Under a Raging Moon rcc-1

by Frank Zafiro

  He couldn’t be falling in love with her.

  Could he?

  Was this what it was like?

  He never expected to feel this way. Never really thought it possible. Now, he felt a pang in his stomach whenever he thought of her.

  And what was he afraid of?

  Gio took a deep breath and let it out. He knew what he feared. He’d never really cared how the woman felt, as long as she felt like sleeping with him. Now, he found himself worrying about how Marilyn felt. Obsessing about it.

  She had to feel the same way. Or at least be starting to. How could she make love to him like she did and not feel it? She must have the same emotions running through her. She had to know he did, too.

  But what if she didn’t sense his feelings?

  And what if she didn’t feel the same way?

  What if she got tired of him? Or doubted him?

  Lying in the darkness, watching the crimson bars turn minute by minute, Gio decided there was only one way to know. He had to tell her.

  0456 hours

  Breakfast usually began around five in the morning. Units started asking if they were clear for a seven, and it was a rare morning when every unit that asked was not cleared. Cops were notoriously poor tippers, but they were generally loyal with their dining business. They arrested too many people who worked as cooks and dishwashers to risk going someplace they didn’t know, unless they wanted to risk someone spitting in the food. Or worse.

  Mary’s Cafe was located at Birch and Rowan, both arterial streets. Long established as an officer-friendly restaurant, police cars crowded the small parking lot every morning. Baker sector officers crossed division and drove almost twenty blocks into Adam Sector to take breakfast there. If Hart had been the graveyard lieutenant, this never would have happened, but Saylor allowed it. The only stipulations were unspoken: a couple of units remained in service to shag the occasional call and units cleared to respond to anything that needed a response. The north-side troops happily adhered to these requirements.

  Katie MacLeod didn’t care much for breakfast food. Sometimes, though, it felt good to get out of the car and do reports on a nice table with something hot to drink. Besides, there were two schools of thought on doing reports in the car. One held that it was good because you stayed in service and could answer calls quickly. The other held that it was dangerous because you were vulnerable while writing, or that you couldn’t accomplish much writing if you maintained the proper level of alertness.

  Katie belonged to the first school, countering the danger factor by backing into a location where she could only be approached from the front or parking in the center of a large, empty parking lot. That way any movement attracted her attention.

  Still, the coffee at Mary’s tasted good and there was company, if you wanted it. She didn’t, and signaled that to the others by sitting alone a booth away from the group already present. The stack of reports she was working on answered any questioning glances her direction. But the truth was, she wanted the solitude for other reasons.

  Or reason.

  Oh, hell, it was Stef.

  She’d avoided him since that morning. Confusion flooded her senses whenever she thought of the situation. She paused while writing a burglary report.

  Why do I keep coming back to this?

  Because she liked him, she knew. He’d been a nice guy and there were some sparks between them, ever since the Academy.

  But she was on the rebound. And he…well, who knew where he was on this?

  Katie bit her lip. He hadn’t tried too hard to go out of his way to talk to her since that night. Yeah, maybe she’d avoided him a little, but she got the sense that he’d been avoiding her, too.

  Maybe that was best. Love on the rebound. Dipping your pen in company ink. Cops working together and sleeping together. None of it sounded too smart to her.

  She wondered if dating another cop would make it easier to deal with the stress of the job. After all, you wouldn’t have to describe it to the other person. They’d understand it perfectly. Then again, what if the stress wasn’t relieved but instead doubled? And what if he suddenly became protective, coming on all her calls, worrying about her all the time? Eventually that would happen, she knew. She hesitated, not wanting to acknowledge the next obvious question: What if they broke up? Working around an ex-lover would suck.

  Jesus, Katie thought. Why am I worried about this? He’s obviously not. We had our little fling and it’s over with. There’s nothing else to it.

  Right?

  Katie shut off debate and dug into her report.

  0615 hours

  Just where everyone wants to be, Kopriva thought. Standing tall in the Lieutenant’s office.

  He stood rigidly in front of Lieutenant Saylor’s desk as the shift commander read the complaint to him. He didn’t recognize the complainant until after the lieutenant read her name, then he had some memory of the stop. It was soccer mom in the mini-van, he was pretty sure.

  Once Saylor finished reading, he raised his head to look at Kopriva. “Now, Officer Kopriva, I have to advise you that you have the right to have a Guild representative here with you during this proceeding.”

  Damn. That meant he was going to get hammered. Well, if it stayed at shift level, that was better than seeing it go to Internal Affairs.

  “I waive that right, sir,” he told Saylor.

  “Sign here, then.”

  He handed Kopriva the pen and the officer scrawled his name.

  “Now, tell me. Does Ms. Wilson have a valid complaint?”

  Kopriva considered. Saylor was a straight shooter. He would give him a fair shake, he decided.

  “Was this woman driving a mini-van, sir?”

  Saylor glanced down at the copy of Kopriva’s ticket in front of him. “Yes,” he answered.

  Kopriva sighed. “Well, I don’t know, sir. She definitely blew the stoplight. I wasn’t too concerned in listening to how she thought the light was yellow. I suppose I was a little short with her. But I never said anything unprofessional.”

