First Offense

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Glancing at the clock, Ann was reminded that it was Sunday. No one would be in the registrar’s office on the weekend. Then she had another idea. She picked up the phone and dialed information. “I need the number for the dean’s office at Long Beach State,” she told the operator.

  After seven unproductive phone calls, Ann finally called the computer lab and got an answer. She asked the student who picked up the phone if the dean lived on or near the campus. He advised Ann he did. She then informed the student that she was a deputy probation officer and needed to speak to him regarding a dire emergency involving a student. The boy agreed to go to the dean’s house and have him call Ann right back.

  She waited, tapping her fingers on the kitchen table.

  Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang, and Ann seized it.

  The voice said, “Get David.”

  The voice on the phone was her husband’s, but Ann refused to be deceived, “If that’s you. Sawyer, you’re making a serious mistake,” she said forcefully. “The next time you get within five feet of me, I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

  She waited, holding her breath and listening. She heard something on the line, but she wasn’t certain what, some kind of clicking noise. “You’re not going to talk, are you? You’re just going to keep calling and calling. Whoever you are, you’re not going to get to me.” Ann didn’t wait for the person to hang up this time. She slammed down the receiver. If it wasn’t Hank and some jerk was trying to rattle her cage, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. From now on, she decided, the moment she heard that voice, she would simply hang up. Once the caller realized Ann wasn’t buying it, the game would be over.

  A few minutes later, the dean of students called, and Ann tried to talk him into going down to his office and getting the information on Peter Chen out of the school’s computer banks.

  “I don’t have to do that,” the man said. “I’m linked to the university’s system through my own computer. Wait, let me see what I can find.” He left the line open, and Ann heard computer keys tapping. A minute later, he came back on the line. “That’s such a common name. You know, we have a lot of Chens here. We certainly tried to cooperate with the police when they called. Hold on,” he said again. “I think I have it.” He rattled off Chen’s physical description and date of birth. Ann verified it from the driving records. “Would you like me to fax his complete student profile, everything we have?”

  “Super,” Ann said.

  “I have to fax it to a legitimate agency, Ms. Carlisle. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “No problem,” Ann said, giving him the fax number at the probation department and thanking him profusely. As soon as she hung up the phone, she grabbed her jacket, shoved her Beretta into her purse, and took off.

  Sunday-evening traffic was light on the 405 Freeway headed to Huntington Beach, and Ann was making good time. Checking her map and the list of addresses she had jotted down on a yellow note pad, she took the Beach Boulevard exit and watched for the right cross street. Finally she found it and searched for the numbers on the houses. According to the school records, Peter Chen’s uncle lived here.

  It was a small, neat house, the lawn perfectly manicured. Ann knocked, waited, looked around the back, and then finally left. There were several days’ worth of newspapers in the driveway. The people had to be out of town.

  The next stop was one of Peter Chen’s character references on his college application. At least someone came to the door, but he wasn’t Chinese and claimed he had never heard of Peter Chen. A new tenant, Ann decided.

  After another stop four miles away in Redondo Beach, Ann backtracked to Huntington Beach again and checked her map. Of all the places she had checked, 1845 Orangewood had to be the biggest long shot. It was Chen’s parents’ home, and the boy was unlikely to hide there. As she drove through the neighborhood of houses worth three or four hundred thousand dollars, she couldn’t help but think what a waste it was that all three of these boys had become involved in criminal activity. Unlike inner-city kids, they’d had all the advantages: decent homes, good families, money for college. Peter Chen’s academic history at Long Beach State had shown him to be an outstanding student. Why did a boy so bright have to throw it all away?

  She knocked on the front door and waited. A young Chinese boy cracked open the door and peered out. He was so small, Ann thought at first that he was only about ten, but on further inspection she decided he must be fourteen or fifteen. “Hi,” she said. “I’m here to speak to Peter. Are you his brother?”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “I see,” Ann said. “Are your parents home?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where Peter’s staying, by any chance?”

