his first officer shooting. He pressed the talk button again.
“Officer down! Officer down! Park Heights and Belvedere. Gunshot, left chest.”
He eased up to the window line to see what was happening.
“She’s moving,” he said with a breath of relief
which was strangled as soon as he noticed Romero. “No! no! no!” he exclaimed under his breath as he watched the shooter flee left of Romero and sprint down the street. Billy could not believe what he was witnessing. Romero holstered his gun and ran towards Copeland sprawled on the pavement. This has to be a nightmare, he thought to himself.
Romero knelt down at Copeland’s side, scanned her for injuries. She was gasping. Blood seeped through her fingers onto her shirt. He hefted her under her arms and towed her in the direction of the SUV, opened the back door, and hoisted Copeland inside.
“Take care of her, Billy. I’m gonna hunt that mother fucker down and blow his brains out.”
“No! Wait for backup!”
Romero slammed the door on Billy’s words and sprinted down the street, the same way the shooter had fled. Billy was back on the radio.
“Code thirteen! Do you read me.”
“Backup is en route. Ambulance ETA—three minutes.”
Billy heard the screech of tires on the asphalt, doors open and slam shut, the store’s door bang against the brick wall for the second time.
An officer’s voice yelled, “Police.”
Billy’s eyes crested the window just in time to see a young man in a gray hoodie running, lift his arm behind him, and take aim at the officer. The crack of the shots was deafening as they echoed off the buildings.
Pop, pop, pop, pop-pop.
Billy looked towards the officer, waiting for him to fall face first on the concrete. Instead, he saw the officer duck down behind his car door, and the assailant fall to the ground with his arm outstretched, the gun lying beside his hand. He watched as officers methodically approached the store like a platoon of front-line soldiers.
“Police!” he heard the lead man yell.
He looked on as an older, brown-skinned man with gray hair around his temples walked through the door with his hands raised high in surrender, his back curved with age.
“Thank God,” the man said. “Thank God, you come.” The man lumbered towards the officer.
“Halt right there,” the officer demanded. “Keep your hands up.”
A second officer approached the man and frisked him up and down. “He’s clean.”
“Anyone injured?” asked the first officer.
The old man nodded and pointed towards the open door.
“Any other shooters inside?”
The man shook his head. “They go when you come. Out back.”
The siren of the ambulance replaced the music that had been drifting from the stores. It sat a block away, waiting for the all clear. The blade slap of the helicopter propellers whipping through the air overhead could be heard blocks away. It flew around, back and forth, searching for the gunmen.
Officers converged on the store, clearing it aisle by aisle. Customers were scattered throughout, huddled in corners. Tears stained their cheeks. Horror marked their faces. One dead body lay in the drink aisle amongst broken glass and colored liquid from toppled soda and juice containers.
Chapter 5
Chief Randall was sitting behind his desk with his laptop when Romero and Billy entered. He gestured for the two detectives to take seats opposite him. Romero and Billy sat down taking in the chief’s expression. His face was pinched and red as if trying to keep all the hot air inside; trying to avoid an explosion.
The two detectives sat back in their seats with their arms on the armrests and their feet planted on the floor. They remained quiet, waiting for the chief to take the lead. Chief Randall leaned back in the black, leather captain’s chair, ran his hands through his thinning hair, and grimaced.
Finally, Romero said, “Chief—”
The chief threw up his palm and slowly shook his head. Romero sat quietly and waited for whatever was about to hit him and Billy. And from the chief’s steely stare, it was going to be a knockout punch.
“I want to know how you three ended up in a shootout in Northwest Marston.”
“Chief—”
Romero was cut off again by the chief’s scowl. “Have you detectives heard of YouTube? Social media?”
The detectives nodded in Unisom.
“Well, detectives, I was given a front row view of what went down.”
“But, Chief—”
“Final warning, Romero.” The chief shifted in his chair. “What I cannot understand is why you broke protocol.” The chief turned his gaze on Billy. “Recite to me from memory exactly what should occur when you encounter gunfire.”
Billy felt like a school kid again sitting in front of the class without a clue as to the correct answer. Heat rose up his neck—not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he had the correct response, he knew they were about to be shot down.
Billy straightened his spine. “As soon as the gunfire erupted, we should have taken defensive positions. Cover and concealment.”
The chief was nodding in agreement. “How many shooters were there?”