  “Do you know where she was headed when you stopped her?”

  Kopriva shook his head.

  “Her twenty-five year old son’s birthday dinner,” Saylor said quietly. “Probably his last. He has terminal cancer.”

  “Oh.” Kopriva suddenly felt like a heel.

  Saylor didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he wrote something at the bottom of the complaint sheet. Without looking up, he said, “This will be considered a verbal counseling, as noted on the complaint form. Your actions were not improper.” His gaze locked on Kopriva. “You couldn’t have known, Stef, but maybe next time, listen a little?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Saylor slid the paper across the desk to him. “Just sign that I counseled you, okay?”

  Kopriva signed and returned the pen.

  “We all get a little frustrated sometimes, right?” Saylor said. “Just take it out on the right people.”

  Kopriva smiled in spite of himself.

  Saylor gave him a wink. “And you did not hear that last part from me.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  Saylor nodded and glanced at the wall clock. About thirty minutes of the shift remained. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

  Kopriva thanked him again and left the office. He changed quickly and hurried to his car. As he pulled out of the lot, he saw Katie parking her patrol car and securing it. He kept driving and did not meet her eye.

  NINE

  Wednesday, August 24th

  Graveyard Shift

  2120 hours

  Katie MacLeod drove slowly down the side street, gazing at the houses she passed. She imagined the people who might live inside. Their stories. Their problems.

  She smiled bitterly about that last thought. What did most of them know about problems? Oh sure, they had romantic problems, some of them. Things like her current situation. Getting dumped. Sleeping with someone you shouldn’t. Nothing un
ique about that.

  But she was willing to bet no one in the houses she cruised past ever had to decide whether to shoot someone or not. They just trundled along in their little lives, working, watching TV and going to the mall and left those questions for the police to answer.

  Katie sighed. She was starting to sound cynical, and after just three years on the job. Maybe she needed a vacation.

  Yeah, a vacation from my life.

  The radio squawked. “Adam-116, Adam-114.”

  Katie keyed her mike and listened as Matt Westboard did the same.

  “A domestic at 5117 N. Celtic Avenue. Caller can hear yelling and banging. Nothing further. No listing on occupants of the house.”

  Katie copied and gave her location, about two minutes away from the address. Westboard copied from nearly downtown. Radio repeated their locations. Katie cursed at the dispatcher. Wasn’t there someone closer than Westboard to back her? No one answered up, though.

  Light traffic allowed her to make good time, and she arrived on scene in less than a minute and a half. She checked out, parked a half a block away and walked in. The yards in this neighborhood seemed well tended and all the houses looked nice. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. DV’s happened in mansions and shacks alike.

  She approached the house carefully. Except for the muffled sound of a television, no sound came from inside. The shades were drawn. Katie kept her radio covered with her hand as she crept along the side of the house. Still nothing.

  The open porch had steps on both sides. She stepped up slowly, listening.

  Then came the screaming, muffled through the closed windows and door. At least one male and one female. She could hear slaps and the sound of furniture being struck. It went on for about five seconds, then subsided for a moment.

  Katie eased the screen door open and locked it out, her heart pounding. Clear as day, she heard another roar of human voices and sounds of struggle. Then a female voice cried, “Oh, no!” followed by a booming male voice, “Get up you, worthless piece of shit!” More sounds of strikes and furniture.

  Katie keyed her mike and spoke in a subdued voice. “-16, how far off is -14?”

  “Division and Buckeye.”

  Damn. Katie’s breathing was shallow and rapid. She forced herself to inhale and then exhale more deeply.

  More screaming. Loud pounding.

  Another deep breath. Sweat collected on her upper lip and trickled from her armpits. Her vest seemed extra heavy.

  She had to go in.

  Damn!

  She depressed the transmit button. “Adam-116, it sounds violent. Have -14 step it up.” She swallowed thickly and licked her lips. “I’m going in.”

  Radio copied. The dispatcher relayed her message and restricted the channel, her voice tense. Katie didn’t notice. She wiped her damp palms on her uniform pants and drew her pistol. Just in case, she checked the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Another female screamed, “Oh, no, not again!”

  Immediately after, a male yelled, “Get out of there!”

  Katie stepped back and booted the door, putting her weight forward and striking just to the side of the knob, as she had been taught. The result was a loud crack and the door swung partially open. A small jagged piece of wood held it weakly to the doorjamb. Katie put her shoulder into the door and came crashing into the house.

  As soon as she made entry, she swept her gun across all open spaces. She saw the threat immediately. A white male stood in the center of the living room off to her right with a fireplace poker in his right hand. He held it raised as if to strike. On the couch in front of him cringed a white female. Both stared at her in surprise.

  She pointed the gun at him. “Police! Drop that poker now!”

  The man just stood there, staring.

  “Do it!” Katie’s finger slipped into the trigger guard. She began to squeeze.

  The man did not move.

  “If you don’t drop that poker right now, I will shoot you,” she told him in a low, intense voice.