  “He lives in Ventura now.” The boy glanced behind him and then pulled the door nearly closed so that nothing more than a narrow swatch of his face was visible.

  “Would that be Henderson? Is the address on Henderson?”

  “Yes,” the boy said politely. “What’s this about?”

  Ann sighed in disappointment. “Nothing,” she said, walking back down the steps and getting into the car to leave. She was turning on the map light to locate her next stop when something caught her eye. The drapes in the front window moved. Okay, she said, cranking the engine and driving slowly around the block. She parked at the end of the street, then again walked up to the front door and knocked. There might be something going on here. The same young boy answered.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” Ann said, “but I’m with the Stanford University scholarship fund. Your brother has been awarded a full scholarship, but we haven’t been able to locate him.” The door opened an inch. Quickly she engaged the boy in eye contact and placed her foot in the door without him realizing it. “It’s a shame, really. We have rules, you know. After a certain period the scholarship is retracted and awarded to another individual.”

  Ann watched the boy’s face. He was about to bite. A smile still plastered on her face, she slipped her hand inside her purse and found her gun. “Stanford, of course, is a very prestigious school.”

  “Peter,” she heard the boy calling as he disappeared from the door, “you won a scholarship to Stanford.”

  This was it.

  Ann kicked the door open and jerked her Beretta out of her purse. “Get down,” she yelled at the boy, seeing a dark figure in the background. “Now,” she shouted, advancing quickly and shoving the boy to the ground herself, “Peter Chen, you’re under arrest. If you move even one muscle, I’ll shoot you. I’m serious. I’ll kill you without a second thought.”

  A handsome, well-built young man stepped out of the shadows, his hands over his head. “Who in the hell are you?” he said, looking Ann up and down. She was dressed in Levi’s and a denim jacket, looking more like a model for Guess jeans than a cop.

  The young man was perfectly calm. Not a single bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he looked as fresh and relaxed as someone who had just stepped out of a shower. Staring down the muzzle of a loaded gun, his eyes reflected a cold defiance and superiority. Somehow Peter Chen managed to look elegant standing with his hands over his head.

  “I guess you could say I’m your worst nightmare,”

  Ann said, grabbing his wrists and shoving him toward the door.

  “You,” Chen said, recognizing her. “You’re the probation officer, aren’t you? The one who was shot?” Then he laughed. “Where are the cops?”

  “They take Sunday nights off,” Ann said, her Beretta pressed against his back. While Chen was as cool as an arctic wind, she was drenched in sweat: her shirt, her pants, her hair, every inch of skin on her body. She was almost afraid the gun was going to slide right out of her hands. Walking around to the front of her prisoner, Ann unbuckled his belt.

  “No, Peter,” she whispered right in his face, “I’m not going to give you a blow job.” Then she yanked his belt out of the pants loops, spun him around, and crisscr
ossed his hands behind his back, securing them tightly with the belt.

  Before she left, she turned around and spoke softly to his brother. “What’s your name, guy?”

  “Sean,” he said meekly. “You’re taking my brother to jail, aren’t you? You tricked me.”

  “Sean, I want you to call your parents and tell them what happened here. Tell them your brother was arrested on a warrant for manufacturing and dispensing narcotics. He’ll be booked into the Ventura County Jail. They can call there or Peter will be able to call them in a few hours. Okay? Can you remember all that?”

  “He didn’t really win a scholarship, did he?” the boy said, avoiding his brother’s hard stare.

  “Of course not, idiot,” Peter snapped.

  Ann kneed the older boy in the back and then turned to his brother. “Sean, listen to me. You’re the one who’s going to get a scholarship one of these days.

  Learn something from what happened here tonight. Earn your money the legitimate way, the way I’m sure your parents did. You hear me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his face downcast. A second later, he became excited and animated. “If you go to jail, Peter, do I get your Lexus? That’s so bitching.”