“Three—two alive, one dead; and then two dead, one alive.”
The chief leaned in close, across his desk towards Billy. “Did you know this in the beginning?”
Billy averted his eyes toward the floor and shook his head. “I know what you’re getting at, Chief. I followed protocol. I called the dispatcher and reported a code thirteen. Romero was pressed against the building.” He risked a sideways glance at the chief. “But, Copeland was exposed. She was out in the open and—”
“Yes, Detective,” the chief said forcefully, “this is the heart of the situation. This is where I am ashamed to say that Romero is my top detective. And you, Billy,” the chief aimed his index finger at him, “you were on your way to the top. You screwed up. Both of you.”
“But, Chief,” Romero said, “I couldn’t leave her out on the pavement bleeding. She was out in the open.”
“So, you risked us losing another detective by exposing yourself. And what the hell were you thinking chasing after a shooter without backup?”
Romero averted his eyes toward the ceiling.
“I hate to have to ask this, but is there something going on between you and Copeland that would make you risk everything?”
Romero’s eyes went wide. His jaw snapped open. “Chief, no, nothing is going on. I have a fiancé. Copeland is my partner. I...I don’t know what came over me. It’s just...well, she was on the ground with a bullet wound in her chest and it...” He lowered his chin all the way down to his chest. “It was my fault for stopping to get toothpicks.”
“Guilt. I see. No, Romero, that does not excuse you. Under no circumstances do you break protocol. They are there to protect all of us.”
Romero looked the chief in the eye. “Any word on Copeland’s condition, sir?”
The chief’s chest puffed up as he took in a deep breath. “She’s lucky. She was wearing her Kevlar. Her chest will be sore from where the bullet bounced off. The shoulder wound will be okay. It was a flesh wound.”
Romero clenched his fists. “Thank, God.”
The chief’s expression turned more serious than the two detectives before him had ever seen. “Romero, chasing after a gunman—”
“I know. It was stupid and against protocol. I could have been a casualty also, but—”
“No.” The chief held up his hand for Romero to stop. “Although, you caught the gunman, it doesn’t erase your lack of good judgement. This had the potential to end with us picking up more body bags than the one left in the beverage aisle and the one on the street.”
“Any word on what went down?” Billy asked. “Why the shootout?”
“It’s out of our hands. The case belongs to the Northwest district. They may touch base with you since you were in the middle of this thing.”
Romero and Billy nodded simultaneously.
The chief’s gaze turned to Romero. “I intended to suspend you for your gross negligence, but today is your lucky day. The mayor has your back.”
“Mayor Hardass?” Romero’s head jerked up, eyes wide.
“Harden, Mayor Harden,” the chief corrected.
“But—” Romero began.
“I know we usually josh around, calling him Hardass, but this is serious. The mayor’s niece is missing. He has requested the three of you to work the case to find her.”
Billy said, “But, Copeland can’t work. She’s injured.”
“She’s doing okay.” The chief leaned back in his chair. “She has already been released from the hospital. She will take a couple days off and then she says she will be ready. She also wanted you to know that her shirt was the only casualty since it was blood soaked.” The chief massaged his temple. “I have already briefed her.”
“While she was in the ER?” Romero asked frowning.
“No, I spoke to her when she came in for the start of her shift. Then I sent her to gather up the two of you and she almost got killed for a pack of toothpicks.” Chief Randall closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “I could swear I heard somewhere that you were giving those things up.”
“Who told?” He looked at Billy. “Was it you?”
Billy held up both hands defensively. “Not me.”
“It doesn’t matter. What topples the cake is the fact that you can’t go without one. It’s like a drug for you.”
“No—”
“Forget the denials. As soon as you find the mayor’s niece, you’re going for a bit of counseling.”
Part II
One Week Earlier
Chapter 6
Jessie Owens leaned against the gate just outside the baseball diamond watching the little league game. It was the fifth inning with a score of zilch-zilch. His boys were the red team. They were up to bat. The green team was in the outfield. The pitcher, little Johnny, wound his arm like a spring just as he had seen the professionals do on television. He tossed the ball. It flew through the air and dropped like a piece of lead in front of the batter who stood like a sculpture with his bat poised over his right shoulder.
“Ball one,” yelled the umpire.
The 13th Hour: A Marston Thriller (The Marston Series Book 4) Page 2