  The man shook his head as if just waking up. He let go of the poker. It clattered to the floor while he raised his hands.

  “Now turn away from me,” Katie directed.

  The man complied.

  “Down on your knees.”

  The man dropped to his knees. “What’s going on?”

  Katie ignored his question and kept her gun trained on the center of his back. “Clasp you hands behind your head. Cross your ankles.”

  The man did both without hesitation. She saw him trembling even from across the room.

  Katie eased around the couch, not taking her eyes off the suspect. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “W-what?”

  “Do you need medical treatment?”

  “No. W-what’s all this about?”

  Katie allowed herself to take a quick glance at the woman, who sat on the couch, a bottle of beer still clutched in her hand. She had no visible injuries. Katie noticed that her makeup wasn’t even smeared.

  “You aren’t injured?”

  “No. Why would I be?”

  A terrible feeling seeped into Katie. “Where did he hit you?”

  Her question was met with a confused look. “Hit me? Fred? No.”

  “But I heard yelling and-”

  “Boom-Boom,” Fred said, turning back to look over his shoulder.

  “What?”

  “We…we were watching Boom-Boom. The middle-weight boxer from River City?”

  Katie glanced at the television and noticed the small ESPN logo in the lower left corner. Two men were boxing.

  “You never heard of Boom-Boom Bassen? He’s number fourteen in the world.”

  “No,” Katie whispered.

  “He got knocked down,” the woman explained. “The black guy knocked him down.”

  “Can I sit down now?” the man asked.

  “What about the poker? Why’d he have that?” Katie asked the woman.

  “Someone was breaking in,” she answered, gesturing toward the door.

  Katie motioned to Fred. “Go sit down.”

  Grateful, he rose and sat beside his wife on the couch. Katie moved the poker and holstered her gun, shaking her head.

  Boxing fans. The only thing worse were football fans.

  Remembering other units were headed her way, Katie keyed her mike. “Adam-116, code four.”

  “Copy, code four. Adam-114 and all other units may disregard.”

  Katie turned back to the couple who still stared at her, a shocked look on their faces. “We received a 911 call,” she explained. “Someone reported a disturbance.”

  Outside, a car approached and then a door slammed.

  Fred raised his hand tentatively, as if he were in school. Katie nodded at him. “Uh, who’s gonna fix our door?”

  “The city will pay for it,” Katie assured him. “Would you like to speak to a supervisor, sir?”

  Matt Westboard appeared in the doorway. His eyes surveyed the scene, then came to rest on Katie. He raised a single eyebrow questioningly.

  “Boom-Boom Bassen,” she told him.

  “Number fourteen in the world,” Fred added.

  2130 hours

  Lt. Hart stood in front of the lectern. He’d completed his briefing for the robbery special detail, repeating himself several times to ensure his instructions were clear. Plainclothes observers were not to engage the robber alone. He didn’t want anyone hot-dogging this operation.

  “Any questions?”

  No response. He looked at the seven participants. Were they here to catch the robber or just to suck up overtime? Probably some of both, he decided, but for the first time since he made lieutenant, he didn’t care what the OT costs were. He wanted Scarface.

  That was his ticket to Captain’s bars.

  2134 hours

  Gio sat across the table from Marilyn. The dinner had been delicious. He didn’t care for seafood, but Marilyn loved it. He ordered a steak, though,
so it all worked out.

  He stared at her, watching her eat daintily, dab her lips with a napkin, sip her wine.

  Just tell her.

  She caught his gaze and smiled slowly. “What?”

  God, she’s beautiful.

  “Marilyn?”

  “Gio?” she said, slightly teasing.

  He swallowed. He’d said these words before, long ago, as a tool to get what he wanted. Later, he learned not to resort to such desperate tactics. But now, when he might mean them, the words stuck in his throat.

  “Gio? What?” She seemed amused at his shyness.

  Maybe she knew.

  He took a deep breath. “I…” he paused and looked directly into her eyes. “I…”

  Marilyn looked at him, confused. Then realization flooded her eyes.

  She does know.

  His heart quickened.

  And then her face fell.

  A terrible wrenching tore through his stomach, but Gio struggled not to show it. Instead, he changed tactics, even the damage had already been done. “I…really thought the steak was good here,” he finished lamely. “How was your shrimp?”

  A long pause spun out while she set her fork down and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Only a few moments ago, he’d found that act beautiful. Now it seemed ominous.

  “Gio, I…” she stopped. He looked for tears but saw none. He felt even greater dread creep in. “I like you. I like you a lot. We’ve had fun, some good times …” she gave him a small smile. “…great sex. But I’m not really interested in anything serious. I mean, were you?”

  Gio looked away. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t look at her.

  “I asked the bartender about you and he said. .” she trailed off. “Oh, God. Were you looking for something serious, Gio?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t dated anyone else since we met.”

  She didn’t answer. He looked up, and her silence told him that the same was not true for her.

  He’d made a terrible mistake.

  “Oh, Gio.” Marilyn said quietly. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other.”

  He stared at her as if he didn’t understand. But he did. He knew the dance of the breaking hearts. He just usually led.