  Peter Chen didn’t answer.

  “Kids,” Ann said, shoving the older boy out the front door. Never make a sincere speech to a kid. All Peter’s brother was interested in was his car.

  On the ride back to the police station, Ann tried to get her prisoner to talk, but he was too smart. He sat there in total silence, his face set in granite. To cover herself, Ann read him his Miranda rights off a little card she kept in her wallet. One of the nice things about being a probation officer, as she saw it, was having full powers of arrest while not having to work shifts or walk around in a tacky uniform.

  At stoplights, she measured the man sitting next to her. He had thick dark hair, perfectly cut, every strand falling exactly correct, hooded lids over intelligent and fiercely determined eyes. He was dressed in an expensive silk shirt and slacks, all black except for an intricate hand-embroidered design that covered the buttons and the tips of his collar. In his right ear was at least a two-carat diamond stud. He was an extremely handsome and confident young man, not the type of customer they generally received at the jail.

  “How long did you go to Long Beach?” Ann asked, thinking he might not answer questions about the case but might be coaxed into small talk.

  His head remained motionless, but his eyes shifted to Ann. She could see his tongue, pink and smooth inside his mouth as it slid across his teeth. Ann shivered in spite of herself. Peter Chen was good-looking and he might be smart, but he had a mean streak a mile long. Ann could sense it, almost smell it. This wasn’t the man who had crapped on the floor in her hall the night she’d started shooting. Ann was convinced she could stick her gun right in his ear and he wouldn’t blink.

  Chen could very well be the one, though, who had sliced off some poor girl’s fingers. What had the girl done? Ann wondered, feeling an evil cloud emanating from the young man seated next to her. Had she reached for something she wasn’t supposed to, done something to offend his masculinity? Had he simply sliced off her fingers for the hell of it?

  The rest of the ride passed in silence.

  Ann didn’t call ahead. She wanted to walk into the Ventura police department with her prisoner. Her father would have been proud of her.

  Ann’s grand entrance was not exactly what she had in mind. Detectives Reed and Whittaker were out in the field, Noah Abrams had gone home, and the only uniformed officer in the station was the acting desk sergeant, a motorcycle cop on desk duty with a bum leg. Ann had never seen him before. She handed over Peter Chen, advised him of the status and nature of the warrant, and then walked out of the station without so much as a pat on the back or a solitary word of praise.

  The only good aspect about it, Ann told herself, was that she didn’t have to listen to Tommy Reed lecture her about how dangerous and impulsive she was. Besides, she’d delivered the goods. That was the name of the game.

  “Alone? You went out there alone?” Glen Hopkins said. He had called her the moment she walked in the house. “He could have killed you.”

  “Glen,” Ann said, “what’s done is done. With what’s been happening lately, I had to immerse myself in work. Besides, I’ve survived everything else. I decided I could survive Peter Chen.”

  “Did he talk?”

  “I wish,” Ann said. “Maybe you could make some headway with him if you’re willing to bargain. This guy’s cold. Glen. If I were to place my bets on the most violent member of the threesome, I’d go for Chen. If anyone sliced off a woman’s fingers, it was probably him.”

  Glen fell silent. “I want to see you, Ann,” he finally said. “I was very concerned last night, the way you ran out of the house.”

  “I can’t,” Ann said. “David should be home from Magic Mountain any minute.”

  “Are you angry at me for some reason? Did I do something last night to upset you?”

  “No, no,” Ann said quickly. “I just didn’t feel well. And listen. Glen, you really helped me. I mean it. What you said about Sawyer resembling Hank could be true,”

  “Have you told anyone else?” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been thinking about it, and you should inform the officers working the case, even let the highway patrol know what has been happening.”

  Ann took a seat on the sofa. “It’s nothing. Glen,” she said. “Things are coming together on the Sawyer case, so…” Then her thoughts turned to Delvecchio, to the envelope he’d given her. She’d completely forgotten about it. “What’s happening with the trial? You know, Delvecchio.”

  “Looks good,” he said confidently. “The defense concluded their case. Monday the jury will begin deliberations. Why do you ask?”

  “He called me the other day, asking to see me.”

  “Oh, really? Why would he want to see you?” Glen said, contempt in his voice.

  “I guess I gave him the impression that I was his pal or something.” Ann laughed. “Pretty funny, huh?”

  “Don’t go over there again,” Glen said angrily. “I’m telling you. Delvecchio is devious. He’s a fucking animal, a killer, for God’s sake.”

  “Hey, calm down,” she said. She started to tell him about Delvecchio’s proclamation of innocence, but decided it would just annoy him further. “He’s in jail, remember?”

  “Just stay away from him,” he snapped.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Ann said. “I think I hear David at the door.”

  Monday morning at the office, Ann was grabbing a file to go to court for a sentencing hearing when she spied the envelope given to her by Randy Delvecchio. She’d promised the man she would check the dates on his time sheet against the dates of the crimes, but she’d forgotten to do so. Out of idle curiosity she opened the envelope and compared the dates. “Oh, my God…” There it was, in black and white. On the day Estelle Summer had been raped. Randy Delvecchio had been working. It was a mistake, she told herself. Ann glanced at her watch. She had only fifteen minutes, but she had to find out. She called the company’s number and got a disconnect. Then she checked the address on the envelope and saw it was from an accounting firm. Ann got the firm’s number from information, and when she reached it, she quickly explained her position and why the information was so crucial.

  “Well, we’re only an accounting firm,” an older woman’s voice said. “Video Vendors filed bankruptcy some time ago.”

  Ann assumed this was the reason Delvecchio had not been able to contact the company previously. “But you evidently have the employee records. Listen, it’s absolutely imperative that I confirm if this man was working on a specific day.”

  The woman put Ann on hold and came back a few minutes later. “According to the time sheets he was at work that day.”

  “It has to be a mistake,” Ann said. “Maybe he came to work and left, but no one clocked him out.”

  “Dou
bt that,” the woman laughed. “The owners of this business were very tight with their money. I mean, they were going under, but even before they got in trouble, they were sticklers for certain things. Let me tell you, no one got paid if he didn’t do the work. They didn’t even pay for lunch breaks or give their employees mandatory coffee breaks.”

  “Great,” Ann said, irritated by this new development. Glen was killing himself to get the man convicted. She should have left well enough alone.

  “They’re being investigated by the Labor Department right now, because a number of employees filed complaints,” the woman continued. “In any case, they used time clocks. Mr. Delvecchio clocked in at eight in the morning and clocked out at five that evening. He was a temporary employee, more along the lines of piecework.”

  Still Ann couldn’t believe it. Then she recalled that Estelle had been raped at three o’clock in the afternoon. “How about lunch? He could have taken a long lunch hour.”

  “No,” the woman said, “he didn’t clock out for lunch. Most of the low-end workers never took a lunch break. They ate a sandwich off the truck outside or something. Like I told you, they didn’t get paid for lunch breaks.”

  There had to be a logical explanation, Ann thought. “Did he work alone somewhere? Like possibly in the back storeroom where he could have slipped out and no one knew about it?”

  The woman dismissed this idea. “According to the file, Mr. Delvecchio worked in the warehouse with all the other employees. The company brokered used video movies. They used day laborers to unpack the movies, clean them up, and stack them on the shelves. That’s what Mr. Delvecchio was hired to do.”

  Once Ann had thanked the woman for her help, she hurried around the partition to Claudette’s office. “I have something incredible to tell you, but I have to be in court right now. Will you be available around lunch?”

  “Tell me now,” Claudette said, her curiosity piqued.

  “I can’t,” Ann said, darting out of the office and sprinting down the hall to court.